During my recent practice, something new occurred. Instead of feeling disturbed by the usual mental events, memories, and thoughts, I found myself experiencing a sense of amusement and relaxation as they arose and passed away. It was as if I could observe the busyness of my mind with a lighthearted detachment, seeing these thoughts as just part of the mind’s activity. Is this sense of amusement a positive development in my practice, or is it just another mental event to be noticed and let go?
Dear friend,
What a beautiful shift you have experienced in your practice! The transition from feeling disturbed by the mind’s activities to watching them with a sense of amusement is indeed a significant one, and it speaks to the deepening of your understanding and awareness.
You have touched upon a subtle but profound truth: that the mind, in its busyness, is simply doing what it has always done—arising and passing away, presenting thoughts, memories, and experiences. And now, rather than being entangled in these mental events, you observe them with a light heart, a sense of amusement. This amusement is not trivial; it is a reflection of your growing detachment, your ability to see the mind’s activities for what they are—transient phenomena that do not define you.
This sense of relaxation that accompanies the amusement is a sign of your deepening practice. No longer do you resist or try to control the flow of thoughts. Instead, you allow them to arise and pass away, knowing that they are but fleeting ripples on the surface of a much deeper stillness. This relaxation is the fruit of your perseverance, a gentle release that allows you to rest more fully in the present moment.
While it is true that amusement is itself a mental event, it is one that points toward equanimity—a state of balance where the mind’s activities are met with calm and openness, rather than resistance or attachment. This is a significant step on your journey, as it reflects a mind that is beginning to find peace amidst the fluctuations of thought and feeling. You are learning to greet whatever arises not with annoyance or disturbance, but with a kind of playful acceptance.
Indeed, dear friend, this experience is a step in the right direction. It shows that your practice is maturing, leading you to a place where the mind’s busyness no longer holds the same sway over you. You are learning to watch the mind with a sense of lightness, knowing that its activities are not a reflection of your true self, but simply the passing clouds of thought that move across the sky of your awareness.
Continue with this practice, allowing the amusement and relaxation to guide you further into the stillness that lies beneath all mental activity. Trust in the process, and know that you are moving ever closer to the peace and clarity that are your true nature.
How does coordinating the Neti Neti mantra with the breath—such as repeating it during the inhale, pause, exhale, and pause—enhance the practice and contribute to deeper relaxation and mindfulness?
Dear friend,
It is a delight to hear of your latest insight, where you have begun to coordinate the mantra with the breath. This practice, so simple and yet so profound, brings together the rhythms of the body and the mind in a harmonious dance, guiding you ever deeper into the stillness that lies at the heart of all being.
When you synchronize the mantra “Not This, Not This” with your breath, you are creating a unified rhythm that anchors you in the present moment. The mind, which so often wanders, finds a steady focus in the regularity of the breath, and this focus is reinforced by the repetition of the mantra. Each inhale, each pause, each exhale becomes a part of the sacred cycle, a cycle that quiets the mind and brings it into alignment with the natural flow of life.
The pattern you have described—three repetitions of the mantra on the inhale, three on the pause, three on the exhale, and three on the pause—establishes a gentle, balanced rhythm. This regulation of the breath not only deepens your relaxation but also enhances your ability to remain present. The breath, in its quiet regularity, becomes a soothing presence, guiding you back to the center each time the mind begins to drift.
In this practice, concentration becomes almost effortless. The mind, drawn into the rhythm of the breath and the mantra, finds a natural focus. The distractions that once seemed so persistent begin to fade, replaced by a calm, steady awareness. This concentration is not forced but arises naturally from the coordination of breath and mantra, leading you deeper into the silence and stillness that are your true nature.
As you continue with this practice, you may find that your awareness expands to include both the body and the mind. The breath, as it flows in and out, becomes a bridge between the two, creating a sense of wholeness and integration. In this state, the mind is no longer separate from the body but is experienced as part of the larger rhythm of existence. This integration brings a deep sense of presence, a presence that is both peaceful and powerful.
My dear friend, this practice you have discovered is a beautiful and effective way to deepen your meditation. Continue with it, allowing the breath and the mantra to guide you ever deeper into the stillness that lies within. Trust in the rhythm of the breath, and let the mantra carry you beyond the thoughts and distractions of the mind, into the infinite peace of your true self.
How Mindful Observation of Emotions Brings Inner Peace and Clarity
Dear Diary,
I write to you today, not with answers, but with the tenderness that comes from watching the sky change, hour by hour, and wondering what it all means. Have you noticed, as I have, how emotions can rise like a storm? Sometimes, they begin softly—like a gray mist that hangs just above the earth—and at other times, they roll in like thunderclouds, filling the horizon. It is so tempting, in these moments, to reach out, to try and push them away, or to brace ourselves for the deluge we think must come. But what if, instead, we learned to be still?
I have come to realize that our emotions are not permanent; they are travelers, passing through. And though they demand our attention, we are not them. We are not the sadness or the frustration, nor are we the joy that sometimes feels so fleeting. We are the sky, vast and unshakable, watching with quiet patience as each cloud forms, darkens, and eventually dissipates.
