u/SubjectSpecialist265

One day, while watching a video on devotion on Sadhguru Exclusive, I heard Sadhguru talking about devotion itself. What I heard was somewhat like......

If we keep living through our memory and imagination, we are, in a way, living too much for ourselves. A devotee is someone who can put that aside and see everything as a part of the Divine, with a sense of reverence.

I later saw an Instagram reel where an Isha hat yoga teacher was talking about how, in spiritual growth, continuously attaching ourselves to the past or repeatedly reliving it can become like taking a backward step.She has also heard it from Sadhguru.

This made me look at my own mind.

Maybe the mind has its own ways of constantly pulling our attention back into its play. It brings memories from the past, creates images of the future, and makes us live inside a psychological time that exists mainly within itself.

Interestingly, the mind also seems to create its own space or time. Which is future or past.

Reality, as it is happening now, is simply what is happening. And it happens now But the mind immediately adds its interpretations and values to it: good or bad, pleasant or unpleasant, right or wrong, success or failure, moral or immoral, life or death.

The event itself may be neutral. But through memory and imagination, we give it meaning, colour and emotional weight.

And then we may start living more in our interpretation of life than in life itself.

What I can actually experience is always happening in the present.

The past exists as memory. The future exists as imagination.

But what is happening right now is complete in itself.

Perhaps the incompleteness I keep experiencing is not actually in life.

Perhaps it is something the mind creates and then keeps trying to complete.

Maybe devotion is, at least partly, the willingness to stop constantly making everything about "me" and simply see what is here, with reverence.

What do you think, does sadhna and seva help in living now? Please share your thoughts.

I Kept My Cool While My Boss Was Losing It

Something happened at work recently.

I hadn’t completed a presentation that my boss had given me with very little time to prepare. He became angry and started yelling at me.

What surprised me wasn’t that he was angry.What surprised me was my own response.Earlier, situations like this would affect me deeply. It wasn’t necessarily the other person’s reaction itself that disturbed me. It was what happened inside me afterward.

If I sensed rejection or disapproval, my mind would start creating stories around it. I would think about what happened, what the other person meant, what I should have said, what they might think of me and I would carry the emotion long after the situation was over.

This time, something was different.

I could see that he was disturbed, and I could see that some of that disturbance was being directed toward me. But I didn't feel the same need to react internally.

There was a certain stillness within me.

I was present. I could listen. I could respond to what needed to be addressed. But I didn't carry his anger with me.

And that was a very different experience.

I’m not sure exactly why this happened. Maybe the yoga and meditation I’ve been practicing are having an effect. Or maybe I’m simply beginning to experience that stillness itself can be a pleasant state, and when there is enough inner pleasantness, there is less compulsive need to react to what is happening outside.

​

Something happened at work recently.

I hadn’t completed a presentation that my boss had given me with very little time to prepare. He became angry and started yelling at me.

What surprised me wasn’t that he was angry.What surprised me was my own response.Earlier, situations like this would affect me deeply. It wasn’t necessarily the other person’s reaction itself that disturbed me. It was what happened inside me afterward.

If I sensed rejection or disapproval, my mind would start creating stories around it. I would think about what happened, what the other person meant, what I should have said, what they might think of me and I would carry the emotion long after the situation was over.

This time, something was different.

I could see that he was disturbed, and I could see that some of that disturbance was being directed toward me. But I didn't feel the same need to react internally.

There was a certain stillness within me.

I was present. I could listen. I could respond to what needed to be addressed. But I didn't carry his anger with me.

And that was a very different experience.

I’m not sure exactly why this happened. Maybe the yoga and meditation I’ve been practicing are having an effect. Or maybe I’m simply beginning to experience that stillness itself can be a pleasant state, and when there is enough inner pleasantness, there is less compulsive need to react to what is happening outside.

whenever I don’t like a certain thought or emotion, my first tendency is to control it.

But the more I resist what is happening within me, the more disturbed I seem to become.

It reminds me of a simple example: imagine there is mud in a glass of water. If I try to remove the mud by constantly stirring the water, the water only becomes more unclear.

Maybe the same thing happens with the mind.

We often want peace, joy, or love, but then try to create them by controlling our thoughts and emotions. And when our wellbeing depends on external situations, fear and greed naturally come into the picture.

So I started wondering what if I don't begin by trying to control the mind? What if I begin with the body?

This is one thing I experience through Hatha Yoga and asanas. By consciously working with the body, I can create a certain level of health and pleasantness within myself. I am not waiting for an external situation to make me feel good. I am participating in creating my own wellbeing.

The same seems to happen with the breath.

Breathing usually happens unconsciously. But when fear arises, the breathing pattern itself changes. When I consciously participate in my breath, I experience a shift in the body and mind.

And with AUM chanting, my experience is somewhat different again. It feels less like trying to control something and more like tuning myself with a vibration that is already there.

Control says: “I want life to happen according to me.”

Conscious participation feels more like: “I want to become more conscious of what is happening and participate intelligently in it.”

