As we begin our exploration of the Ramayana through Venkatesananda’s version, it’s fascinating to revisit the early stages of this epic tale, particularly through the lens of Valmiki’s own transformation. In this version, we are reminded of how the sage first heard the Ramayana from Narada and later expanded upon it after a transformative experience with the hunter and his divine encounter with Brahma. This opening passage introduces us not only to the story of Rama but also to the profound personal growth of Valmiki, a theme that resonates deeply with our own spiritual journeys.
One particular quote stands out: “Yet, the mystery that even he could lose his temper and thus risk losing the merit of his asceticism intrigued him.”
This moment captures a crucial aspect of the human condition—our struggle to control our emotions, even after years of spiritual practice. For Valmiki, witnessing the hunter’s cruelty toward the birds brought forth both compassion and anger, leading him to curse the hunter. It’s a reminder that even great sages can lose their temper, risking their spiritual merit. For me, the Dalai Lama’s teachings on anger come to mind here—anger is often seen as the opposite of love, and when we give in to it, we lose touch with our pristine, true nature. But the important lesson is that we can always return to our senses, regain our inner peace, and continue on the path of righteousness.
This story, to me, also inspires compassion for ourselves. If even Valmiki, with all his ascetic discipline, could slip into anger, we too can forgive ourselves for the times we fall short. The key is recognizing these moments, learning from them, and using them as opportunities to realign with our higher purpose. Valmiki’s regret and his ability to transform his curse into a verse is a powerful reminder that even our missteps can lead to something greater, if approached with the right mindset.
In this retelling, Valmiki’s divine encounter with Brahma affirms the purpose of his story. Brahma reassures him that the verse he uttered, born out of both anger and compassion, is a blessing. From this moment of emotion, a profound epic was born—a story that would inspire righteousness, compassion, and wisdom for generations. This theme of duality—anger and compassion, curse and blessing—reflects the constant struggle humanity faces with its own dual nature.
What I find particularly compelling in this passage is how the Ramayana is positioned as medicine for a world in turmoil, a story that speaks to the heart of our modern struggles. Today, as in Valmiki’s time, people are often disconnected from their conscience, their true nature, and their pristine mind. This disconnect creates inner chaos, much like the mental fluctuations Valmiki experienced. The Ramayana, with its timeless wisdom, offers a path back to harmony with the divine. It reminds us that even in moments of anger or despair, there is always a way to transform that energy into something positive.
Valmiki’s transformation from anger to inspiration is a beautiful metaphor for our own lives. In the same way that he found his path through a moment of passion, we too can use our struggles as stepping stones toward greater understanding and compassion. The passion that Valmiki felt for the hunter’s cruelty was ultimately transformed into the creation of a story that would inspire righteousness and compassion for millennia.
As we continue this journey through the Ramayana, let us reflect on how we, too, can transform our moments of anger or frustration into opportunities for growth. The challenges we face—both internally and externally—are all part of our spiritual journey. Valmiki’s story is a powerful reminder that the path to self-realization is not without struggle, but each step along the way can lead us closer to our true selves.
In future posts, we’ll continue to explore the wisdom within this and other versions of the Ramayana, diving deeper into how these timeless stories offer guidance for our modern lives. Let’s stay open to the lessons each passage holds and, like Valmiki, allow our moments of weakness to be transformed into opportunities for growth and inspiration.
Is it true that the I-sense, or ego, will never actually experience the pristine mind, since the I-sense doesn’t exist in that state? And, can spiritual practice bring the ordinary mind and ego closer to mirroring the pristine mind, even if they can never fully experience it directly?
Dear friend,
You have touched upon a profound and subtle truth in your reflection—the realization that the “I-sense,” the very sense of being a separate self, will never directly experience the pristine mind, for in the pristine mind, there is no “I” to experience anything at all.
The “I-sense,” as you have observed, is the part of us that identifies with the individual self—with the body, the mind, the personality. It is the ego, the center of our personal world, through which we navigate the dualities of life—self and other, subject and object, right and wrong. This “I-sense” is deeply embedded in the fabric of our everyday experience, always seeking, always striving to maintain its sense of identity.
