Author: stillnessawaits

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Relearning to See: A Journey Back to Wholeness

From the moment we’re born, we begin to learn how to perceive the world—not through conscious choice, but through the silent, ever-present influence of those around us. Before we speak a word, we absorb the tones of voices. Before we walk, we learn the emotional terrain of a room. Our perception of life—of safety, love, belonging, success, and even self-worth—begins not with us, but through the lens handed to us by others.

Parents, teachers, society, culture—each plays a role. Not maliciously, but unknowingly. Most of the people who shaped our early view of the world were simply repeating patterns they, too, were given. They offered us the tools they had, even if those tools were chipped, rusty, or no longer served their purpose.

We learned to be cautious with our joy, to shrink when we took up too much space, to fear failure, to chase approval, to measure worth in productivity, and to equate love with condition. These weren’t lessons spoken aloud; they were absorbed in glances, in silence, in what was praised or ignored. And so, like little mirrors, we reflected back the world we thought was true.

But here’s the quiet revolution: we can relearn.

We can question the lenses. We can step back and ask, What if the world isn’t what I was taught to see? What if there’s more kindness, more mystery, more freedom, more permission than I believed? What if I no longer need to protect myself from everything—because I’m no longer a child with no choice?

Relearning doesn’t mean blaming those who taught us. It means forgiving them—for what they didn’t know, for what they carried, for what they didn’t have the power or consciousness to see. It means holding space for the truth that most of our caregivers were doing their best within the limitations of their own stories.

Grace, then, becomes the soil of transformation. We don’t need to rip out old roots with anger or shame. We can gently loosen them with understanding. We can begin again—not from scratch, but from awareness. We can teach ourselves to see with new eyes.

To look in the mirror and see beauty, not deficiency.
To sit in stillness and hear guidance, not just noise.
To feel an emotion and not fear it, but welcome it like an old friend.
To forgive ourselves for all the years we didn’t know better.
To forgive others for all the years they didn’t either.

Relearning how to perceive the world is an act of deep courage. But it is also an act of deep love. Love for the child we were. Love for the adult we are becoming. And love for all the humans who are still waking up, one gentle shift at a time.

You are not behind.
You are not broken.
You are simply returning—to a way of seeing that was always yours, buried beneath the noise.

Let this be your reminder: You are allowed to begin again.

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Becoming the Environment for Love to Grow

People don’t bloom because we tell them to.

They bloom because the environment feels safe enough, warm enough, and spacious enough for them to unfold who they already are.

In relationships—romantic, platonic, or familial—we often think our role is to fix, advise, or point out what someone else needs to change. We mistake vigilance for love, feedback for support, reminders for care.

But the truth is: most people already know.

They already carry the weight of their own habits, struggles, regrets, and inner dialogue. And when someone keeps pointing them out, especially when they’re actively trying to change, it doesn’t always help—it often reinforces shame. It can sound like:
“I don’t see who you’re becoming. I only see who you were.”

We don’t heal under a microscope. We heal in gardens.

What if love isn’t about managing each other, but about cultivating space where someone can grow into who they’re trying to become?

What if we could be the environment that says:

  • “I believe you are changing, even when it’s slow.”
  • “You don’t have to earn a fresh start every time—we can begin again, now.”
  • “I see your effort, not just your errors.”

To love someone is not to keep them on a leash of their past. It is to hold the door open for their future—even when it takes time for them to walk through it.

And sometimes, that future arrives in subtle shifts: in the moment they pause before reacting. In the apology that comes quicker. In the way they begin to soften where they once guarded.

If we want to be in meaningful, lasting relationships, we have to ask ourselves:

Am I an environment where someone feels safe to evolve? Or do I only love the version of them that doesn’t make me uncomfortable?

To grow is to stumble. To love is to remember.

And to stay is to water each other, not with critique, but with faith in the unfolding.

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“Jesus Is the Way”: More Than a Man, It’s a Metaphor

We live in a world built not on facts alone, but on symbols.

Every idea we carry, every word we speak, and every belief we hold is filtered through the lens of metaphor. From flags to wedding rings, from poetry to the cross—human beings make meaning through symbols. Without metaphor, we’re left with mechanical definitions. But with metaphor, the invisible becomes visible, and the eternal becomes intimate.

So when Jesus says, “I am the way,” what if we stopped treating it like a rigid declaration—and instead, approached it as a profound metaphor?