Maybe wellbeing is not always about controlling what is happening within us.

Maybe it is about learning how to participate consciously in the body, in the breath, in the mind, in energy, and eventually in life itself.

This is only my present understanding and experience. I’m curious how others understand conscious participation in life.

I am looking to my action itselves.

What is actually driving my actions?

The more I observe, the more I feel that I spend much of my life in one of two states dreaming or sleeping.

Sleeping is easy to recognize.

But dreaming while awake is much harder to notice.

When I say “dream,” I don't mean only the dreams we see at night. I mean the psychological world created by memory past experiences, impressions, desires, fears, expectations and conditioning.

I can be sitting in a room and still be completely lost in a dream.

I dream of being appreciated.

I dream of being approved by others.

I dream of having more money, food, comfort, sex, status or recognition.

And alongside these dreams are fears:

Fear of rejection.

Fear of failure.

Fear of losing what I have.

Fear of not being enough.

Then something interesting happens.

I begin to call the fulfillment of these desires success.

Money becomes success.

Accumulation becomes success.

Being looked up to becomes success.

And perhaps I never stopped to ask:

Who taught me that this is success?

When I look carefully, I see that I often admire someone because they possess something I don't have. And I call someone “poor” when they don't possess what I have been conditioned to value.

Maybe this is not really my choice.

Maybe I inherited the dream.

Society gives us certain definitions of success, and because most people participate in the same dream, stepping outside it can feel like rejection.

And then I noticed something deeper.

A repeated action becomes a habit.

A habit creates a pattern.

A pattern becomes stored conditioning.

And then that conditioning begins to influence the next action.

So what I call “my action” may often be nothing more than memory responding to a new situation.

Someone says something.

Anger arises.

I react.

Someone praises me.

Pleasure arises.

I react.

Someone threatens what I consider “mine.”

Fear arises.

I react.

The situation is new, but my response may be very old.

That is why action coming from memory can become compulsive.

There is calculation, comparison, fear, desire and psychological survival operating underneath it.

And yet, something in me has begun asking:

Is there another possibility?

What if action does not always have to come from memory?from set pattern which I see Bondage itselves.

What if there is action that comes from consciousness itself?

When I am awake enough to see what is happening within me, there is a small space between what happens and how I respond.. Like some emotion created wave of impulse instead of being carried by it I waited for some time if I had, trying to steal moment for settling of the emotion or impulse itselves. In that stability responding to the situation

In that space, I am not merely repeating yesterday.

I am available to what is happening now.

There is less calculation.

Less fear.

Less greed.

Less psychological struggle.

And the quality of action seems different.

There can be clarity without knowing every outcome.But enough strength to take next step

There can be peace without controlling the situation.Because in conciousness one participate in life process not control it because there is absence fear or greed when one is not dreaming.

There can be joy without needing something outside to produce it.

There can be love without demanding something in return.

I don't see that I have completely understood this.

In fact, perhaps seeing that I am still dreaming is itself part of waking up.

And maybe this is what spiritual practice is slowly revealing to me:

The question is not only, “What am I doing?”

The deeper question is:

“From where is this action coming?”

From memory?

From fear?

From desire?

From habit?

From the psychological identity I have built?

Or from a consciousness that is actually present to life?

Perhaps freedom is not the freedom to get everything I desire.

Perhaps freedom begins when I am no longer compelled to act out every desire and fear that passes through me.

And for that possibility, I feel genuinely grateful.

Because every moment of awareness gives us another opportunity to stop dreaming while awake.

And simply be here.

People generally ask, 'What do you do in your life?' They generally mean, 'What are you doing for your survival?' But what about when they ask someone who is investing their life for ultimate freedom, joy, and fulfillment? The answer comes differently.

What do you do?

I do Sadhana and little bit of Seva.

But why?

I do it for joy and freedom.

Because somewhere I began to see that much of what I call “my life” is actually happening compulsively.

A desire arises I chase it.

A fear arises I try to escape it.

Something feels pleasant I want more of it.

Something threatens my security I become afraid of losing it.

And slowly I started asking myself:

Is this really freedom?

If my joy depends on what happens outside me, then my joy is also dependent on circumstances. This is limitation and I need to rise above the limitations itselves.

So I began looking at Sadhana differently.

For me, Sadhana is not just a practice that I do every day.

It is an attempt to rise beyond the limitations created by my identification, perception and understanding.

To become less compulsive.To become more conscious.

Because what matters to me how pleasant experience of life within me. And with how much freedom I am participating in life itselves.

What matters is:

Can I live consciously? And ultimately, Can I die consciously?

That is why I do Sadhana.

But then there is another dimension:

Seva.

At first, Seva may look like helping someone.

But the deeper I look, the more I see that Seva is also a way of transforming the way I relate to life.

Normally, much of our action is driven by survival and security. We seek something from life.Food.Money. Recognition.Relationships.Security. Pleasure.

And when we get what we want, we experience joy.

But then comes another fear:

“What if I lose it?”