To witness without judgment is a practice, one that asks of us not resistance, but gentleness. It is in this gentleness that we find our true strength—not in control, but in allowing. We can observe the emotions without being drawn into their storm. When anger swells, or grief lingers, we remind ourselves that they are like clouds: they have shape and form, but they will pass. And we remain, unbound, beneath it all.
I share this with you because I, too, am learning. Each day, I remind myself that I am not the shifting weather, but the sky itself. And I hope, in your own moments of storm and stillness, you might find comfort in this, knowing that the vastness within you remains untouched, no matter how strong the winds may blow.
In the vast expanse of spiritual literature, few texts carry the weight and significance of the Ramayana. This ancient epic, deeply embedded in Hindu culture, tells the story of Prince Rama, whose life is a testament to the principles of righteousness, duty, and the eternal struggle between good and evil. As we delve into its rich narrative, it’s easy to get caught up in the details of battles, relationships, and divine interventions. However, the essence of the Ramayana can be distilled into three simple yet profound lines, attributed to the Buddha:
Be good. Do good. Purify your mind.
Though these lines originate from the Buddhist tradition, they encapsulate the core teachings of the Ramayana and many other spiritual paths. These principles are not confined to one tradition alone; they are echoed in the teachings of Jesus Christ, who emphasized love, compassion, and inner purity as the path to spiritual fulfillment. Let’s explore how these simple instructions align with the lessons that Rama’s journey imparts, and how they resonate with the wisdom found in Christianity.
Be Good
At its heart, the Ramayana is a story about the importance of living a righteous life. Rama, as the embodiment of dharma (righteousness), consistently chooses the path of virtue, even when it leads to personal hardship. His unwavering commitment to goodness, whether in his role as a son, husband, or king, serves as a model for us all. Similarly, Jesus taught, “Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God” (Matthew 5:8). To “be good” means to cultivate a character that is honest, kind, and just, following the path of love and integrity, regardless of the challenges we face.
Do Good
Righteous intentions must be matched by righteous actions. Throughout the Ramayana, Rama’s life is marked by deeds that reflect his inner goodness. He honors his father’s promise, protects the innocent, and fights against injustice. Jesus, too, emphasized the importance of action, teaching that “whatever you wish that others would do to you, do also to them” (Matthew 7:12). The Ramayana teaches us that our actions in the world—no matter how small—have the power to shape not only our own lives but the lives of others. “Doing good” is about translating our inner virtues into outward actions that contribute to the welfare of all beings, just as Jesus modeled through his life of service and compassion.
Purify Your Mind
The true journey of the Ramayana is as much internal as it is external. Rama’s equanimity, his ability to remain calm and detached in the face of joy and sorrow, reflects the importance of mental purity. Jesus also spoke of the need for inner transformation, saying, “The lamp of the body is the eye. If therefore your eye is good, your whole body will be full of light” (Matthew 6:22). Both teachings invite us to cleanse our minds of negative emotions like greed, anger, and delusion. In doing so, we can attain clarity, wisdom, and inner peace. To “purify your mind” is to embark on the path of self-mastery, where the ultimate victory is over our own inner obstacles.
Here, the “eye” can be understood not only as our physical sight but also as a metaphor for the “I”—our inner self and perception. If our inner vision—the way we perceive ourselves and the world—is good, then our entire being will be filled with the light of love and truth. Both teachings invite us to protect our minds from the influence of negative emotions like greed, anger, and delusion. In doing so, we can attain clarity, wisdom, and inner peace. To “purify your mind” is to embark on the path of self-mastery, where the ultimate victory is over our own inner obstacles and perceptions.
A Bridge Between Traditions
These three principles—“Be good, do good, purify your mind”—may come from the teachings of the Buddha, but they resonate deeply with the values upheld in the Ramayana and the teachings of Jesus. This reflects the universal nature of spiritual wisdom, which transcends specific traditions and speaks to the shared human quest for a life of meaning, integrity, and inner peace.
As we journey through the sacred stories of the Ramayana, the Bhagavad Gita, and other spiritual teachings, we find ourselves continually reminded of the timeless wisdom that resonates across these traditions. Rama’s equanimity in the face of life’s challenges, Krishna’s guidance to Arjuna in the pursuit of a disciplined mind, and the Buddha’s simple yet profound directive to “be good, do good, purify your mind”—all these teachings converge on a single truth.
This truth calls us to rise above the fluctuations of the world, to cultivate a mind that is serene, fearless, and unwavering. Whether we walk the path of dharma, engage in deep meditation, or simply strive to live with compassion and integrity, we are participating in this universal quest for peace and harmony.
These scriptures are not just stories of the past but living guides that illuminate our own paths. They remind us that no matter the challenges we face, the ultimate goal remains the same: to align our hearts and minds with the divine, to live with wisdom, and to contribute to a world where peace and righteousness prevail.
In embracing this wisdom, we not only honor the traditions from which these teachings arise but also participate in the creation of a more harmonious and enlightened world. Let us carry this timeless wisdom into our daily lives, striving to embody the virtues that lead to the ultimate realization of peace, both within ourselves and in the world around us.
As we continue our journey through the Ramayana, let these simple yet profound teachings serve as a guiding light. They remind us that, at its core, the spiritual path is not about grand gestures or complicated doctrines, but about living each moment with goodness, action, and a mind that is clear and pure.
