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When One Person Stops Arguing

…and the Other Still Feels a Fight

There are moments in relationship where one person says,
“We’re arguing,”
and the other quietly responds inside,
“No, we’re not.”

Not because they’re dismissing the pain.
Not because they’re avoiding responsibility.
But because something inside them has stepped out of combat.

This is where confusion often begins.

For many of us, arguing means opposition.
Raised voices. Tight chests. Defending a position. Trying to win ground or at least not lose it.
So when we stop pushing back, stop countering, stop swinging words like shields, it no longer feels like an argument in the body.

It feels like stillness.
Observation.
Restraint.
Sometimes even care.

But for the other person, something else is happening.

To them, arguing isn’t defined by volume or aggression.
It’s defined by disconnection.

The moment they feel unheard, unmet, or emotionally alone, the experience registers as conflict. Even if the room is quiet. Even if the other person is calm. Even if no harsh words are spoken.

So one person is saying,
“I’m not fighting you.”

And the other is hearing,
“You’re not with me.”

Same moment.
Different nervous systems.
Different languages of safety.

This is where relationships get subtle.

Stillness, when unspoken, can feel like absence.
Calm, when unexplained, can feel like indifference.
Presence, when invisible, can feel like withdrawal.

And yet, the person who stopped arguing may actually be doing something very intentional.
They may be choosing not to escalate.
Not to dominate.
Not to leak energy into a familiar pattern of defense and reaction.

They may be practicing staying rooted rather than reactive.

The paradox is this:
Not arguing is not the same as being present together.

Presence isn’t just the absence of resistance.
Presence is contact.

It’s letting the other person feel that you are here, even if you are not matching their emotional intensity. It’s the difference between standing still with someone and standing still away from them.

Many conflicts don’t need resolution in the traditional sense.
They need recognition.

Recognition that two inner worlds are experiencing the same moment differently.
Recognition that calm does not automatically translate to connection.
Recognition that feeling safe does not always look the same from both sides.

Sometimes the most honest thing to say is not,
“We’re not arguing,”
but rather,
“I’m not fighting you, and I might not be meeting you where you need me yet.”

That sentence doesn’t surrender truth.
It doesn’t assign blame.
It doesn’t collapse into appeasement.

It simply names the space between.

Relationships don’t fall apart because people argue.
They strain when people argue about whether an argument is even happening.

So the invitation is gentle:
Can we stay curious instead of correct?
Can we ask what the other person is feeling rather than debating definitions?
Can we let presence become something felt, not just practiced internally?

Because sometimes the work isn’t to argue less.
It’s to let our stillness be seen.

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A reflection on connection

A few days ago, something clicked for me.

It didn’t come from a big argument or some dramatic moment. It came quietly, in the space after a conversation with my wife, when I noticed a familiar tension lingering between us. Not anger. Not blame. Just that subtle distance that shows up when something important hasn’t been fully heard yet.

At first, my mind went to the usual places.
Defensiveness. Logic. Wanting to explain my intentions. Wanting to prove I wasn’t doing anything wrong.

But as the week went on, I started looking at it differently.

I realized the jealousy I was sensing in her wasn’t really about mistrust or control. It wasn’t about me being monitored or limited. It was something much more tender than that.

It was a protest for connection.

I watched how her nervous system seemed to tighten in moments where she felt uncertain, unseen, or unchosen. And I saw how easy it is to mistake that tightening for accusation, when really it’s a quiet request: Please stay with me. Please choose me. Please help me feel safe.

That shift changed everything for me.

Instead of feeling pushed against, I began to feel invited in. Instead of hearing criticism, I started hearing vulnerability. And once I heard that, the urge to defend myself softened.

Over the week, I kept reflecting on this. Every time the pattern showed up, I asked myself what would happen if I met the moment with presence instead of explanation, reassurance instead of resistance.

What I saw was simple but profound.

When jealousy turns into checking, controlling, or testing, it can damage trust. But when we shame the feeling or dismiss it, the need underneath doesn’t disappear. It just waits, and comes back louder.

What actually calms it isn’t rules or proof.
It’s connection.

By the end of the week, this became clear to me: her jealousy wasn’t asking me to change who I am. It was asking me to stay emotionally available, to remember we’re on the same side, and to help co-create safety together.

That’s the conclusion I came to.
Not as a theory.
But as something I felt settle in my body.

Safety isn’t enforced.
It’s built, slowly, through presence.

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How Do You Know You’re Growing Spiritually?

Many people imagine spiritual progress as an escape plan.
A final graduation.
A cosmic resignation letter.

“I’ve seen through the illusion,” they say.
“I’m done with this world.”

And then the phone rings.

A deal collapses.
Money disappears.
A reputation trembles.
Someone threatens what we thought was secure.

Suddenly the illusion feels very real again.