So even our happiness can become dependent on the fulfilment of our desires.

Seva turns this movement around.

Instead of asking,“What can I get from life?”

something within begins to say,“What can I offer to life?”

And that shift is profound.

When I offer my time, my energy, my abilities without making the outcome the source of my joy I begin to experience a different kind of fulfilment.

It is not the joy of getting something. It is the joy of expressing something.It becomes like sharing what is already overflowing within.

Like a lamp that does not lose its light by lighting another lamp.

Seva, then, becomes an expression of joy. A sharing of wellbeing.

An expansion of what I already have within me.

And perhaps this is why Sadhana and Seva belong together.

Sadhana helps me become conscious of the limitations within me.

Seva gives me an opportunity to live beyond those limitations.

One turns me inward.The other allows that inner transformation to find expression in the world.

And slowly, the question changes.

Life is no longer only about:

“What can I get from life?”

It becomes:

“How consciously can I participate in this life?”

That, for me, is the purpose of Sadhana and Seva.

Not escaping life.

Not controlling life.

But becoming conscious enough to participate in life with greater freedom, joy and responsibility.

And perhaps the real benefit is not that life becomes perfect.It is that I no longer need life to be perfect in order to experience joy.

I can live consciously.I can offer consciously.I can experience consciously.And when the time comes,

I can even leave consciously.

That is the journey I am exploring through Sadhana and Seva.

Something happened during meditation that made me look more closely at what I usually call “my mind.”

There was a lot of mental noise. So I simply asked inwardly:

“What is this noise about?”

The answer that arose is that this noise is because of “Not knowing.”

It reminded me of something I had heard from an Isha volunteer: it is okay to know that you don't know.

That memory somehow opened another inquiry.

I asked: What is the job of the mind?

What I observed was that the mind seems to constantly move toward something.

It wants to know, understand, create, achieve, acquire or protect. It seems to be driven by interest, desire and fear.

One desire gets fulfilled, and another appears.

One problem gets solved, and another question arises.

One thing is acquired, and then something else becomes necessary.

So I wondered:

Is fulfillment actually the nature of the mind?

Or is the mind's movement itself based on a sense of incompleteness?

Even when the mind recognizes this emptiness, it continues gathering information, experiences and knowledge. And somehow, knowing more does not necessarily make it feel complete.

Then I noticed another movement underneath it:

fear.Fear of losing.

Losing the body, possessions, relationships, identity, security, status, future or whatever the mind has come to call “mine.”

And then I wondered:

If this body itself will eventually be left behind, why does the mind spend so much of life running to accumulate and protect?

Perhaps much of psychological movement is like a dream.

Not necessarily that life itself is a dream, but that the mind creates a psychological world around “what I need,” “what I might lose,” “what I should become,” and “what I must protect.”

Then another question came.

If all of this was happening while I was meditating, was I actually meditating?There was thought. There was inquiry. There was observation.

And then I noticed something even subtler.

I often say:

“I am witnessing my mind.” But who is this “I”?

Could the witness itself be another subtle construction of the mind?

Maybe it is simply a larger, quieter identity less limited than the ordinary mind, but still an identity. It's like someone looking into a mirror and becoming attached to that reflection. When they step back, they see another mirror opposite the first one. This creates an infinite series of mirror images, but the person may actually be looking at a different mirror.

So I don't want to immediately conclude:

“I am the witness.”

I would rather keep looking.

Is there actually a separate witness?

Or is even the idea of a witness another thought appearing. In one of the another mirror?

For now, perhaps the most honest answer is the simplest one:

I don't know.

And maybe there is something deeply different between not knowing and believing that I know.

Perhaps meditation is not about finding another concept to hold onto.

Perhaps it is about becoming quiet enough to see what is actually happening without immediately turning what is seen into another identity, belief or conclusion.

I have been exploring an idea that keeps becoming deeper for me:

A flower does not first form an intention and think, “I want to become a flower.”

Certain conditions come together soil, water, nutrients, sunlight, temperature, genetics, microorganisms, time and the flower appears.

So the flower is involved in the process of becoming, but is it really the doer of its own creation?

And if the flower eventually becomes a fruit, can the tree say, “This fruit belongs to me because I created it”?

If the tree itself did not create the conditions that made its existence possible, what exactly does “mine” mean?

The more I look at this, the more creation appears to be a process of conditions meeting conditions.

Microorganisms contribute to the soil because their own survival requires certain conditions. Their activity makes nutrients available. The plant uses those nutrients and grows. The plant contributes back to the ecosystem. Water evaporates, clouds form, atmospheric pressure changes, winds move, rain falls, and the plant uses that water. Through transpiration, the plant contributes again.

The movement of the Earth and the Sun participates in creating the conditions for these processes.

No single entity appears to be doing the whole thing.

Each is participating, and through that participation, the conditions for something else are created.

Perhaps this is what makes life so interconnected.

One life form contributes what another requires, and receives what it requires from another.

What looks like separate action may actually be one enormous process of mutual contribution.