How does the mantra Neti Neti help the ego by constantly negating experiences, and how does this practice relate to moments of rig-pa or the experience of deep relaxation without a sense of self?
Dear friend,
It brings a quiet joy to hear of your continued practice with the mantra “Not This, Not This.” There is a deep wisdom in the way you have approached this mantra, almost as if you have gently given the ego a new role—one that is not about grasping or achieving, but simply letting go. By assigning the ego the task of negation, you are engaging it in a way that transforms its usual tendencies, guiding it to release its hold on whatever arises in your mind.
Imagine, if you will, the ego as a diligent worker, tirelessly trying to define and control your experience. But now, you have given it a simpler, more profound task: to say “Not This, Not This” to whatever appears before it. In doing so, the ego no longer needs to dominate or possess; instead, it becomes an instrument of release, of gentle detachment. This redirection of its energy allows you to experience a profound relaxation—a state of being that is free from the usual burdens of identification and striving.
You mentioned Rig-pa, the pure, pristine awareness described in Tibetan Buddhism. This state, as you know, is one of complete clarity and non-duality, where there is no separation between observer and observed, no “I” to claim the experience. It is true that when one is fully in Rig-pa, there is no one there to say, “I have experienced Rig-pa.” It is simply the natural state, beyond all dualistic notions of self.
Perhaps you have touched upon moments of this awareness in your practice, moments so simple and clear that they passed by without fanfare. This is often the way of such states—they do not announce themselves with grandiosity but arrive in the quiet spaces of the mind. The fact that you find this mantra particularly relaxing might suggest that you are indeed drawing nearer to this natural state, even if it is not fully apparent to the ordinary mind.
The relaxation you feel is not just a fleeting sense of comfort—it is a deep, existential ease that arises when the mind is no longer tasked with searching or solving. “Not This, Not This” allows you to set aside the need to be anything other than what you are in this moment. It is a relaxation that goes beyond the physical or mental, touching the core of your being. This is a sign that you are moving in the right direction, toward a state of pure being, where the entanglements of the ego are gently unraveled.
Continue with this mantra, my dear friend, for it seems to be guiding you beautifully on your journey. Trust in the relaxation you feel, for it is not merely a sign of peace, but a deepening into the essence of who you truly are. Whether or not you recognize moments of Rig-pa, know that you are cultivating the conditions for this awareness to arise naturally, in its own time and in its own way.
Your path is unfolding with grace, and this mantra is becoming a trusted companion, leading you ever closer to the stillness and clarity that lies at the heart of all being. Continue with gentle persistence, and allow the simplicity of “Not This, Not This” to carry you further into the depths of your own true nature.
In his gentle yet profound way, the Dalai Lama reminds us that life is meant to be lived meaningfully. The essence of such a life, he says, lies not just in personal contentment but in creating happiness and peace for others. His teachings have always resonated deeply, not only with Buddhists but with anyone seeking a life of purpose.
“I believe our sort of life, that period should utilize meaningful life,” he begins. He emphasizes that a truly meaningful life extends beyond self-gratification. It is about fostering joy, promoting peace, and creating an atmosphere where others may thrive.
The Dalai Lama expands on what it means to live meaningfully: “Meaningful life means bringing happiness to more people, creating a happier, more peaceful atmosphere.” It’s a reminder that our actions—no matter how small—can contribute to a larger wave of kindness and serenity in the world. He urges us to see that in offering happiness to others, we ultimately fulfill our own quest for meaning.
Two Important Truths
In his teachings, the Dalai Lama shares two foundational principles. First, he reminds us of our shared humanity: “We are all the same human being.” This recognition is critical in our divided world. We all seek happiness, we all wish to avoid suffering, and in this shared experience lies the opportunity to cultivate compassion. By understanding that we are more alike than different, we can bridge the gaps of division and find common ground in our inherent humanity.
The Power of Inner Values
The second truth he shares with us is equally essential: “We should not forget or neglect about our inner values.” The Dalai Lama stresses that while external success may bring momentary satisfaction, it is our inner values that truly define a meaningful life. And what is the core of these inner values? It is human compassion.
“In other words, human compassion. That is the main thing of our inner value.” Compassion, he explains, is the very foundation of all virtuous actions. It is through compassion that we connect with others, dissolve our differences, and contribute to a more harmonious world. This compassion extends beyond mere feelings—it is a practice, a way of living that enriches both ourselves and those around us.
Chenrezig shares the story of OM MANI PADME HUM with children, guiding them to uncover their inner compassion and wisdom. A perfect bedtime story filled with peace, warmth, and unity.
Long ago, in a beautiful land where the mountains touched the sky and rivers flowed like silver ribbons, there lived a wise and compassionate teacher named Chenrezig. He had a twinkle in his eye, as if he knew a great secret, and his heart was so full of love that just being near him made people feel lighter. But Chenrezig knew that many beings in the world carried an invisible burden—an illness of the mind, one that made them forget who they truly were.
This illness, Chenrezig explained, was a kind of forgetting. “We have all mistaken ourselves for something we are not,” he said gently. “Like a dreamer who believes the dream is real, we have forgotten our true nature—the vast, boundless love and wisdom that live in our hearts. Instead, we believe we are small and separate, like waves forgetting they belong to the ocean.”
