Returning to the River of Love
Markku Kostamo is a compassionate guide within the Illuman community, known for his openness about bipolar recovery, ancestral grief, and the path of authentic vulnerability. His work invites men into deeper emotional and spiritual wholeness through presence and connection. Professionally, Markku brings more than 25 years of executive leadership as CEO & Lead Strategist of Kaci, where he integrates relational entrepreneurship with mission-driven impact—helping nonprofits raise over $40 million while cultivating healthy, sustainable growth.
My mental health journey has been anything but linear. Living with Bipolar I Disorder means I know both ends of the spectrum—times of flourishing and times of real struggle. Over the years, I’ve come to see recovery not as a final destination but as a rhythm, a way of tending the whole landscape of my life. Like a diabetic who takes daily insulin, I take my medications. Still, I also need daily practices that steady me: sleep, movement, good food, the companionship of trusted friends, and above all, contemplative practice.
Contemplative practices, including Centering Prayer, have become my deepest anchor. I often picture it as sinking gently into a river of love. I sit, choose a simple word, and let myself be held. Thoughts come, but I see them like leaves floating on the river's surface. I don’t need to chase them or push them away. They drift past while I remain immersed in the deeper current, the steady, embracing flow of love that holds everything. That container of love is what restores me. It’s where I feel most nurtured and most myself.
Nature, too, is part of my contemplative life. Long walks through the forest, sitting quietly on a mossy stone, or simply noticing the play of light through cedar branches—these moments remind me that I belong. I experience both kinship in nature and profound love and mystery. The forest doesn’t demand I achieve anything. It only asks that I show up and pay attention. Out there, I find a kinship that speaks directly to my nervous system: slow down, root deep, trust the seasons. Lean into mystery.
And then there’s water. Whether I’m rowing my small wooden boat across a lake, raising a sail to catch a Gulf Island breeze, or drifting down a quiet river, I feel something shift inside me. The water steadies me. The rhythm of oars, the lift of the hull on a wave, even the stillness of a calm morning—all of it carries me into a state of calm presence. On the water, love and peace often feel indistinguishable.
Community has also played a central role. Circles I’ve joined—like those offered through Illuman—have given me the safety to name my wounds and to be held by others as I walked through them. One of the most powerful discoveries on that path was realizing that beneath the story of abandonment I’d carried since childhood was an even deeper wound: the fear of being unlovable. Speaking that truth in a supportive, ritual setting didn’t erase the pain, but it loosened its grip. It made space for healing to seep in.
These contemplative practices—Centering Prayer, walking and sitting in nature, time on the water, and circles of companionship—have shaped the way I live recovery. They’re not escapes from the turbulence; they’re the ballast that keeps me upright in the middle of it. When the waves rise, I know where to return. When the forest darkens, I trust the trail will reveal itself step by step.
If I’ve learned anything, it’s that healing is less about heroic effort and more about faithful returning. Returning to sit, to the river of love, to the forest trail, to the shoreline. Over time, the act of returning becomes who you are: someone shaped by stillness, steadied by wonder, and softened by love. I experience the love and mystery of the Universal Christ “playing in 10,000 places”.
That’s what contemplative practice has given me: a way to live with real storms and real beauty, grounded, centered, balanced, and renewed—day after day—but not perfectly.