The same person who spoke of transcendence an hour earlier now says,
“Leave me alone with spirituality. I don’t have time for that right now.”

This is not failure.
This is feedback.

It’s easy to feel enlightened when nothing is pressing on you.
When life is calm, silence feels natural.
When no one challenges you, peace comes cheaply.

The real measure appears when life tightens its grip.

How do you respond when the world does not cooperate with your ideals?
When something you love is threatened?
When control slips through your fingers?

That response tells the truth.

Not the visions you’ve had.
Not the words you’ve learned.
Not the identities you wear.

Just the reaction.

We say, “I lost it,” when anger flares or fear takes over.
It’s a strangely accurate phrase.

What was lost wasn’t morality or composure.
It was awareness.

And here’s the quiet miracle:
the moment you notice you’ve lost it, you’ve already begun to find it again.

If you know you’re unconscious, you’re not fully unconscious.
If you can see the storm, you are not the storm.

As awareness grows, the grip of reactivity loosens.
What once hijacked you begins to pass through you.
What once consumed you becomes information.

The world becomes your teacher, whether you ask it to be or not.

Do people still make you angry?
Good. That shows you where attention is needed.

Do situations that once shook you now pass more lightly?
That’s not detachment.
That’s integration.

Spiritual maturity is not measured by how high you can float in meditation,
but by how grounded you remain when life pushes back.

You may see angels.
You may converse with cosmic beings.
That’s fine.

But how do you stand in line?
How do you drive when the light turns red?
How do you walk from one room to another?

This is where consciousness proves itself.

An old sage once gave a deceptively simple answer to the question,
“How do I know I’m progressing?”

He said:
By the degree to which thought falls silent.

Not permanently.
Not dramatically.

But in small openings.

Gaps between thoughts.
Moments of pure presence.
Walking without narrating.
Listening without preparing a response.
Being with what is, without commentary.

Stillness doesn’t make you passive.
It makes your thinking cleaner when you need it.

Thought, when rooted in silence, becomes precise instead of compulsive.
Creative instead of defensive.
Responsive instead of reactive.

Then something subtle happens.

Life begins to move through you instead of against you.
Words arise from clarity.
Actions emerge without strain.

Not because you escaped the world,
but because you stopped fighting it.

And that’s how you know.

Not by how spiritual you sound.
But by how present you remain when the world rings the phone.

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I Am No Longer Shocked

But I Am Always in Awe

Someone asked me recently if I’m still shocked by events.

By people.

By life.

I answered honestly.

No.

And I could feel the weight of that word land heavier than I intended.

Because “no” can sound like numbness.

Like distance.

Like indifference.

But that isn’t what lives here.

I’m not shocked anymore because shock belongs to a nervous system that is constantly bracing for impact.

It’s the body flinching before it knows what has arrived.

It’s surprise mixed with fear, urgency, and the reflex to react.

Shock assumes the world should be different than it is.

And something in me has stopped arguing with reality.

But awe…

Awe never left.

If anything, it deepened.

Awe doesn’t jolt.

It opens.

It doesn’t shout.

It hums quietly in the chest when you realize how vast this moment is, and how small the story you were telling about it was.

I don’t gasp at life anymore.

I bow to it.

I don’t get thrown off balance by events the way I once did, not because I care less, but because I’m less attached to how things are supposed to go.

Shock collapses time into reaction.

Awe stretches time into presence.

One is chaos.

The other is intimacy.

When you are shocked, you are knocked out of yourself.

When you are in awe, you are returned.

Returned to breath.

Returned to humility.

Returned to the quiet miracle of being here at all.

Stillness doesn’t flatten emotion.

It refines it.

It removes the static so you can hear what’s always been playing underneath.

And underneath the noise, life is astonishing.

Not dramatic.

Not theatrical.

Just endlessly, tenderly alive.

I am no longer shocked.

But I am constantly in awe.

And in that awe,

stillness awaits.

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I Heard The Word Misbehavior…

And I thought to myself…what is the Mis part, and how is it played out…in the end, it was just behavior.

The word misbehavior is something we lay on top of it, like a label slapped on a moving river.

Behavior is what happens when a nervous system meets a moment.

Needs, fears, conditioning, fatigue, longing, hunger, history, misunderstanding, love trying to find a door. All of that expresses itself as action.

Misbehavior usually means:

“This behavior doesn’t fit our rules, expectations, or comfort.”

But the behavior itself is never random or evil. It’s always doing something:

seeking safety asking for connection protecting against pain testing boundaries discharging overwhelm copying what it learned before words existed

When we say “misbehavior,” we stop asking why and start asking how to stop it.

When we say “behavior,” we get curious instead of corrective.

This doesn’t mean “anything goes.”

It means accountability without moralization.

You can still say:

“That behavior causes harm.” “That behavior can’t continue.” “There needs to be repair.”