Not Just the Man—The Message

The historical figure of Jesus walked the earth over two thousand years ago. But the phrase “Jesus is the way” endures not because of the physical man alone, but because of what he symbolized.

He embodied forgiveness in the face of betrayal. He modeled radical love, even for enemies. He walked among the poor and outcast, seeing their worth when others could not. His “way” wasn’t merely a set of doctrines—it was a way of being.

When he said “I am the way, the truth, and the life,” he wasn’t handing us a password to heaven. He was offering a living metaphor—a path to awakening. A path that anyone, of any faith or background, can recognize: the way of humility, the way of surrender, the way of love.

The Path Is a Mirror

When we treat Jesus as only a person to worship, we risk missing the deeper invitation—to walk the path he walked.

It’s like confusing the map for the terrain.

The map (Jesus the person) points us to something universal (the Christ-consciousness, the awakened life, the return to divine truth). But if we cling to the symbol without understanding what it symbolizes, we stay on the surface of the sacred.

Metaphor Is the Native Language of the Soul

Throughout history, spiritual truths have always been spoken in metaphor:

The Buddha spoke of crossing the river to reach enlightenment. The Tao Te Ching begins with “The Way that can be named is not the eternal Way.” Rumi wrote of becoming the sky and melting like snow.

And Jesus, too, taught in parables. He knew that truth must be felt to be understood. That truth enters not through the intellect alone, but through the imagination, the heart, the inner ear that listens in silence.

What Does It Mean to Walk the Way?

To walk “the way” is not to recite a creed, but to live with open hands.

To offer grace when it’s undeserved.

To surrender when you want to control.

To forgive when it breaks your heart to do so.

To listen deeply. To love courageously.

To become less so the truth within you can become more.

So Yes—Jesus Is the Way

But not just in name.

Not just in history.

Not as a gatekeeper to a distant God.

He is the way as a mirror to your own soul.

He is the way as a living metaphor for the path back home.

And that path is available to everyone—not because of a title, but because truth, when it is truly alive, cannot be bound by language, religion, or time.

Because the way is not a person.

The way is a posture.

A practice.

A path.

A presence.

And it lives in you.

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Divine intervention – just another label

We are the metaphor and the meaning it tries to convey.

We are the story and the storyteller.

We are the symbol and the silence it points toward.

Here’s the paradox:

We speak in metaphors because the truth is too vast, too intimate, too wordless.

And yet, at some point, the veil thins—and we see:

The river wasn’t a metaphor for flow. We were the river the whole time.

The flame wasn’t just a metaphor for awakening. We were the fire pretending to be asleep.

All our spiritual language—divine intervention, God, self-realization, grace, karma—are attempts to name what can’t be named. Until one day, we stop seeking the name… and become the thing.

Alan Watts said it best:

You are an aperture through which the universe is looking at and exploring itself.

We are metaphors that got so curious about themselves, they turned back inward—and found the infinite staring back.

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Softness is My Strength Now: A New Way to Shine

For a long time, I believed that being strong meant being untouchable. I thought I had to hide my softness, my sensitivity, and my struggles in order to be respected—perhaps even to survive. Vulnerability, I was taught, was a liability. And so I armored up.

But over time, I began to feel the weight of that armor. It didn’t protect my peace—it held it hostage. The walls I built to seem strong also kept love, presence, and connection out. And maybe, like me, you’ve realized that in trying to be invulnerable, we become invisible… even to ourselves.

So today, I’m choosing something radical.

I’m choosing to be soft.

For the world.

For the people around me.

For myself.

Because softness is not weakness. It is the quiet courage to stay open. It’s the power to feel deeply and still stand tall. It’s choosing peace over performance and truth over image.

Why Softness Matters

Softness brings peace. Hiding parts of ourselves creates tension. Softness is the great exhale. It’s the moment you allow your shoulders to drop and say, “This is who I am.” Softness deepens connection. When we let others see our hearts, we create space for real intimacy. Our vulnerability invites others to be real too. Softness is human. We weren’t made to be machines. We were made to feel. Our tenderness is part of what makes us whole.

Practicing Softness: Where to Start

This isn’t about becoming someone new—it’s about remembering who you were before the world told you to hide. Here are a few ways to begin:

Name what you feel. Pause in the middle of your day and say to yourself, “Right now, I feel…” There’s no right or wrong answer—just notice. Speak one small truth. It could be “I’m overwhelmed” or “I really needed that hug.” Let someone see a piece of your inner world. Protect your softness. Being soft doesn’t mean saying yes to everything. Boundaries are what keep your tenderness safe. Saying “no” when you need to is an act of self-honor.