Then I arrive at a deeper question:

If no individual entity is the complete doer, then what is the source of creation itself?

I don't know the answer, but I am exploring the possibility that what we call creation is the expression of an underlying intelligence through favourable conditions.

The same intelligence may express itself differently according to the conditions.

A microorganism becomes one form.A plant becomes another.An animal another.A human another.

A planet, star, solar system, and perhaps the cosmos itself become different expressions of the same underlying process.

The forms carry different genetics, memory and structures because their conditions are different. Yet all are participating in the same existence.

This also changes how I look at ownership.If the flower did not independently create itself, and the tree did not independently create the conditions for the fruit, then perhaps saying “this is mine” is only a temporary psychological relationship with something that was never created by the individual alone.

The individual participates.The individual contributes.

The individual experiences. May be there are no individual itselves a sense of individual is there because of different creation, happen in different condition, each condition may be interlinked with each other. May be a sense of individual is there because of different memory in the process of evolution itselves. When there is little distance from memory itselves everything becomes one.

But the larger process is happening through the individual.And then there is an even deeper question I am still trying to understand.Everything physical seems to exist within time. It is born, changes, grows, decays and dissolves.

But what if there is a dimension of existence that is not physical and therefore not within time?

If something is truly beyond time, there would be no movement there because movement itself requires time.

Perhaps all movement, change, creation and dissolution belong to the physical realm, while the source from which they arise is beyond movement.

I am not claiming this as a scientific conclusion. I am trying to understand existence experientially and philosophically.

Maybe what we call creation, sustenance and dissolution are not separate acts performed by separate beings.

Maybe they are movements of one existence, expressing itself through countless conditions and forms.

And perhaps the most important realization is:

Nothing exists independently.Everything participates.

Everything contributes.

And what we call “I did it” may be only one small part of a much larger process.

Let’s do one thought experiment.

Imagine a red rose on a rose plant. Among all the roses, imagine one rose as “you.”

That rose did not suddenly appear. First there was a bud. Conditions came together soil, water, sunlight, air, temperature, the stem, the roots and gradually the bud opened into a flower.

The rose passes through stages: coming into existence, growing, blooming, sustaining itself for a while, and eventually withering.

Now look more closely.

Can the rose really say, “I am separate”?

It is connected to the stem, leaves and roots. The roots are connected to the earth. The flower depends on water, air, sunlight and space. The plant itself is part of the larger ecosystem. The earth is part of the solar system, the solar system is part of the galaxy, and the galaxy is part of the cosmos.

The flower exists because countless conditions came together.

Yet imagine the rose developing a sense of individuality and saying:

I'm handling all of this on my own and I'm responsible for making it through. Whatever happens because of what I do is on me.

It sounds strange when we say it about a flower.

But perhaps this is what we do as human beings. A peak of ignorance or illusion one can live with is that he considers himself the doer and takes credit for the action, but this is because of a psychological dream which is not true in reality, life, or existence itself.

We experience ourselves as separate individuals and forget the enormous web of existence that is constantly participating in our existence. We think we are doer. We take credit of fruit of action. But neither the rose is doing the action and neither the fruit belongs to tree.

Even this body is not something we created independently. Food, water, air, sunlight, earth, other living beings, society, and countless conditions have contributed to what we call “me.”

So when an action happens through this body and mind, who is really the sole doer?

And if the flower blooms, does the bloom belong to the flower alone? Perhaps the deeper question is notWhat do I get from my actions?

Perhaps it is:

Can I see that my very existence is already a participation in something much larger than myself?

The rose does not need to stop blooming.

It simply does not need to believe that it blooms independently of life.

Maybe conscious participation in life is like that Fully involved, fully responsible, but without the illusion of being separate from the whole.

I have been looking deeply on what it could mean to Live in illusion and die in ignorance.

When I look at my own experience, living in illusion seems to mean living with a false sense of separation.

I normally experience myself as a separate individual “me” on one side and the rest of existence on the other. But if I observe more carefully, this division becomes difficult to defend. This body is made from the food, water, air, sunlight and everything else that comes from the world around it. My life is continuously dependent on what I call “outside.”

So perhaps the illusion is not that separation exists physically, but that psychologically I experience myself as an isolated entity, separate from the life that is continuously sustaining me.

In that sense, living in illusion means living according to a psychological picture of reality rather than being fully in tune with reality itself. Then there is ignorance.............

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For me, ignorance is being so identified with a limited identity this body, this mind, this name, these relationships, these possessions that I spend my entire life trying to protect, secure and expand it.

I gather food because I need the body to survive. I gather money because I want security. I gather possessions and people around me and gradually begin to think:

“These are mine.”“This is my life.”“These people belong to me.”“This is what I have accumulated.”

But what happens at death?

Whatever I gathered remains here.

The body itself, which I spent so much of my life protecting, is also left behind.Even the people I called “mine” were never really my possessions. They were lives moving through their own journeys.

This makes me question the meaning of ownership itself.