And yet, beyond this “I-sense” lies the pristine mind, a state of pure, unconditioned awareness. In this state, there is no separation, no duality, no “I” that stands apart from the whole. The pristine mind is simply being itself, free from all concepts, all identifications. It is the ground of all existence, the true nature of consciousness that underlies every thought, every sensation, every experience.
As you so rightly observed, the “I-sense” cannot directly experience the pristine mind because the very presence of an “I” implies duality, and in the pristine mind, there is no duality. The ego, by its very nature, is a construct that stands apart, that defines itself in relation to others. To dissolve into the pristine mind is to let go of this sense of separateness, to merge with the whole in a state of pure being.
Yet, there is a way in which the ordinary mind, the ego, can approach this state, can come to reflect it as closely as possible. Through spiritual practice, the mind becomes refined, quieted, and purified. Meditation, mantra, mindfulness—all of these practices serve to soften the boundaries of the “I-sense,” to still the constant movement of thought and identification.
In this stillness, the mind begins to mirror the qualities of the pristine mind—peace, clarity, non-attachment. While the ego may never directly experience the pristine mind, it can come to a place where it reflects this deeper reality, where the sense of separation diminishes, and the boundaries of the self become porous, transparent.
It is in these moments, dear friend, that you may catch a glimpse of the truth that lies beyond the “I,” a truth that cannot be grasped or held, but only reflected in the clear, quiet mind. Continue with your practice, allowing it to guide you ever closer to this state of reflection, where the ordinary mind becomes a mirror for the pristine mind, and the boundaries of the self dissolve into the whole.
Living with chronic fatigue syndrome (ME/CFS) often feels like carrying an invisible weight that never goes away. The exhaustion is far beyond ordinary tiredness, permeating not just the body but the mind and heart as well. For many of us, this illness can feel like a curse, a complete derailment of life’s trajectory. Yet, over the years, I’ve come to see it also as a strange and unexpected blessing—one that has thrown me deeper into spiritual practice, into moments of stillness and contemplation I might not have otherwise known.
At its worst, the illness can leave me in bed, lights off, no sound, in a state of complete sensory deprivation. And it is in these moments, when there is nothing to distract me from my thoughts, that I’ve had to learn how to truly be alone. Learning to witness my reactions, cultivating equanimity, and practicing calm-abiding meditation have become vital companions on this journey. For many years, I focused on the Tibetan practice of Samatha, or calm-abiding meditation, as well as Vipassana, which allows for a deep awareness of the present moment. Sitting in stillness, aware of whatever calm I could find within, helped me cultivate equanimity—though it remains a practice I still have much to learn from.
But there was another essential practice that transformed how I related to my suffering. The practice of Metta—or loving-kindness—invites us to take our own pain and suffering and recognize that in this vast world, we are not alone in what we feel. When my illness has been most acute, whether through mental anguish or physical symptoms, I’ve practiced thinking: In the same way that I am experiencing this illness, this suffering, this pain, there are others in the world who experience this too. And then, from the heart, I offer the prayer: May I, and all beings, be free from this suffering and its causes.
This simple yet profound shift in perspective allowed me to transform my experience from one of isolation and misery into a practice of compassion. Instead of being stuck in my own pain, it became a way to benefit others by cultivating loving-kindness for all those who suffer. In this way, even my most difficult experiences became part of my spiritual path. ME/CFS was no longer just an illness—it was an opportunity to deepen my compassion, both for myself and for others.
Of course, this hasn’t been an overnight transformation. It took many years of spiritual study and practice, drawing from teachings like the Four Noble Truths of the Buddha, the Noble Eightfold Path, and eventually the teachings of Advaita Vedanta. Through these teachings, I came to recognize the fluctuations of the mind, or vrittis, and learned to observe the content of my thoughts—pratyayas—without identifying with them. This practice of witnessing the mind has allowed me to find peace in the midst of the storm, much like the Dark Night of the Soul described by St. John of the Cross.
For me, it has felt less like a dark night and more like twenty years of spiritual darkness, but nonetheless, this darkness has also been a teacher. Learning to be present with my suffering, rather than resisting it, has become an integral part of my life with ME/CFS. And while the illness has forced me to withdraw from many aspects of life, it has also drawn me into the heart of spiritual practice.