Without saying:

“You are wrong for existing this way.” “You are bad.” “Something is fundamentally broken.”

Seen this way, behavior becomes a message

And every message deserves decoding before punishment.

So no, there is no misbehavior in nature.

Only signals misunderstood, needs unmet, and nervous systems doing the best they know how with the tools they have in that moment.

The shift from misbehavior to behavior is the shift from judgment to understanding.

And understanding, paradoxically, is what actually changes behavior.

Quietly.

Naturally.

Without force.

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The Sixth Judgment: The Forgotten Language of Creation

from The Manuscript of the Seven Judgments
by Asher Vale – The Great Awakening Manifesto: The Call of the Forgotten Covenant

Begin with Stillness

Please, take a few deep breaths.
Relax your body.
Quiet your mind.
Allow your soul to read this.

After reading this, you won’t question if you can manifest — but what you want to manifest.

The Remembering

When I returned from my near-death experience and forty days in a coma, something shifted inside me.

It wasn’t a “spiritual awakening” the way people describe it —
it was a remembering.

Layer by layer, the truth of manifestation revealed itself to me —
and I finally understood why so many people remain stuck,
even after years of trying.

It’s not because they don’t believe enough.
It’s because they’re speaking the wrong language.

The Hidden Law Most People Never Discover

You can visualize all day.
You can write affirmations until your hand hurts.
You can even stay “positive” for months.

But if your energy still communicates lack,
the universe will mirror that lack with perfect precision.

“Desire speaks the language of lack.
Command speaks the language of divinity.
The universe doesn’t answer pleading — it obeys clarity.”
— The Sixth Judgment: The Language of Eternal Attraction

That single understanding changed everything.

Why Your Manifestations Feel Uncertain

Most people don’t fail at manifestation —
they’re simply using a broken frequency.

They ask for what they want
while secretly vibrating with what they fear.

You want love but carry abandonment.
You want wealth but identify with scarcity.
You want peace but hold resentment.

The universe reads vibration, not vocabulary.
And so it responds — flawlessly —
to the state you are, not the words you say.

The Shift: From Attraction to Embodiment

When you finally align with the frequency of what you desire,
you stop attracting —
you begin commanding.

You don’t chase love. You become love.
You don’t attract abundance. You remember that you are abundance.

At that moment, manifestation stops being about pulling something toward you.
It becomes about recognizing that everything has been orbiting your field all along —
waiting for you to remember your sovereignty.

The Seven Pillars of Creation

The Manuscript of the Seven Judgments reveals the seven fundamental forces behind manifestation —
pillars that govern how energy takes form in physical reality.
Each one removes a layer of illusion until creation becomes effortless.

  1. Absolute Will – Awakening the creator consciousness within.
  2. Companionship of the Shadow – Reclaiming the denied power of darkness.
  3. Silence of Return – Realigning with the original field of creation.
  4. Dissolving the Bonds – Cutting cords that drain your creative power.
  5. Reflection of Purity – Restoring your magnetic field to its true strength.
  6. Language of Eternal Attraction – Commanding reality through vibration, not desire.
  7. Embodiment of the Covenant – Becoming the source itself.

When you begin integrating these judgments,
you stop asking, “Can I manifest this?”
That question disappears.

The real question becomes:
“What do I truly want to create now that I know I can?”

How to Speak the Language of Creation

  • Still the mind.
    Stop asking the universe for proof. Silence is where clarity is born.
  • Feel before words.
    Don’t repeat affirmations you don’t believe. Embody the frequency until words become unnecessary.
  • Command, don’t beg.
    Speak from the knowing that it’s already yours.
    The universe follows authority, not desperation.
    (Please read this at least five times.)
  • Release control.
    Creation is not forced — it unfolds when you stop interfering with divine timing.
  • Stay pure.
    Each time you settle, complain, or doubt, you distort your frequency.
    Purity keeps your signal clear.

The Forgotten Truth

Most people are trying to attract something from outside.
But manifestation isn’t about pulling reality toward you —
it’s about remembering that reality is already responding to you.

Once you master the Sixth Judgment, a quiet confidence rises within.
You no longer need to convince yourself.
You no longer need to ask if it’s working.

You know.

Because the moment you stop speaking the language of lack
and start speaking the language of divinity,
the universe recognizes its reflection in you —
and reality rearranges itself to match the vibration of your truth.

The Final Word

These Seven Pillars aren’t teachings.
They are keys.

And once you use them,
you will never question if you can manifest again —
only what to manifest next.

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The Mind: The Gateway Between Worlds

There comes a point when you begin to see that the mind is not who you are, but what you look through.
It is the gateway — the threshold between the silent vastness of awareness and the colorful realm of form.

When the mind is still, it reflects life as it is — pure, unfiltered, luminous.
When the mind is restless, it projects shadows, weaving stories of fear and desire, loss and gain.
We mistake those stories for reality, and the gateway narrows.