Softness is a quiet revolution. And it begins inside. Not everyone will understand your softness at first—some may see it as strange or even inconvenient. But stay with it. This is your truth unfolding. This is how peace returns.

Because when you stop hiding, you begin shining.

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The Price We Pay to Keep the Peace

We’ve all done it.

Held our tongue. Softened our truth. Smiled when we wanted to cry.
Not because we were weak, but because we were trying to keep the peace.

In families, friendships, workplaces, and even romantic partnerships — there’s often an unspoken rule that peace is more important than truth. But what happens when keeping the peace comes at the cost of losing ourselves?

We pay the price quietly.
And it adds up over time.

The Cost of Silencing Ourselves

  1. We abandon parts of our true nature.
    That wild spark, that deep knowing, the part of us that wants to roar with aliveness—gets tucked away.
  2. We create an inner split.
    There’s the “us” we show the world, and the “us” that watches from the shadows, wondering when it will be safe to come out.
  3. We feel unseen, even in love.
    Because how can others truly see us if we’re hiding behind politeness and performance?
  4. We become tired in ways rest can’t fix.
    Because suppression is exhausting. It takes energy to pretend, to hold it all in.

Why We Do It

We keep the peace because it feels safer.
We’ve learned that honesty might lead to rejection. That truth might provoke conflict.
And for many, especially those who’ve experienced trauma, rejection or disapproval can feel like death to the nervous system.

So we trade authenticity for approval.
We shrink so others don’t feel uncomfortable.

But There’s Another Kind of Peace

There is a peace that doesn’t ask us to shrink.
It doesn’t demand our silence.
It welcomes our wholeness—the wild and the tender, the clear and the confused.

That peace starts from within.

It’s the kind of peace that emerges when we’re fully aligned with who we are. When we say, with compassion but without apology:

“This is who I am. This is what I feel. And I can’t keep abandoning myself for the sake of harmony.”

Because if peace costs you your truth—it’s not peace.
It’s quiet resentment.
It’s spiritual suffocation.

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Cosmic Sex: Where Spirit Meets Skin

In a world so often obsessed with performance, appearance, and outcome, the idea of cosmic sex may seem foreign—perhaps even mystical. But at its heart, it is not about escapism or fantasy. It is about presence. A sacred merging of body and soul. A remembrance of what it truly means to be with someone—not just physically, but emotionally, energetically, and spiritually.

Cosmic sex is not simply a physical act of pleasure. It is a divine exchange between two souls who choose to fully surrender—not just in body, but in heart, mind, and spirit. It is a connection that transcends the flesh and becomes a potent source of healing, awakening, and deep unity. When approached with reverence, intention, and love, it becomes a portal for transformation.

The Temple of the Body

When a man enters his woman in this sacred way, he does not merely seek release—he seeks reverence. He approaches her as a living temple. His presence is not about taking, but offering. Offering his stillness, his attention, his protection, his love.

He touches not just her body, but the soul within it.

And when she feels this, when she knows she is being truly seen, cherished, and honored—not for what she looks like, but for who she is—she begins to open. Not just physically, but emotionally. Energetically. Spiritually.

She becomes not passive, but powerful. She rises—not in resistance, but in radiance. Her feminine essence awakens, flowing through her body like light through stained glass. She receives not because she must, but because she wants to. Because she feels safe. And in that safety, she becomes infinite.

A Dance of Sacred Energies

This isn’t the typical dance of lust. It is a communion of polarities—masculine presence and feminine energy, Shiva and Shakti, yin and yang. Their union creates a rhythmic spiral, a wave of mutual giving and receiving.

Every breath is a thread. Every kiss, a mantra. Every movement, a message:

“I see you.”
“I honor you.”
“I am here.”

This is not sex as we’ve been taught to understand it. This is soul work. Energetic healing. An initiation into wholeness.

As the two bodies move together in this sacred rhythm, something deeper stirs. Past pain may rise and dissolve. Emotions once buried begin to surface and soften. There may be tears—not from sadness, but from the sheer relief of being finally met. Fully. Without condition.

The Alchemy of Union

Cosmic sex is not about climax. It is about connection.

