#sparkchamber 121525 — Michael Cassabon
The catalyst driving creative effort is the focus of our going-on-9-year exploration with #sparkchamber. There often seems to be an element of chance … or destiny; of coincidence … or fate; something seemingly accidental or unintentional that shifts perspective, connecting up some different dots just enough to discover a new thread to pull.
In that spirit, today we welcome Michael Cassabon, a self-described bridgebuilder, who writes beautiful, deep, inspiring essays on his Substack Nothing is Wasted. He speaks of patterns and awareness and self-discovery, “but it’s also about thresholds, and faith, and the strange intelligence of the universe that sometimes returns us to truths we’ve been circling for years.” In his own words:
“I grew up in South Carolina within a deeply Catholic world that shaped my early sense of meaning, service, and vocation. I later studied in Rome and was ordained a priest, work that taught me to move between worlds — to listen closely, translate experience into understanding, and accompany people through their most human thresholds. After leaving the priesthood and coming out, I rebuilt my life in Toronto, where I now work in advancement and leadership within higher education.
“Across every chapter of my life — ministry, writing, and philanthropy — I’ve found myself drawn to the same calling: building bridges. I help people make sense of their stories, connect the fragments of their experience, and recognize the deeper patterns that guide them. I’m inspired by the places where personal narrative becomes collective purpose, and by the belief that even our hardest chapters can be shaped into connection, clarity, and contribution.
“My influences span spirituality, psychology, memoir, myth, leadership, and the forms of storytelling that illuminate both the interior life and the world we’re trying to build together. Today, my work and writing focus on bridging the sacred and the secular, the personal and the institutional, the past we’ve inherited and the future we’re learning to imagine — helping others find coherence and possibility within their own unfolding journeys.”
A post he wrote on his 45th birthday concludes, “Wherever you are, may you trust that the pattern is alive, that nothing is wasted, and that even what feels impossible to imagine may already be bending into the world.”
1.] Where do ideas come from?
Ideas come to me in the moments when something lands with a quiet clarity — a sentence someone finishes, a shift in tone, a space that suddenly feels more honest than it did a second ago. There’s a small inner alignment when that happens. It isn’t dramatic; it feels more like recognizing something I’ve been carrying for a while.
I’ve learned that ideas often begin with connection — one experience brushing against another and revealing a pattern I hadn’t named yet. When I stay attentive to these moments, the direction becomes clear without forcing it.
So I don’t chase ideas. I try to stay present and open enough that, when coherence starts to move, I can meet it. Ideas come from the ordinary moments when attention and possibility arrive at the same time, and I’m steady enough to notice.
2.] What is the itch you are scratching?
The itch I’ve been scratching is the need to understand my experience in a way that allows the whole of it to matter — the difficult parts, yes, but also the bright moments, the sudden clarity, the humor, the grace. When something stays with me, from pain to insight to something that simply makes me laugh, I stay with it until I understand what it’s asking of me.
Nothing in my life has felt wasted. Even the heaviness has softened when met with presence and compassion, and the lighter moments — the joy, the surprise, the quick flashes of recognition — have shown me how meaning can open without effort. I try to bring the same attention to all of it.
What begins as personal becomes real for me only when it turns into something I can offer — something that helps someone else make sense of their own story. That movement from lived experience to shared understanding, across the full range of what life brings, is the path I keep following.
3.] Early bird or night owl? Tortoise or hare?
I create in the parts of the day that feel open — mornings for steadiness, nights for honesty. Those hours are unguarded enough that the work can get through. My best writing comes in focused stretches when something aligns internally and I can follow it without force. When that alignment is there, I move with clarity and full presence. When it isn’t, I wait. I’ve learned that honoring that rhythm keeps the work honest and allows it to become what it needs to be.
4.] How do you know when you are done?
I know I’m done when the work finds its shape and no longer asks anything more of me. It doesn’t need to be resolved — things rarely are — but it does need to feel coherent, steady at the center, and honest in its intention. When the tension that started it eases and nothing in me is tugged to adjust or explain, I let it stand.
It remains open to deeper understanding — that’s the nature of things — but complete enough for now. There’s a quiet clarity to that moment, a kind of internal exhale.
It’s the point where the work feels true, and adding more would only cloud what has already arrived.