Perhaps I don't really own anything. At most, I am the trustee or custodian of whatever has temporarily come into my hands.

The body is entrusted to me.Resources are entrusted to me.Relationships are entrusted to me.The environment is entrusted to me.Even my abilities and opportunities are entrusted to me.

This does not mean I have no responsibility. In fact, it seems to mean the opposite:If I hold no personal ownership, then I must assume responsibility for all matters.I don't have to possess life in order to care for it.

Maybe living mindfully means thinking less about owning stuff, feeling more connected, and taking responsibility instead of hoarding out of fear.

And perhaps this is what makes the idea of “dying in ignorance” so powerful.Death doesn't necessarily teach us something completely new. It may simply expose what we were unwilling to see while alive:

What we called 'mine' was really never permanent.

The question I am left with is:

If I know that everything I have received is temporary, and that one day I will have to leave everything behind, how would I live differently today?

Maybe living consciously is learning this before death teaches it to us in its most uncompromising way.

​I cannot control life. I cannot control other people, every situation, or even everything within myself.​But I can choose how consciously I participate.

​I don't want to arrange the entire world so I can be pleasant. I want to become conscious enough to participate in life consciously............

​I don't want to possess life. I want to take responsibility for it.​This moment is not mine but it is the only moment in which I can offer myself to life.

For me, ignorance means not really knowing what I want in life. If I don't know what I truly want, then reaching the destination becomes almost impossible because I may spend my whole life pursuing things without understanding what they are ultimately for.

Through my own experience, I first saw that what I wanted was success. I wanted to succeed in some field, to achieve something, to become somebody. But when I looked deeper, I realized that I didn't actually want success for its own sake. I wanted success because I wanted to experience a certain kind of pleasantness within myself.

So the clarity became: I don't really want success; I want pleasantness.

But then I saw another problem. My pleasantness was dependent on success, and success was dependent on the outside situation people behaving the way I wanted, circumstances happening the way I wanted, having enough money, recognition, security, and so on. But none of these things are completely in my control. And even when the situation becomes the way I want it to be, the pleasantness that comes from it doesn't last. So I was trying to get an experience within myself by arranging things outside myself.

That made me see that what I was actually seeking was not merely pleasantness, but pleasantness with freedom a pleasantness that doesn't depend upon anything outside me. I wanted mukti: freedom from dependence.

Because wherever pleasantness is experienced, it is experienced within me. The outside situation may trigger it, but the experience itself happens within. This made me wonder whether it is possible to create the basis for pleasantness within myself rather than constantly demanding that the world arrange itself in a particular way.

That led me to work with my mind, body, emotions and energy. But here too I encountered another form of ignorance. I tried to control myself. I thought that if I could control my mind, body, emotions and energy, I could create the pleasantness and freedom I wanted.

But my experience kept showing me that control and suppression don't really work. The more I tried to suppress something, the more forcefully it seemed to return. Everything seemed to have its own momentum.

Then I started questioning something very fundamental: I call this my body and my mind, but how much of them actually happens according to my instructions? If they were completely mine in the way I imagine, why would they create unpleasantness when I desperately want pleasantness? Even the breath, which I consider so intimate to myself, takes its own inhalation and exhalation. I can influence it, but I cannot claim that I am making every breath happen.

So I began to see that life is happening within me, but it is not necessarily happening according to my command.

I could intellectually say, "I am not the body and I am not the mind," but I could still remain deeply identified with them. I could still fight my mind, suppress my emotions and try to force my body into becoming what I wanted. In fact, the very attempt to control them could become another form of identification.

This is where I began to understand the difference between control and consciousness.

I don't think the answer is to fight my mind and body. The answer is to become conscious of how they function. I need to see their patterns, tendencies and mechanisms, rather than blindly becoming them.

Much of what I experience today has been created through repeated actions. Repeated action creates memory, memory creates tendencies, and those tendencies influence future action. So many things I experience today are not simply random, they are the consequences of how I have lived.

In that sense, I can say:

My life is my making.

But if my life is my making, that doesn't mean I can simply command myself to become something else. It means I have to become conscious enough to participate in the making of my life.

This changed the question for me from:

"How do I control myself?"

to:

"How conscious can I become of what is happening within me, and how consciously can I participate in life?"

And something else started becoming clear. The more I looked, the more I saw that nothing is really mine—not even this body, not even this mind, not even the breath that keeps me alive.

But realizing that "nothing is mine" did not make me want to become careless or indifferent. Instead, it opened another possibility.

I don't have to possess something in order to care for it.

I can care for this body without thinking that it is my ultimate identity. I can care for my mind without being trapped in it. I can care for another person without needing to possess them.

This is where I began to understand devotion differently.

If the wellbeing of something other than myself becomes more important than my own limited preferences, then there is a possibility of devotion. It is not about losing myself or suppressing myself. It is about expanding the sense of "myself" beyond this limited body and mind.

When I look closely, even this body is not an isolated entity. The food that has become this body comes from the earth. The water comes from the larger cycle of nature. The air I breathe connects me continuously with the world around me. The energy that sustains life is part of a much larger process. And all of this exists within space.