Orgasm is not the goal—it is the echo. The true ecstasy lies in the meeting. In the trust. In the surrender. In the moment where two become one—not in form, but in frequency.

And when the bodies finally rest, breathless and still, what remains is not separation, but fusion. There is no “I” and “you.” There is only us. One breath. One heartbeat. One radiant presence that feels older than time and more sacred than language.

It is in this place that something ancient is remembered—
that love is not something we do,
but something we become.

Final Thoughts

Cosmic sex is a return to the sacred. A reminder that our bodies are not tools, but temples. That pleasure is not selfish, but spiritual. That love, when rooted in presence and devotion, can become a healing force far greater than any therapy or technique.

This kind of intimacy asks more of us. It asks us to slow down. To listen. To feel. To be. To meet one another with reverence, and to make love as if the universe is watching—because in truth, it is.

May we all find the courage to love this deeply.
To touch this consciously.
To meet another soul, not with performance…
but with presence.

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Reflection: The Soul in Motion

The way a hand holds a pen is more than mechanics—it is intention in motion. The pressure, the pace, the pauses… they all reveal the inner tempo of the writer. One soul may press hard into the page, imprinting urgency or unrest. Another may let the ink glide softly, as if whispering to the paper. And yet, neither is wrong. They are simply relative expressions of the same act—writing.

This is the essence of relativity at a spiritual level:
No experience is absolute. It is always shaped by the observer—by the one holding the pen.

The paper does not judge. It receives the trembling hand of grief and the steady hand of wisdom alike. It knows that both are true, both are real. The meaning of the stroke is not in its shape alone, but in why it was drawn. So too, the universe holds us—messy or graceful—as we write our lives into its vast canvas.

Just as Einstein taught that time and space are not fixed, but relative to the observer’s motion and frame of reference, so too are truth, beauty, and suffering. They shift depending on how we carry them, how we see, how we move through the world.

To write gently is to remember this:
That what we inscribe into the world is not just words, but energy, colored by our awareness.
That our motion matters.
That the observer is never separate from the observed.

And so, the gentleness of your pen is not small. It is cosmic.
It is your soul in motion.
It is a quiet defiance of a world that rushes—an act of grace that says, “I will not force my mark. I will let it flow.”

This is relativity made intimate:
That we are always affecting and being affected,
That the softness of your presence changes everything,
Even the shape of a single letter.

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Without the Need to Fall

I wasn’t searching.
Not for love,
not for saving,
not for someone to make sense of the noise.

I had made peace with the quiet.
The kind that doesn’t ache anymore—
just hums low in the bones,
like the sound of wind through old trees.

I needed nothing.
No fixing.
No thrill.
No fireworks to wake me up.
I was already awake.
Already whole.

And then…
there you were.

No entrance music.
No grand design.
You didn’t fill a void—
you revealed a room I didn’t know was there.

You didn’t complete me.
You just made me softer.
Wider.
Still.

You didn’t rush in.
You appeared.
Like the last line of a poem
that had been writing itself
since before I was born.

I didn’t fall in love with you—
because there was nothing to fall into.
You were already there.
In the air.
In the stillness between my thoughts.
In the calm I had built around myself.

And yet somehow—
you fit.
Not as a missing piece,
but as a secret layer
beneath everything I thought I understood.

So no,
I never fell in love with you.
I met you
when I was already standing.
Already whole.
Already free.

And that’s what made it real.
You were not what I needed.
You were what I never knew
was possible
once I needed nothing.

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Stacks of Resentment

Resentment does not thunder in—
It tiptoes in on quiet sighs,
A single word left unexplained,
A glance that looked away, not wise.

It starts as something barely there,
A flicker lost behind the eyes—
A moment when we needed care
But silence answered hurt with lies.

It stacks, not loud, but layer-thin:
A favor missed, a thought unheard,
A burden carried once again
Without the grace of kindest word.

Each layer pressed, not smoothed or seen,
Becomes a brick without release.
The wall builds up, emotion-dense,
And blocks the path to inner peace.

Resentment is not rage, not fire—
It’s cooler than the surface shows.
It is the weight of unmet needs,
The ache of what one never knows.

But pause—breathe in, and speak it out.
Unstack the pain with gentle hands.
Let anger name its softer core,
And truth arise where silence stands.

For when we seek to understand
The roots that tangled in the past,
We find resentment starts to melt—
And love, at last, can hold us fast.

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