Reflections
There are days when I wake up and don’t feel like chasing anything. Not because I’m exhausted. Not because I’ve given up. Just… no urgency.
The kind of morning where I open the windows and let the light come in slowly, and for a few minutes, I don’t reach for my phone. I just lie there — noticing the faint sounds outside, the fact that nothing is asking anything from me yet.
And strangely, those few minutes feel complete. Even on days I want to slow down, I still find myself checking my phone — for something to do, something to keep me occupied, something I might miss out on, something I want to know.
A few years ago, I wouldn’t have trusted a day like that — it would have felt incomplete, like I had overlooked something important or fallen behind in some invisible way.
I’ve spent a large part of my life measuring days by movement — how much got done, how far things progressed, what changed. That rhythm has given me a lot: structure, direction, and work I care about.
But somewhere along the way, it made me believe that a day needs to justify itself.
That if nothing moves forward, something is wrong.
Vipassana didn’t exactly “fix” that.
It just made it harder to ignore — and easier to see it for what it was.
Sitting still for hours, doing nothing — at least nothing visible — and yet watching how much is constantly happening inside. My mind starts wandering. I feel restless. I just want to get up and do something useful.
I remember checking the clock in my head, guessing how much time had passed, hoping the bell would come sooner.
The problem wasn’t stillness. It was my need for the stillness to mean something.
That stayed with me.
Even now, on regular workdays filled with aspirations and deadlines, I notice a second layer running quietly underneath — a part of me that doesn’t always want to optimize the next hour.
Sometimes, after a good meditation session, I walk outside without music. I resist the urge to fill the silence. It’s not always peaceful — sometimes it’s just noise in my head replaying the day — but occasionally, there’s a kind of clarity that only shows up when I stop trying to organize my thoughts.
It reminds me of how I like to travel.
Not the checklist version. Not rushing from one “must-see” to another. But the slower kind — where I end up sitting somewhere longer than planned: by a river, on a quiet street, at a random viewpoint that wasn’t even on the map.
I remember once sitting like that for almost an hour after hiking the Skandagiri hills, doing nothing, and noticing the exact moment the urge to “move on” disappeared. Nothing significant happened, and yet it felt like a peaceful, well-spent moment.
If anything, it felt like I had finally stopped trying to extract something from the experience.
Right now, my life feels split in two — not in conflict, but in quiet contrast.
There’s the structured side — work, responsibilities, things that need to get done.
And then there’s this quieter space I’m beginning to trust — thoughts that don’t need to become ideas, moments that don’t need to turn into anything, days that don’t need to stand out.
I don’t always understand this phase.
Some days, it genuinely feels like growth.
Some days, if I’m being honest, it just feels like I’m slowing down because I’m tired.
I don’t always know the difference.
Some days, I’m not becoming anything. I’m just existing.
But I’m slowly making peace with not knowing.
Not every day needs to move something forward. Some days just create space.
And maybe that’s not a pause from life.
Maybe that is life — before we rush in to define it, optimize it, or turn it into progress.
Maybe this phase won’t last.
But for now — slower mornings, quiet walks, unfinished thoughts — they don’t feel empty.
They feel honest and true.
"The song that I came to sing remains unsung to this day.
I have spent my days in stringing and in unstringing my instrument."
— "Song Unsung" by Rabindranath Tagore