To anyone living with this illness, or any chronic illness, I offer this: it’s okay to feel overwhelmed by the weight of it all. It’s okay to grieve the life you once had or the future you imagined. But there are also practices—like Metta, calm-abiding meditation, and witnessing the mind—that can transform this suffering into something that nourishes not only your soul but the souls of others as well.
May you, and all beings, be free from suffering and its causes. May this invisible weight become a doorway into the mystic, where even in solitude, you find that you are never truly alone.
During my practice, I experimented with integrating breath and the mantra of silently saying “In” on the inhale and “Out” on the exhale, while incorporating gentle yogic movements in a lotus posture. I coordinated the mantra and breathing with specific neck movements—turning my head left and right, extending and flexing my neck, and bringing each ear toward my shoulder. How might this combination of breath, mantra, and movement deepen my practice, and what should I be mindful of as I explore this approach further?
Dear friend,
Your willingness to explore new dimensions in your practice, integrating movement with breath and mantra, is a beautiful testament to your deepening engagement with this path. What you have discovered is a profound way to harmonize the different aspects of your being, bringing together body, mind, and spirit in a single, unified flow.
By coordinating the gentle movements of your head with the rhythm of your breath and the repetition of the mantra, you are creating a sacred dance, a dance that unites the mind and body in a shared rhythm. This synchronization is more than just a physical exercise; it is a way of bringing all of yourself into the present moment, where the mind’s chatter is quieted, and the body’s tension is released. In this unified flow, you find a deeper sense of wholeness, a wholeness that reflects the unity of your true nature.
The gentle micro-movements you have chosen—turning your head, flexing and extending your neck, bringing your ears to your shoulders—are simple yet profound gestures that engage the body in the meditation. As you move, you become more aware of the sensations within your body, more attuned to the subtle messages it offers. This physical awareness grounds your practice, making it not just an exercise of the mind, but a fully embodied experience. It is in this embodiment that you find a deeper connection to yourself, a connection that transcends the boundaries of thought and feeling.
The coordination of movement, breath, and mantra sharpens your focus, creating a structured and rhythmic flow that keeps the mind anchored in the present. As you move and breathe and recite the mantra, the distractions of the mind fade into the background, replaced by a clear and steady concentration. This concentration is not forced; it arises naturally from the harmony of the practice, leading you deeper into the stillness and silence that are the heart of meditation.
The gentle yogic movements you have integrated into your practice are more than just physical stretches; they are a way of balancing the energy within your body, of releasing tension and opening up the flow of prana. As you turn your head, flex and extend your neck, bring your ears to your shoulders, you are not only stretching the muscles but also freeing the energy that is often trapped in these areas. This release brings a sense of ease and lightness, a feeling of being more centered and at peace.
My dear friend, this experiment you have undertaken is a beautiful and powerful addition to your practice. Continue to explore this integration of movement, breath, and mantra, allowing it to guide you ever deeper into the unity of body, mind, and spirit. Trust in the wisdom of your body, the rhythm of your breath, and the power of the mantra, and let them carry you into the stillness that lies within.
For many years, the mental events that disturbed me the most were those that questioned, “Am I doing this right or wrong? Am I achieving anything beneficial, or am I just wasting my time?” But today, these doubts had no effect. I simply said, “Not this, not this,” recognizing them as just mental events arising. This mantra is bringing me a freedom from years of anxiety and self-doubt. It’s a significant release. How can I nurture and deepen this newfound freedom in my meditation?
Dear friend,
What a significant and liberating insight you have encountered! For many years, those persistent questions—”Am I doing this right?” “Am I wasting my time?”—have cast a shadow over your practice, pulling you into a cycle of doubt and anxiety. And yet, in this round, you have discovered a simple and profound truth: these doubts are nothing more than mental events, no different from any other thoughts that arise in the mind.
Doubt, particularly the kind that questions whether we are on the right path, can be one of the most insidious obstacles in our practice. It arises from the ego’s need for certainty and validation, from a fear of failure or the unknown. These doubts can be particularly disturbing because they strike at the very heart of our efforts, making us question whether we are moving forward or merely spinning our wheels.