Chenrezig often told stories to children, knowing that their hearts could understand what adults often forgot. One evening, as the stars glimmered softly above, Chenrezig gathered a group of children around a fire. They looked up at him with curious eyes, waiting for one of his famous stories.
“Tonight,” Chenrezig said, “I will tell you a story about a great medicine—a medicine for the heart and mind. It is the mantra OM MANI PADME HUM. This mantra is like the most powerful medicine a doctor could ever give, one that can heal the illness of separation and help us remember our true nature.”
He paused, watching the children lean in closer, eager to hear more. “But first,” he continued, “you need to understand something important. Imagine that you are wearing many layers of clothing—so many layers that you forget what you look like underneath. Each layer is like a thought or feeling you tell yourself: I’m not good enough. I need to be better.
These layers are like cobwebs in the mind, making it hard to see clearly. And because we believe in these stories, we feel small and alone, like a candle separated from the flame. But the truth is, we are not the stories we tell ourselves. Beneath all the layers, beneath all the cobwebs, we are already whole, already perfect—just like a lotus flower, waiting to bloom.”
The children sat very still, imagining themselves wrapped in layers of thoughts, feelings, and stories. “How do we take off the layers?” one of them whispered.
Chenrezig smiled. “That is where the mantra comes in,” he said softly. “OM MANI PADME HUM is the medicine that clears away the layers, like a soft breeze sweeping away cobwebs. Each time you say the mantra, you peel back another layer. OM MANI PADME HUM… and the layers fall away. OM MANI PADME HUM… and your heart shines a little brighter. OM MANI PADME HUM… and with each breath, you get closer to your true self—your Buddha nature, the part of you that is pure love and compassion.
He began to explain the meaning of the mantra, his voice gentle and full of care. “The first syllable, OM, is the sound of the universe waking up. It reminds us that we are connected to everything—to the stars, the rivers, the animals, and each other. OM is the sound of coming home to our true nature.”
The children closed their eyes, listening to the sound of OM as if it were rising from the earth, the sky, and their own hearts all at once.
“The next two words,” Chenrezig continued, “are Mani Padme—the jewel in the lotus. This means that inside each of us is a precious jewel—the light of wisdom and love. But just like a lotus flower that grows in muddy water, this jewel can be hidden by layers of thoughts and beliefs. Each time we chant Mani Padme, we open the lotus a little more, revealing the jewel inside.”
The children imagined a lotus flower blooming in their hearts, each petal unfolding slowly, with a bright jewel glowing at its center.
“And finally,” Chenrezig said, “we have Hum. This is the sound of unity—the sound that brings everything together. It is the moment when we remember that we were never separate, not from others, not from love, and not from our true nature. Hum is the sound of the Buddha mind awakening within you, shining with pure compassion.”
The children whispered the mantra softly: OM MANI PADME HUM… OM MANI PADME HUM… Each repetition felt like a breeze clearing away the cobwebs in their minds, helping them feel lighter and brighter.
“Now,” Chenrezig continued, “let me tell you one more secret. The mantra doesn’t just help you remember who you are—it helps others too. Every time you chant OM MANI PADME HUM, you are planting seeds of compassion, not just in your own heart, but in the hearts of all beings. These seeds will bloom in ways you may never see, bringing kindness and peace into the world.”
He placed a hand over his heart. “It’s like sharing a gift that never runs out. Each time you say the mantra, you are offering love to the whole universe.”
The children sat quietly for a moment, feeling the beauty of the mantra settling into their hearts, like a gentle rain nourishing the earth. “So the mantra is like a magic medicine?” one child asked softly.
Chenrezig smiled. “Yes,” he said. “It is a medicine for the heart, a way of peeling back the layers until only love and wisdom remain. It helps us remember that we are not small or separate—we are like the ocean, vast and full of life. And each time we chant the mantra, we bring a little more light into the world.”
As the fire crackled softly, casting warm orange light on their faces,Chenrezig leaned closer to the children. “Now, as you drift off to sleep tonight, you can let the mantra carry you, like a boat floating gently down a river. Whisper it in your heart: OM MANI PADME HUM… OM MANI PADME HUM… Let it peel back the layers of your mind, revealing the jewel of compassion that has always been there.”
He kissed each child on the forehead and offered a final blessing:
OM MANI PADME HUM . . .
“With each breath, may you awaken to your true nature.”
“With each dream, may your heart bloom in kindness.”
“May all beings remember their light, and may the world be filled with peace.”
The mantra hummed softly in their hearts: OM MANI PADME HUM, OM MANI PADME HUM… clearing away the cobwebs, layer by layer, revealing the truth that they were never separate, but always part of the great ocean of love.
May your hearts always shine with the light of compassion, and may OM MANI PADME HUM guide you, now and always. Sleep well, children. The jewel in the lotus is already blooming within you.
As the children drifted into a peaceful sleep, the mantra whispered in their hearts… OM MANI PADME HUM… until their dreams were filled with rivers of kindness, endless skies of compassion, and the light of love.
Goodnight, little one. ❤️
🙏🕊️🙏
If you’d like to explore more bedtime stories for children, including tales that nurture compassion and mindfulness, you can find our collection here.