But in moments of stillness — when you watch a sunset without naming it, when you listen to someone without preparing your reply — the doorway widens again.
Awareness steps through.
The ordinary becomes radiant.
The mind, once noisy, becomes a sacred instrument through which consciousness sings.

Everything ever built, written, or dreamed first passed through this gateway.
It is where the infinite learns to speak the language of the finite, where spirit takes shape as thought, word, and creation.
Used rightly, the mind is not a barrier but a bridge — a passageway from knowing to being, from silence to expression.

So tend to your gateway.
Let thoughts come and go like travelers passing through.
Keep it clean with presence, open with curiosity, and bright with gratitude.
For the clearer the gateway, the more seamlessly heaven and earth meet in you.

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Life as the End of Itself

We often live as if life were a staircase — each step leading us toward something greater, something final.
We chase success to feel secure, love to feel complete, spirituality to feel saved.
And yet, in all our striving, we rarely stop to ask: Where are we really trying to go?

What if there is nowhere to go?
What if life itself is not a means, but the end?

To say life is the end of itself is to awaken to a radical simplicity: that this moment — right here, right now — is already whole. The breath you are taking, the sound of the world around you, even the quiet ache in your chest — they are not steps toward some distant perfection. They are the perfection.

Thich Nhat Hanh once said, “There is no way to happiness; happiness is the way.”
It is the same with life. Life is not a path leading to something called fulfillment — it is fulfillment unfolding in motion.

Think of music. The purpose of a song isn’t to reach the final note. If it were, the best musician would be the one who finishes first. The beauty of music lies in the playing — in the spaces between notes, in the pauses that let silence breathe. Life is no different. Each heartbeat, each sunrise, each moment of laughter or sorrow is a note in the grand symphony of being.

When we stop trying to get somewhere, something miraculous happens: we begin to arrive everywhere.
The ordinary becomes luminous. Washing dishes becomes a meditation. Sitting in traffic becomes a moment of awareness. Even sadness becomes a gentle teacher whispering, “I am here too.”

Life, when seen as the end of itself, is not a race or a lesson to complete.
It is a dance without a destination — a song that plays simply because it can.

So breathe.
Feel the air enter and leave you.
This, too, is life — complete, entire, enough.

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No Longer Needing to Go Anywhere

There was a time when I couldn’t wait for vacations. The thought of boarding a plane, of escaping somewhere new — the mountains, the sea, the streets of a foreign city — it filled me with a kind of aliveness. I would plan months in advance, daydream about the food, the views, the photos I’d take. Charging the batteries and lay out all the things I needed to bring.

But somewhere along the way, something shifted…it wasn’t even subtle.

It wasn’t that I lost interest in the world — it was that I began to see it everywhere. The sunrise outside my own window began to feel as vast as the horizon I once chased. The quiet of my morning coffee carried the same peace I sought in temples and beaches. The more I became present to what is, the less I needed to go elsewhere to feel alive.

What once filled me from the outside now wells up naturally from within.

When I walk through my neighborhood, I notice the same wonder that used to arrive only after a long flight: the texture of light, the laughter of strangers, the way the air moves through the trees. Everything is vivid, unrepeatable.

The need to find something has softened into the joy of being with what’s already here.

It’s not that I’ll never travel again. But when I do, it won’t be to escape — it’ll be to meet life in another form, another face of the same wholeness. The difference is, I no longer expect the world to complete me. I’m already home, wherever I stand.

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Modern Poisoning of Mind

1. Information Overload

We’re flooded with more information in a single day than people centuries ago encountered in a lifetime. This constant stream of news, social feeds, and notifications can scatter our attention, shorten our focus, and create mental exhaustion. Instead of clarity, we get noise.

2. Comparison Culture

Social media magnifies comparison — careers, bodies, lifestyles, relationships. Measuring ourselves against carefully curated highlights of others often leads to envy, dissatisfaction, and the sense that we’re always “behind.”

3. Addiction to Speed and Productivity

The pressure to always be “on,” producing, hustling, or optimizing every part of life leaves little room for rest, presence, or simply being. Our worth gets tied to output rather than existence.

4. Consumerism as Identity

Modern society often defines people by what they buy, wear, or own. This turns human beings into brands, and fulfillment into something “purchased” rather than discovered.

5. Disconnection from Inner Life

With all the external stimulation, many lose touch with stillness, silence, and self-reflection. Without those, the inner compass becomes cloudy, making us vulnerable to manipulation, distraction, or despair.

6. Fear and Division

Media, politics, and online echo chambers often thrive on polarizing narratives. Fear of “the other” becomes a mental poison, breeding hostility instead of compassion.


If you had to name one poison of the mind that you personally see most affecting yourself or those around you today, what would it be — distraction, comparison, consumerism, fear, or something else?

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