But now, you have seen through the illusion. By applying the mantra “Not This, Not This” to these doubts, you have recognized them for what they are—simply thoughts, passing phenomena in the mind. They have no more substance or power than any other mental event. In meeting these doubts with “Not This, Not This,” you have taken away their sting, their ability to disturb your peace. They are no longer something to fear or wrestle with; they are just another ripple on the surface of the mind’s vast ocean.
This realization brings with it a profound freedom. No longer are you bound by the need to do things “right” or the fear of doing them “wrong.” Instead, you can rest in the simplicity of the practice, free from judgment, free from the constant questioning that once held you back. This freedom is not a small thing; it is a significant release, a letting go of years of accumulated doubt and anxiety. It is a gift that allows you to move forward with greater ease and confidence, trusting in the process without the need for constant validation.
Indeed, this is a significant moment in your journey. The doubts that once plagued you have lost their power, and in their place, you have found a deeper sense of peace and self-acceptance. This is the true power of the mantra “Not This, Not This”—it transforms not just your meditation, but your entire relationship with yourself. It frees you from the chains of doubt and allows you to walk your path with a lighter heart and a clearer mind.
My dear friend, this is a beautiful and important step on your journey. Continue with this practice, allowing the mantra to guide you ever deeper into the heart of stillness and clarity. Trust in yourself, and know that you are moving in the right direction, free from the burdens of doubt and self-judgment.
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.
“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.
How can the mantra Neti Neti continue to arise spontaneously throughout the day, and how might one practice it during ordinary tasks and interactions in the dualistic world
Dear friend,
As your practice deepens, it is only natural that the mantra “Neti Neti” begins to echo beyond the confines of formal meditation, weaving itself into the very fabric of your daily life. This is a beautiful and auspicious development, for the true power of this practice lies not only in moments of stillness and silence but in its capacity to transform your experience of the world in each passing moment.
Imagine, if you will, the gentle rhythm of “Neti Neti” accompanying you throughout your day. Whether you are engaged in the simplest of tasks or the most complex of interactions, this mantra can serve as a quiet, steady undercurrent, reminding you of the deeper truth that lies beneath the surface of all appearances.
As you move through the day, allow “Neti Neti” to arise naturally in your mind, especially when you find yourself caught up in the dualities of life—the push and pull of desires, the highs and lows of emotions, the ceaseless demands of the world around you. When a thought or feeling arises that seems to pull you away from your center, gently remind yourself, “Not This, Not This.” This simple act of negation is not a rejection of life, but rather an invitation to see beyond the fleeting, to touch the eternal within the everyday.
Consider the ordinary tasks that fill your day—the washing of dishes, the folding of clothes, the tending to work or errands. These moments, though seemingly mundane, are fertile ground for your practice. As you engage in these tasks, silently repeat “Neti Neti” to yourself. Notice how this mantra helps to dissolve the sense of separation between you and the task at hand. The distinction between the doer and the doing, the subject and the object, begins to fade, leaving you with a simple, clear awareness of being.
This practice brings a certain lightness to even the most routine activities, a reminder that nothing in this world can truly define or confine you. “Not This, Not This,” the mantra whispers, freeing you from the weight of identification, allowing you to move through your day with a sense of ease and grace.
And what of your interactions with others, in this dualistic world where we often find ourselves entangled in the roles we play—the parent, the partner, the friend, the colleague? Here, too, the mantra “Neti Neti” can be a guiding light.
When you feel the pull of attachment or aversion in your relationships, when you sense the stirrings of ego in your interactions, gently remind yourself, “Not This, Not This.” This does not mean withdrawing from the people you care about or disengaging from the world. On the contrary, it allows you to engage more fully, with a heart that is open and free from the constraints of egoic identifications.
In this way, you interact not from a place of separation or need, but from a place of wholeness and completeness. “Not This, Not This,” the mantra says, and in doing so, it clears the way for true connection, untainted by the projections and fears that so often cloud our relationships.