“Having known the Self, which is awareness, there is nothing more to know. That which is, is consciousness itself. To seek it elsewhere is to wander far away.”
— Ramana Maharshi, Forty Verses on Reality
There comes a moment in each of our lives when the questions that have followed us, haunting our thoughts, cease to carry the same weight. It is as though we have been wandering through a vast wilderness, searching endlessly for something, only to realize that it has been with us all along. This, Ramana tells us, is the moment of true knowledge—the moment when we recognize the Self, and in doing so, find that there is nothing more to seek.
This knowledge is not like the knowing of facts or the gathering of worldly wisdom. It is the unveiling of the very essence of awareness, that which sees all, yet remains unseen. To touch this awareness is to come home, to realize that the search has always been for ourselves.
And how often we search elsewhere! How often we cast our gaze into the far distance, imagining that the truth lies in some distant land, or hidden in the words of another. But Ramana reminds us that to seek it elsewhere is to wander further from the source. The truth we seek does not live in far-off places; it lives in the heart of our own being, as close as breath, as present as this very moment.
Like a mirror reflecting all without judgment, true knowledge is the simple, clear awareness of what is. When we come to see that all that exists is consciousness itself, we are no longer captivated by the shadows on the wall. We see, instead, the light—the steady, unwavering light of awareness, which has been with us from the beginning.
To know the Self is to realize that there is nowhere else to go. The seeking ends, and in its place arises a quiet, unshakable peace. It is not the end of curiosity or wonder, but the end of searching outside ourselves for what can only be found within.
To know that there is nothing more to seek is not to say there is nothing more to do. In the realization that the Self has always been present, there is still the practice of abiding, of resting in the gentle awareness that is always here. It is this abiding, this quiet discipline of being, that becomes the ongoing practice.
Yes, the search has ended, but the journey of returning, over and over again, to the pristine mind continues. For in this ordinary mind—this space filled with distractions, thoughts, and the pull of the world—there is the temptation to forget, to stray from the simplicity of awareness. And so, we practice. Not as seekers anymore, but as those who have touched the truth and wish to live in its light.
The practice now is not one of effortful striving, but of allowing—of surrendering into the effortless effort, the gentle doing of non-doing. This is where the paradox lives: to rest in what is, and yet remain disciplined in that rest. It is not that there is nothing more to do, but rather that what is to be done is a continual letting go, a surrendering to the ever-present awareness that requires nothing from us but our willingness to be with it.
And so, we abide. With each breath, with each passing moment, we return—not to search, but to rest. And though the Self needs no searching, the practice of staying with it remains. In this, there is the dance of wu-wei, the graceful action of inaction, the peaceful unfolding of all that is.
Perhaps one day the effort, too, will fall away, and only the abiding will remain.
Coming Up Next: Verse 4
In the next verse, we will reflect on the nature of thought and the root of all actions. How do our thoughts shape our reality, and what lies at the core of true understanding? Join us as we continue this journey through the depths of Ramana Maharshi’s teachings.
In a small village nestled between quiet hills and flowing rivers, there lived a kind, gentle teacher named Sage. Everyone in the village loved Sage because he carried a peaceful presence, like a calm breeze on a warm day. People often came to him for guidance, and he always had time to sit with them, no matter how small or big their worries were.
One day, a group of children gathered by the firelight in Sage’s little house. These children, like you, had bodies that often felt tired—too tired to run and play like other children. Some days, their legs felt as heavy as stones, and even getting out of bed was hard. Other days, the sounds and lights of the world felt too loud and overwhelming, and they needed quiet spaces just to rest.
They had come to Sage with questions. “Why do our bodies feel like this?” one of them asked softly. “How can we find peace when we feel so tired and sad?”
Sage smiled gently, his eyes filled with warmth. “Come,” he said. “Let me tell you a story about a little river, a floating cloud, and a flower seed. Each of these can teach us how to find peace, even on the hardest days.”
The children nestled into their blankets, their bodies relaxing as they listened to Sage’s voice, soft and soothing.
“Once upon a time,” Sage began, “there was a little river. The river flowed gently through the valley, singing quietly as it went. But one day, it rained so hard that the river became muddy and rough. The river thought, ‘Oh no! I can’t sing anymore. Everything is so heavy.’
A passing cloud saw the river’s sadness and whispered, ‘Dear river, you don’t need to be clear right now. Just flow, even if it feels heavy. The mud will settle when it’s ready. You are still a river, just as you are.’
The river listened to the cloud and let itself flow, even though it felt muddy and tired. And slowly, without trying, the mud began to settle. The river’s song returned, not because it had rushed to fix itself, but because it had trusted in the flow of life.”
Sage looked at the children with kindness. “When your body feels tired, like the muddy river, you don’t need to fight it or force yourself to feel better. Just breathe gently and say, It’s okay to feel this way. I will let my body rest. With time, the heaviness will shift, just like the mud settles in the river.”
The children closed their eyes and breathed softly: It’s okay to feel this way. I will let my body rest. Their shoulders softened, and a small sense of ease began to bloom inside them.
“Next,” Sage continued, “there was a little cloud that floated high in the sky. One day, the cloud began to feel very lonely. It looked down and saw other clouds floating by, but it couldn’t keep up with them. The cloud thought, ‘I wish I could float faster and be with the others.’