So where exactly does "me" end and the rest of existence begin?

The more deeply I look, the more difficult it becomes to see myself as an independent individual existing separately from everything else.

This makes me feel that life is one interconnected process, and this body is just one small expression of it.

Therefore my aspiration is changing again.

It is no longer simply:

"I want my wellbeing."

It is becoming:

"I want overall wellbeing."

And I don't see this clarity as something I have arrived at completely by myself. Much of this way of seeing has come through my Guru, Sadhguru. In my experience, the Guru is one who brings one from darkness toward light. Sadhguru has been that light in my life not simply by giving me answers, but by making me question the very assumptions through which I have been living.

What I am beginning to see is that nothing being mine does not mean nothing is my responsibility.

I cannot control everything that happens. I cannot control other people. I cannot control every situation. I cannot even completely control what happens within this body and mind.

But I can take responsibility for how consciously I participate.

Whatever I can do for wellbeing, I can do now.

I cannot do it in the past. I cannot do it in the future.

I can only do it in this moment.

So this moment becomes extremely significant not because I own it, but because this is the only place where I can consciously participate in life.

A mother gives me an image of this kind of possibility. A mother can spend herself completely for the wellbeing of her child without constantly calculating what she has received in return. She doesn't need to ask, "How much have I already done?" She simply sees the child's wellbeing and does what she can.

There is something similar in the idea of becoming a "mother" to life not literally, but as a way of relating to existence. To see life around me and ask:

"What can I do for its wellbeing?"

rather than constantly asking:

"What can life give me?"

Perhaps this is where pleasantness, freedom, awareness, aliveness, responsibility and devotion begin to come together for me.

I started by wanting success.

Then I discovered that I wanted pleasantness.

Then I saw that pleasantness dependent on success was dependence.

Then I wanted freedom from dependence.

I tried to achieve that freedom through control, and discovered that control itself could create more struggle.

Then I began moving toward consciousness rather than control.

As identification with body and mind loosened, I began seeing nothing is really mine.

But instead of indifference, that realization opened the possibility of responsibility without possession.

And responsibility expanded into devotion and concern for overall wellbeing.

So perhaps ignorance, for me, is not simply "not knowing some information." It is living without clarity about what I truly want and therefore using the wrong means to pursue it.

And clarity is not merely knowing an answer intellectually.

It is seeing deeply enough that the way I live begins to change.

I don't want to arrange the entire world perfectly so that I can be pleasant.

I want to become conscious enough that my pleasantness and wellbeing are less dependent on the world being the way I want it to be.

I don't want to control life.

I want to participate in life consciously.

I don't want to possess life.

I want to take responsibility for it.

And perhaps the deepest shift for me is this:

Nothing is mine, yet everything matters.

I cannot control life, yet I am responsible for how consciously I participate in it.

This moment is not mine, yet it is the only moment in which I can offer myself to life.

That is the movement I am beginning to understand from ignorance toward clarity, from dependence toward freedom, and from self-concern toward devotion to wellbeing.

Yesterday, around 4:30 p.m., I received the Linga Bhairavi Devi Abhishekam Prasadam.

As I was preparing myself for Sadhguru Presence, I consciously used the Devi kumkum that had come as prasadam. I applied it between my eyebrows, behind my ears, at my throat, and at the Anahata region. I placed the red cloth received as prasadam near Devi's photograph and ate the prasadam and untied old thread and tied that to one of the flowering plant and tied new thread received as prasadam on my wrist just before Sadhguru Presence.

After Sadhguru Presence, I did my evening 21-minute Sambhavi Mahamudra Kriya.

Soon after the practice, I began experiencing a certain pleasantness within myself without any particular reason or external cause.

What surprised me was that the pleasantness did not disappear after the practice. It remained through the evening and was still present today.

Today, I again did Sadhguru Presence and my evening Sambhavi practice, and the same pleasantness continues to be there.

Yesterday itself, a thought came to me: “I should write about this experience and share it with other devotees.” But I chose not to immediately act on that thought.

Today, I am writing about it not because I feel compelled to share the experience, but because I can see the difference between a compulsive impulse to express something and a conscious choice to share it.

For me, the more significant part of this experience is not trying to explain where the pleasantness came from, or trying to hold on to it.

It is simply noticing it.

There is pleasantness within me, without needing a particular reason for it.

And perhaps, for once, I am able to let the experience be what it is without immediately turning it into a story, an achievement, or something I must repeat.

Nothing was ever truly mine.

In that realization there is peace, love, wholeness.

For years, I believed that my mind and body were mine. Because of that belief, I constantly tried to control them. I wanted my thoughts, emotions, and actions to obey my instructions. Yet, despite all my effort, I discovered that they were never completely under my control.

Looking back, I see that much of this striving arose from ignorance. I assumed I was the owner of my mind and body, but my experience showed otherwise. They function according to countless influences beyond my personal will.