As you continue to carry “Neti Neti” with you throughout your day, you may find that the boundaries between your formal meditation and your daily life begin to blur. The mantra becomes a thread that connects all aspects of your existence, reminding you constantly of the truth that lies beyond all appearances.
There will be moments when the mantra arises spontaneously, without any effort on your part. In these moments, let it guide you back to your center, to the stillness that underlies all movement. And in the spaces between the mantra, rest in the awareness that is your true self, free from all identifications, all dualities.
Dear friend, this is the essence of living the practice—allowing the wisdom of “Not This, Not This” to permeate every aspect of your life, transforming the mundane into the sacred, the ordinary into the extraordinary. It is a journey of continual letting go, a path that leads ever deeper into the heart of your being.
May your practice bring you the peace and clarity you seek, and may you walk this path with the gentle strength and quiet joy that comes from knowing you are always, already whole.
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.
“Deathless are they who know the Self. Those who know intense fear of death seek refuge only at the feet of the Lord who has neither death nor birth. Dead to themselves and their possessions, can the thought of death occur to them again? Deathless are they.”
— Ramana Maharshi, Forty Verses on Reality
In the silent expanse of existence, a profound truth emerges: those who truly know themselves are untouched by the shadow of death. Their awareness transcends the fleeting nature of the physical, awakening them to a reality where the Self shines eternally, free from the confines of birth and demise.
Fear, that primal instinct which grips the emotional self, leads many to seek solace at the feet of the Divine. Here, in surrender, they find refuge in the Lord—the embodiment of timelessness, the one who remains unscathed by the cycle of life and death. In the presence of such love, the urgency of worldly attachments falls away, revealing the deeper essence of being. I look forward to resting in the presence of such love, revealed within our mind—our true heart—where all attachments dissolve into the stillness of pure awareness. To realize this ever-present pure love is to know the deeper essence of what we are, the part of us that remains untouched by the fears and desires of the world.
As one becomes “dead” to the clamor of possessions and the incessant desires that bind the soul, the thought of death loses its power. No longer a specter to be feared, it becomes a mere whisper, an echo of a past long forgotten. In this state of liberation, the deathless heart pulsates with the rhythm of life, embracing the eternal now.
To know the Self is to awaken to the infinite, to dance beyond the duality of existence, where life and death are but two sides of the same coin. In this awakening, we find the courage to let go—to release the chains of identification with the transient and embrace the essence of who we truly are. Here lies the secret of the deathless ones, an invitation to live fully, unencumbered by the fears that often confine us.
And yet, when we speak of the deathless state, we do not turn our gaze away from the undeniable truth of death. The body, like all things that come into being, will one day return to the earth. Those we love will pass, as will we. But the wisdom of this teaching beckons us to look beyond the visible horizon, beyond the fragile shell of the physical.
Death, as we know it, is but a passage in the realm of form. What truly passes? Not the Self. Not the essence of who we are. This teaching whispers to us that the grasping after what is fleeting—the desires, the aversions, the worldly attachments—these are the threads that weave the illusion of permanence where there is none.
In the letting go, in the softening of our hands from the things we thought we needed to hold so tightly, there is a kind of renunciation. But not a renunciation of life itself, rather, a release from the belief that life’s changing faces can define us. We release, not into emptiness, but into fullness—the fullness of the pristine mind, the quiet, undisturbed expanse of the deathless.
To recognize this is to taste the sweetness of a deeper truth: the Self is untouched by the passing of days, by the birth and death of forms. This is where we find our liberation—not by denying the body’s end, but by resting in the awareness that transcends it.
And so, in this gentle abiding, we come to understand: death may touch what is temporal, but it cannot lay a finger on what is eternal. Here, in the heart of this realization, there is peace—a peace that no worldly circumstance can steal away, for it is woven into the very fabric of our being.
Coming Up Next: Verse 3
In our next exploration, we will turn our attention to the third verse, where we will reflect on the nature of true knowledge and how it reveals the interconnectedness of all beings, inviting us into a deeper understanding of existence.
In our previous posts, we explored the nature of right knowledge and wrong knowledge as mental events, recognizing them as fluctuations of the mind that can distract us from the clarity of the Seer. Now, Patanjali takes us further into the types of mental events, focusing on imagination and sleep.