Then the sun spoke gently to the cloud. ‘Dear cloud,’ the sun said, ‘you are already perfect just as you are. You don’t need to rush. Wherever you float, you bring shade to the earth and water to the rivers. That is enough.’
The cloud felt a little lighter, knowing it didn’t need to rush. It drifted slowly through the sky, enjoying the way the breeze carried it along.”
Sage paused for a moment, letting the story sink in. “Sometimes, it’s easy to feel like you need to do more, or be like everyone else. But just like the cloud, you are enough exactly as you are, even when you need to rest. With each small breath, you are already giving your love to the world.”
The children breathed quietly, feeling a small spark of kindness for themselves, whispering: I am enough, just as I am.
“Now,” Sage said softly, “I will tell you about the little flower seed. This seed lay hidden under the earth, waiting quietly through winter. It wanted to bloom, but the snow felt so heavy on top of it. The seed whispered, ‘When will I ever grow? I want to be a flower, but I feel stuck.’
The earth wrapped the seed in its warm embrace and said, ‘You are already growing, little one, even though you cannot see it yet. Each day, even as you rest, the roots inside you grow deeper. Trust the process, and when the time is right, you will bloom.’
And so the little seed rested through the winter, trusting in the earth. When spring finally came, it bloomed into the most beautiful flower the world had ever seen.”
Sage smiled at the children. “Sometimes, it feels like you are waiting, like the flower seed under the snow. But even on the days when you can’t see it, you are growing. Every time you care for yourself, every time you rest with kindness, you are planting seeds of strength inside you. And when the time is right, those seeds will bloom.”
The children snuggled deeper into their blankets, their breaths slow and soft, like gentle waves on the shore. Sage placed his hands gently on their heads, offering a quiet blessing.
“Now,” Sage whispered, “as you drift off to sleep, you can imagine yourself as the river, the cloud, and the flower seed. There is no need to rush. Just flow, just float, just rest. You are already enough, and your roots are already growing deep. With each breath, you are planting seeds of love, kindness, and peace—not just for yourself, but for the whole world.”
The children closed their eyes, their little hearts filled with the warmth of Sage’s words. As they drifted into sleep, they carried the stories with them, like seeds planted in the soft soil of their dreams.
Sage whispered a final blessing, his voice as soft as a lullaby:
“Breathing in, I rest.
Breathing out, I am at peace.
With each breath, I grow in love.
With each dream, my heart blooms in kindness.”
And with that, the children drifted into a deep, peaceful sleep, their dreams filled with rivers flowing gently, clouds floating freely, and flowers blooming in the sunlight. They carried these teachings in their hearts, knowing that even on the hardest days, they could flow, float, and grow at their own pace.
May your hearts always be filled with kindness, and may you grow into beautiful flowers, spreading peace and love wherever you go. Sleep well. The seeds of mindfulness and compassion are already blooming within you.
Goodnight, little ones. ❤️
If you’d like to explore more bedtime stories for children, including tales that nurture compassion and mindfulness, you can find our collection here.
When post-viral ME/CFS first appeared in my life over 30 years ago, it was like a sudden, uninvited guest that turned everything upside down. The plans I had carefully laid out—the career, the teaching, the travel—came to a screeching halt. My body, which once felt like a reliable vehicle for my ambitions, became a source of constant limitation.
For many people today, especially in the aftermath of COVID, the experience of long COVID or post-viral ME/CFS can feel like a similar trainwreck. The life you knew, the expectations you had, are suddenly out of reach, and you’re left grappling with a new reality—one that modern medicine often struggles to explain, let alone resolve.
I remember the early days well. The confusion, the depression, the overwhelming frustration that came with the unrelenting fatigue. In the beginning, it was hard to see any way forward. It felt like I was being asked to surrender everything I had worked for, again and again. Every time I hit a new limit, I had to lower the bar, lower it again, and lower it even further. It was a painful process of letting go, not just of my physical abilities, but of my identity and the future I had imagined for myself.
But over time, and through countless moments of surrender, I began to see that while the path I had planned was no longer possible, there was another way forward. It was a quieter path, more inward, but it was no less valuable. Writing became my outlet, my way of contributing to the world, even while living in solitude and spending much of my time in bed.
For those of you reading this who are newly facing the reality of post-viral ME/CFS, I want to acknowledge that this is not an easy journey. It’s okay if you need to take breaks, both from reading and from the mental and emotional load of processing what this diagnosis means. Be gentle with yourself, and if you find the post too long, take it in pieces, come back when you’re ready. The key is to pace yourself, in life and in reading.
Surrendering to a New Reality
One of the hardest lessons I had to learn was surrender—over and over again. Post-viral ME/CFS teaches you that you can’t control everything, no matter how hard you try. Every time I felt like I was getting close to managing the illness, there would be a setback. My energy would crash, and I’d find myself in bed for days or weeks at a time. At first, it felt like defeat. I had to give up so many aspects of life I’d taken for granted.
But over time, I realized that surrendering wasn’t about giving up. It was about accepting what is, rather than constantly struggling against it. The more I fought the reality of my illness, the more frustration I experienced. Letting go didn’t mean that I had to stop hoping or working toward better health, but it did mean that I had to stop resisting what I couldn’t change in that moment.