The "I" that wanted control was not my true nature it was the ego. The ego seeks control because it feels separate and incomplete. It compares, judges, clings to likes and dislikes, and acts from self-interest. It constantly swings between superiority and inferiority. In this sense, the ego is the mind identified with a limited sense of self.

This limited identity creates desires and expectations, believing that fulfillment will bring lasting happiness. Yet every fulfilled desire soon gives way to another, because the mind continues to generate new wants. Lasting contentment never arrives through this cycle alone.

Desire itself is not the problem. Desire and interest can inspire creativity, learning, and growth. The problem begins when desire is confined to a narrow sense of "me" and "mine." Then conflicts arise within ourselves and with others. Personal interest begins to outweigh the well-being of the whole.

The solution is not to suppress the mind or destroy the ego. The solution lies in seeing through the illusion of separateness and realizing the oneness of existence. When identity expands beyond the limited self, the ego naturally loses its grip. The urge to control fades because there is no isolated self left that needs to dominate.

Interest shifts from personal gain to the well-being of all. One realizes that nothing is truly owned not even the body or the mind. Yet paradoxically, this freedom gives rise to deeper love, compassion, and harmony. When self-interest dissolves, relationships cease to be driven by control and become expressions of care and shared growth.

In the realization of oneness, there is a peace that does not depend on circumstances, a love that is not possessive, and a joy that is not created by the fulfillment of desire. It is the recognition that completeness has always been present.

We invest our mind, body, and emotions in the pursuit of pleasure and security. Yet much of this investment is driven by fear the fear of survival, the fear of uncertainty, and the need to feel safe.

Ironically, this way of investing often doesn't reduce fear. It strengthens it. The more we identify with our body, mind, possessions, and achievements, the more we fear losing them.

I want to invest differently.

I want to invest in that which brings freedom rather than fear. I want to create a little distance from my body and mind not by rejecting them, but by no longer being completely identified with them.

I want to cultivate clarity of perception, awareness, and a deeper connection with the non-physical dimension of life. This is an investment that cannot be taken away by circumstances.

My deepest aspiration is not merely to survive, but to live with freedom, joy, and fulfillment. And when death comes, I want to meet it consciously not in ignorance, but with awareness.

We've all heard the advice: "Be in the moment." But what does that really mean?

Much of the time, we are deeply identified with our mind. The mind is an incredible survival tool. Its job is to anticipate risks, analyze situations, compare experiences, and prepare us for possible challenges. It constantly draws from past memories to predict what might happen next.

This is useful for practical survival. But when we become completely identified with this process, fear easily becomes our default state. The mind keeps presenting possibilities based on what has already happened, and we begin relating more to our thoughts than to the reality unfolding in front of us.

The present moment, however, is different. It is where life is actually happening. It holds possibilities that cannot be fully predicted by the past.

Building a relationship with this moment doesn't mean rejecting the mind. It means learning not to be consumed by it. It means becoming more involved with what is here, now, rather than living entirely through memories, projections, and mental commentary.

This is where with my own experience I see simple practices like Isha Kriya or Miracle of Mind can be supportive. Rather than trying to stop the mind, they help create a little distance from our identification with it. As that identification softens, our involvement with the present naturally deepens.

When we are truly involved with this moment, our response comes from direct experience instead of habit, and fear no longer has to define how we live.

We've all heard the advice: "Be in the moment." But what does that really mean?

Much of the time, we are deeply identified with our mind. The mind is an incredible survival tool. Its job is to anticipate risks, analyze situations, compare experiences, and prepare us for possible challenges. It constantly draws from past memories to predict what might happen next.

This is useful for practical survival. But when we become completely identified with this process, fear easily becomes our default state. The mind keeps presenting possibilities based on what has already happened, and we begin relating more to our thoughts than to the reality unfolding in front of us.

The present moment, however, is different. It is where life is actually happening. It holds possibilities that cannot be fully predicted by the past.

Building a relationship with this moment doesn't mean rejecting the mind. It means learning not to be consumed by it. It means becoming more involved with what is here, now, rather than living entirely through memories, projections, and mental commentary.

This is where with my own experience I see simple practices like Isha Kriya or Miracle of Mind can be supportive. Rather than trying to stop the mind, they help create a little distance from our identification with it. As that identification softens, our involvement with the present naturally deepens.

When we are truly involved with this moment, our response comes from direct experience instead of habit, and fear no longer has to define how we live.

Over the years, I have noticed that perception is deeply influenced by the identity I hold.

There is always something I call "mine" and something I see as "not mine." Wherever there is "mine," there is a sense of closeness. Wherever there is "not mine," there is a sense of separation.

This led me to ask:

What is the root of "mine" and "not mine"?

From my observation, I tend to call something "mine" when it aligns with my thoughts, beliefs, opinions, conclusions, or when I feel it contributes to my life. I naturally become attached to people, ideas, or experiences that support or enrich me. Anything that serves life selflessly also evokes love within me.

If the world is the same for everyone, why do we perceive it so differently?