1.9: Imagination is the mental event that arises when words or concepts are not based on reality. 1.10: Sleep is the mental event that occurs when there is an absence of awareness.
These two sutras reveal important aspects of the mind’s activity that can either lead to further distraction or be witnessed with clarity. Both imagination and sleep are natural, but without mindfulness, they can obscure our ability to remain in the awareness of the Seer.
Imagination: The Mind’s Tendency to Create
Imagination (vikalpa) is the mind’s ability to create images, scenarios, or concepts that are not rooted in actual experience. This can be a powerful tool for creativity, but when we become entangled in imaginative thoughts, they pull us away from the present moment and the reality of what is. Imagination is a type of mental event that can lead to confusion when we mistake it for truth.
For instance, how often do we find ourselves lost in a daydream or a scenario that has no bearing on reality? Whether it’s imagining a future outcome or reliving a past experience, imagination can easily become a source of distraction. Yet, when we recognize imagination as just another mental event, we can let it pass without getting caught up in it. The key is to observe it without judgment or engagement, remembering that we are the Seer, not the mental event.
Sleep: Absence of Awareness—and the Potential for Lucid Dreaming
Interestingly, Patanjali includes sleep (nidra) as a mental event. While sleep is essential for physical and mental rejuvenation, it is still a state of mind where awareness is typically absent. In the context of yoga, sleep represents a gap in our mindfulness—a temporary state where the mind is not engaged with external reality but is still present in a subtle way.
However, there’s another dimension to sleep that Patanjali may be pointing toward: the practice of remaining aware even while dreaming. This is known as lucid dreaming, where the dreamer becomes conscious of the fact that they are dreaming. Just as we practice mindfulness in waking life, it’s possible to cultivate awareness during dreams, allowing us to witness the dream without becoming absorbed in the content.
In dreams, we are often fully engaged in the mental events that arise, much like we are in our waking life. Yet, with practice, we can maintain a sense of the Seer—the witness of the dream itself. Neti Neti can become a spontaneous practice even in the dream world, reminding us that we are the dreamer, not the dream. For those who are interested, this practice can be cultivated over time, offering a deeper level of awareness during the state of sleep.
Bringing It Into Practice: Staying Present Amid Mental Events
As with the other mental events we’ve discussed, both imagination and sleep can be observed without judgment. Rather than getting caught up in the content of our imaginations or losing ourselves in unconscious moments, we can use the practice of Neti, neti to return to the present. By simply acknowledging these as mental events, we free ourselves from their pull.
When you find yourself lost in an imaginative thought, you can gently remind yourself, “Neti, Neti. I am the witness. I am the Seer.” This allows you to return to a place of stillness and clarity, observing the imagination without engaging with it. Similarly, if you notice moments of mindlessness or dullness creeping in during your day—or even in the dream state—the same practice can bring you back into awareness, helping you stay present.
This practice doesn’t require us to suppress imagination or fight against sleep; instead, we recognize these mental events as temporary and return to the awareness of the pristine mind. By observing these fluctuations without attachment, we maintain the discipline necessary to cultivate equanimity and inner stillness.
Maintaining Discipline in Mindfulness
As we’ve seen before, discipline plays a crucial role in this process. The mind naturally drifts toward imaginative scenarios and moments of dullness. But through disciplined practice, we strengthen our ability to remain anchored in the awareness of the Seer. Each time we recognize imagination or mindlessness and return to stillness, we reinforce the clarity of the pristine mind.
Over time, this discipline allows us to witness mental events without becoming distracted by them, no matter how subtle or engaging they may be. By maintaining this mindfulness, we can rest in the simplicity of awareness, untouched by the mind’s fluctuations.
Coming Up Next:
In our next post, we will explore Sutras 1.11 and 1.12, where Patanjali continues to describe mental events, focusing on memory and the practice of non-attachment. We’ll reflect on how memory shapes our perception of the present and how cultivating non-attachment frees us from the patterns of the past. Join me as we continue this journey toward deeper self-awareness and peace.
Home Page: Inspirations of Love and Hope 