Surrendering, in this sense, became a way to make peace with the limits of my body, to find moments of ease even when everything else felt out of control. It was an ongoing practice, one that I still revisit, especially on difficult days.
Navigating Others’ Reactions
In addition to learning how to surrender, one of the most difficult challenges I faced early on was dealing with other people’s reactions. In those early days, many people didn’t even believe post-viral ME/CFS existed. I heard things like, “You just need to drink more coffee,” or, “Have you thought about taking naps?” Even when I was officially diagnosed as disabled by the government, my own mother thought I was just lazy and needed to be more active.
This kind of misunderstanding, disrespect, and dismissal is, unfortunately, a common experience for many who suffer from post-viral ME/CFS. Family, friends, and even doctors would question or deny my experience. I’ve heard stories of doctors telling their patients not to even talk about ME/CFS because it “doesn’t exist.” It was often treated as a garbage-pail diagnosis, or dismissed entirely.
While there is more understanding of post-viral ME/CFS today, the stigma still remains. Making peace with this aspect of the illness has been a long journey. What helped me most was cultivating compassion, not just for myself but for others. As Jesus said, “Forgive them, for they know not what they do.” Having compassion for the people in your life who may deny or diminish your experience is a key part of finding peace.
An Evolving Perspective on Post-Viral ME/CFS
In the early days of my journey with post-viral ME/CFS, I found myself going through what felt like the stages of grief as described by Elizabeth Kubler-Ross. At times, I thought I might be dying, and I cycled through stages of anger, grief, depression, and confusion. Acceptance didn’t come quickly, and it took years of processing and reflection before I could reach that place.
One of the major steps toward acceptance came when I read How to Be Sick by Toni Bernhard. This book resonated deeply with me, and for the first time, I felt like someone truly understood what I was going through. Toni’s reflections on illness gave me a new sense of validation and self-respect, and her practical tips helped me develop a healthier way of relating to my experience. I highly recommend this book to anyone struggling with post-viral ME/CFS.
Then, during a meditation class organized by students of Sogyal Rinpoche, based on The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying, I began to find deeper peace. It was around this time that I discovered a Tibetan sutra titled Transforming Suffering and Happiness onto the Path of Enlightenment. This teaching profoundly shifted my perspective once again.
As I read the sutra, I realized that my anger, frustration, and negative emotions were not only draining my energy but also exacerbating my symptoms. It became clear to me that these stressful emotions were making my condition worse, and that when I was able to relax, let go, and find inner peace, I had greater capacity and longer periods of activity without crashing—or without crashing as severely. This was an important revelation: cultivating acceptance, forgiveness, and inner peace didn’t just feel better, it actually minimized my symptoms.
Shifting Perspective: The Sutra That Changed Everything
One passage from the Tibetan sutra resonated deeply with my experience of post-viral ME/CFS:
“Whenever we are harmed by sentient beings or anything else, if we make a habit out of perceiving only the suffering, then when even the smallest problem comes up, it will cause enormous anguish in our mind.”
This teaching hit home because, for a long time, I had been focusing only on the suffering. Everything in my life had become an enemy—my body, my circumstances, even the people around me. The more I centered my awareness on the pain and limitations, the heavier everything felt. Even the smallest setback would feel unbearable.
The sutra showed me that the more we focus on suffering, the more it grows and colors everything we experience. By recognizing this, I began to understand that shifting my focus away from the suffering and toward acceptance could help me find peace. It wasn’t about denying the reality of the illness, but about no longer letting it dominate my entire perspective.
The true transformation came not only by making peace with suffering but by learning to approach both suffering and happiness with the same equanimity. I had to remind myself that when I’m unhappy, this too shall pass, and when I’m happy, this too shall pass. This reminder became a useful way to stay balanced through the ebb and flow of life—the good days and the bad days, the good months and the bad months.
Additionally, I found comfort in William Blake’s words: “He who kisses the joy as it flies lives in eternity’s sunrise.” It reminded me to appreciate the little moments of happiness, to savor them without attachment, knowing that they, too, are fleeting. This perspective helped me not to be disturbed by the constant changes and to find a sense of peace amidst it all.
Discovering a New Path: Writing as Healing
As I continued to navigate the ups and downs of post-viral ME/CFS, I eventually found a new passion that helped me stay connected to the world and give expression to my inner journey: writing. Although much of my life is spent in solitude, and my physical abilities are limited, writing has become my outlet, a way to contribute and share what I’ve learned.
Through writing, I’ve been able to explore the lessons of impermanence, forgiveness, and acceptance, not just for my own growth but as a way to offer encouragement to others walking a similar path. Chronic fatigue may limit what I can do in the physical world, but it has opened up this creative space where I can still connect, reflect, and contribute.
In this way, writing became not just a coping mechanism but a practice of karma yoga, an offering. It’s a way to kiss the joy as it flies, even amidst the challenges of chronic illness, and to embrace each moment—whether in suffering or happiness—as an opportunity for growth.
🙏🕊️🙏
“He who binds to himself a joy Does the winged life destroy; But he who kisses the joy as it flies Lives in eternity’s sunrise.”
