“Serenity is not freedom from the storm but peace amid the storm.”
Every day I sit in meditation—sometimes for up to two hours.
People ask me why.
After all, it’s just sitting still, doing nothing.
But that is exactly the point.
In stillness, I return to myself.
I become aware of the one who is aware.
Thoughts and fears swirl like restless children—loud, dramatic, demanding attention. But the less I feed them, the more they settle. Eventually, they return to quiet play.
I remember a winter day many years ago, just as I was beginning this journey of self-inquiry. I was walking through the forest after fresh snowfall. Everything was white and soft.
The air was cold, birds sang above, and my footsteps creaked beneath me.
But what struck me most was not the beauty around me—it was the silence inside.
There was no buzz in my head. No running commentary. No inner arguments. Just stillness.
That kind of stillness had once felt impossible.
Back then, my self-talk was constant—and mostly negative.
Meditation helped me realize how deeply I was identified with my thoughts, unaware that I could observe them without believing them.
We don’t see the world as it is.
We see it as we are.
So much of what we call “reality” is simply the echo of past assumptions, planted long ago in the subconscious. Meditation brings me back to the one who is perceiving, not just the perception itself.
It’s like watching a movie.
We get so immersed in the action that we forget we’re in a cinema. The screen seems invisible—but it’s always there. The movie may be dramatic, frightening, beautiful, or sad—but the screen never changes. It holds it all.
Consciousness is that screen. Ever-present, silent, untouched.
Our thoughts, sensations, and emotions are the movie—forever moving, never stable. But we, the awareness of it all, remain unchanged.
And when stress arises, we can return to this still point. We can remember the source.
đź’ Inner Dialogue, Realigned
My life began to shift when I started observing how I spoke to myself.
My mind used to run loops of worry: “What if something goes wrong?”
Now I try to ask: “What if it goes right?”
Instead of criticizing my body for not being perfect—or resenting it when it’s unwell—I began offering it gratitude.
Not from denial, but from love.
From trust.
Because what we give attention to… grows.
Where our focus goes, our reality follows.
So it matters—how we speak to ourselves.
What we expect.
What we assume.
🪙 A Moment with My Piggy Bank
Tonight I found myself staring at my piggy bank, feeling a little irritated.
It wasn’t as full as I had hoped.
No crisis, but still—a familiar tension began to stir in me.
An old story whispered: “Every time I have money, I lose it.”
There it was.
An assumption.
Unquestioned, unexamined, but powerful enough to shape how I felt.
So I sat with it.
I didn’t rush to fix it. I let it be seen. I let it be felt.
And slowly, I returned—not to the feeling of lack, but to the one who noticed it.
🌅 Ending: The Power to Come Home
These moments—when discomfort arises—are not failures.
They are invitations.
To slow down.
To return to the source.
To remember: I am not the story. I am the one who sees the story.
And in that seeing, I take my power back.
Because the screen has never left.
The awareness has never changed.
Even in the middle of lack, even in the middle of fear—
I remain the one who is aware.
And that…
is peace amid the storm.
“What I see is not what I am—
I am the one who sees.”