Perhaps the difference lies not in the world itself, but in the level of awareness with which each of us experiences it.

The more limited my identification, the more limited my perception becomes. As identification expands, perception also expands.

From my experience:

Limited identification leads to limited awareness, and limited awareness leads to limited perception.

Looking back at my own life, I can see how my identity continuously shaped the way I experienced the world.

As a child, I loved watching television. One thing that fascinated me was the army. Soldiers looked powerful. They carried weapons, fought for the nation, and embodied courage. I wanted to become an army officer. My favorite toy was a toy gun. I would spend hours imagining myself living that dream.

As I grew older, my attention shifted toward music. I became fascinated by song lyrics, especially those that spoke about life. I used to buy lyric booklets from roadside stalls and listen to songs repeatedly, trying to understand what the lyricist was expressing.

One song deeply affected me:

"Zindagi Kaisi Hai Paheli."

I was around ten or twelve years old when I asked my mother, "What is life?"

She replied, "Life is a puzzle."

Perhaps she was simply repeating what she had heard in the song, but I took those words very seriously.

I silently made a promise to myself:

If life is a puzzle, I will solve it.

As I entered my teenage years, I was full of energy and ambition. I wanted success in every area of life. I believed I could become anything.

I pushed myself with extremely high expectations.

Whenever my body or mind resisted the pressure I had created, I concluded that something was wrong with my mind.

More than success itself, I wanted mastery over my inner world. I didn't want my mind to drag me into fear, guilt, confusion, or chaos. I longed for a life of clarity and inner strength, regardless of external circumstances.

Without realizing it, I had chosen the path of a philosopher not through books, but through my own observations.

I started carefully observing people. Although they often appeared happy on the surface, I felt they were hiding pain within themselves. I assumed that hidden suffering was the true nature of life.

Unfortunately, by constantly looking for negativity, I gradually became identified with it.

Life started feeling heavy.

Wanting relief, I began reading motivational books.

One book suggested that instead of resisting heaviness, I should simply accept it.

At that stage of my life, I believed almost everything completely whether it came from a book, another person, or my own thoughts.

Instead of becoming free, I became even more burdened. Everything I perceived seemed to carry the essence of suffering and death.

Looking back now, I can see that my perception was not revealing reality as it was it was revealing the state in which I existed.

Later, my search led me to yogic practices under the guidance of Sadhguru.

Simple practices like Nadi Shuddhi and AUM chanting brought something I had never experienced before a certain pleasantness and ease that did not depend on external situations.

That experience changed something fundamental.

I realized that when I was joyful within, the world naturally appeared joyful. Even ordinary things felt beautiful.

When I was miserable within, even beautiful surroundings failed to touch me.

The world had not changed.

My inner state had.

For me, this is real freedom the ability to consciously create a joyful inner state rather than being completely controlled by circumstances.

Awareness begins when we start recognizing the relationship between our inner state and our experience of life.

In that sense, a Guru is one who helps illuminate what we cannot yet see. The word Guru literally means "the dispeller of darkness."

Yoga, to me, is the gradual dissolution of the boundaries that separate "me" from the rest of existence. As identification expands, perception becomes less distorted, awareness deepens, and life is experienced with greater wholeness.

I do not claim that these conclusions are the ultimate truth or that they are true for everyone.

They are simply the truths that have emerged from my own experience.

Perhaps they will resonate with someone who is asking the same questions I once asked.

It seems that my inner state directly influences how I perceive the world.

When I'm feeling pleasant within myself, everything appears different. Even the warmth of the sun feels soothing instead of harsh. Small inconveniences don't bother me much.

But when I'm unpleasant within, even beautiful weather, a cool breeze, or rain doesn't feel enjoyable.

It makes me wonder whether perception is deeply shaped by our inner state.

I've also noticed another pattern. When life goes the way I want, I feel good. But when people don't behave the way I expect or situations don't unfold as I hoped, I become miserable. The misery becomes even stronger when I realize there's very little I can do to control other people or many situations.

In that state, my perception itself seems to amplify the unpleasantness. Even simple actions feel heavy and compulsive. The more I try to mentally escape that unpleasantness, the more tangled my mind becomes.

What's interesting is that I've also experienced the opposite.

During a 12-hour train journey, I started feeling deeply uneasy for no obvious reason. I was on my way to an Isha Shoonya program, where I had been asked to practice Sukha Kriya and AUM chanting daily. So I decided to practice them during the journey.

After the practice, something shifted. The uneasiness reduced, and I completed the rest of the journey with a sense of ease and pleasantness that wasn't connected to anything outside me.

I've had similar experiences with Nadi Shuddhi (Yoga for Peace), which I still practice regularly. It's a very simple practice, yet I find it surprisingly potent. It creates a certain pleasantness that doesn't seem dependent on people or circumstances.

Perhaps freedom isn't about controlling life. Perhaps it's about cultivating an inner state that isn't constantly determined by what's happening outside.

Has anyone else noticed that your perception of the world changes dramatically depending on your inner state?