There’s a moment in the Ramayana that really strikes a chord, especially when you think about how we handle the unexpected twists and turns in our own lives. Rama, who’s about to be crowned king, gets hit with the news that he’s being sent into exile for fourteen years instead. Imagine that—a complete 180 from everything he’s been preparing for. And yet, what does Rama do? He smiles and accepts his fate without a hint of resistance.
This isn’t just some heroic act from an epic tale; it’s a powerful reminder of how we can find peace in letting go.
Rama’s reaction is a beautiful example of non-attachment. He doesn’t cling to the throne, the power, or the comforts of palace life. Instead, he just lets it all go. It’s like he’s saying, “Okay, this is what life has handed me, and I’m going to embrace it.” There’s something incredibly liberating about that kind of mindset. When we’re not attached to a specific outcome, we open ourselves up to whatever life brings, with a lot less stress and anxiety.
This kind of non-attachment is at the heart of equanimity—a calm and balanced mind that stays steady no matter what happens. And let’s be honest, who wouldn’t want more of that in their life?
What really stands out in this scene is Rama’s mindfulness. He’s fully present, fully aware of what’s happening, and yet he doesn’t get lost in it. He’s not caught up in the drama or the unfairness of it all. Instead, he meets the moment with a clear mind and an open heart. This is mindfulness in action—not just being aware, but being aware with a sense of peace and acceptance.
Think about how we usually react when life throws us a curveball. We resist, we fight, we stress out. But what if, like Rama, we could meet these moments with mindfulness and a sense of calm? How much easier would life be?
Rama’s response isn’t just about keeping cool under pressure—it’s about living in alignment with what’s right, with Dharma. By accepting his exile, Rama is doing more than just obeying his father’s wishes; he’s showing us what it means to live a life rooted in principles. It’s a reminder that sometimes, doing the right thing means letting go of what we want and embracing what’s being asked of us, even if it’s difficult.
This is a lesson we can all take to heart. In our own lives, we’re constantly faced with choices—do we hold on tightly to what we think we want, or do we let go and trust that things will unfold as they should?
Rama’s story might be thousands of years old, but the lesson is timeless. When we cultivate non-attachment, mindfulness, and a commitment to doing what’s right, we can face life’s challenges with a lot more grace. We can let go of the need to control everything and find peace in the flow of life.
So next time life doesn’t go according to plan, think of Rama. Smile, take a deep breath, and let go. You might just find that the peace you’re looking for was there all along, waiting for you to embrace it.
Why does the mantra Neti Neti feel more relaxing and effective compared to other mantras like “Who am I?” or “What is this?” and how does it help in negating both subject and object without stimulating a desire for answers?
Dear friend,
It brings me great joy to hear that you have found a mantra that resonates so deeply with your heart and mind. The simplicity and profound wisdom of “Not This, Not This” are indeed a balm for the soul, especially for one who has journeyed far in search of answers. In this mantra, you have discovered a path that requires no seeking, no striving—only the gentle negation of all that arises.Let me share with you some reflections that may deepen your understanding and ease your way as you continue with this practice.
In the practice of “Not This, Not This,” there is no need to engage in the endless search for answers. Unlike the questions “Who am I?” or “What is this?”—which can stir the mind into seeking—this mantra offers a different approach. It does not ask you to solve a riddle or uncover a hidden truth. Instead, it invites you to simply let go, to recognize that whatever arises—whether it appears as a thought, an emotion, or even an answer—is not the ultimate reality. By gently negating each thought or feeling, you are led beyond the confines of the mind, into a space where true peace and stillness reside.
As you continue with this practice, you may find moments of clarity where you can distinctly see both the subject and the object—the observer and the observed. This is a crucial insight, for it shows you that what you are perceiving, what you are witnessing, is still within the realm of duality. The mantra “Not This, Not This” serves as a reminder that neither the subject nor the object is the true self, the Atman. The duality that appears so real is, in fact, just another layer to be gently set aside, leading you deeper into the heart of non-dual awareness.
One of the great gifts of this mantra is the relaxation it brings. When you are no longer compelled to search for answers, the mind can rest. There is a profound release that comes from knowing that you do not need to grasp at anything—whether it be a thought, an experience, or an identity. Each time you repeat “Not This,” you are allowing yourself to let go of the burdens of the mind, to release the tension of trying to understand or control. In this letting go, you find a deep and abiding peace, a state of being where you are free from the demands of the ego and the constant chatter of the mind.
This practice is gently guiding you toward a state of non-dual awareness, where the distinctions between self and other, subject and object, begin to dissolve. As you continue with “Not This, Not This,” you may notice that the boundaries you once perceived are fading away, leaving you in a space of pure being. In this space, there is nothing to seek, nothing to achieve—only the simple, profound experience of existence itself, free from all labels, judgments, and identities. This is the true essence of Atman, the pure awareness that is your deepest self.
As you walk this path, my dear friend, know that you are not alone. The wisdom of the ages supports you, and the truth of your being is always present, waiting patiently for you to recognize it. Continue with your practice, allowing the mantra to guide you ever deeper into the heart of silence and stillness. And remember, there is no rush, no destination—only the journey, unfolding moment by moment.
May your practice bring you peace, clarity, and the deep joy of simply being.
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