I frequently linger in the landscape of my thoughts, looking inward to see what might be stirring, rising up in my consciousness. It’s a process that always seems to reveal something new. Approaching it with a calm presence seems to invite the hidden material to appear more readily. When it does, emerging from the depths of the subconscious, or perhaps from somewhere else, there’s usually something illuminating about it. In a way, it feels like studying myself from the inside out, an intimate form of self-analysis, as I try to uncover the patterns and motivations shaping my experience and behavior. But the more I examine, the more questions arise, filling my inner space with new insights and realizations.
Today, as I begin my familiar descent into introspection, something unexpected happens: a voice, direct and discerning, breaks through my thoughts, interrupting the usual mental flow.
Why do you think so much?
I am startled but quickly gather myself, accustomed by now to the twists in my mind.
"I suppose… because I want to understand myself. My thoughts feel important."
"And do they come from you?"
I hesitate, unsure how to answer. "I don’t always know. Sometimes, it feels like they rise from deep inside, but other times, it's as if they drift in from somewhere outside of me."
"Outside?" the voice repeats, amused. "Do you think thoughts are like travelers passing through, stopping by your mind as their final destination?"
I chuckle. "Yes, in a way. Especially when I do nothing. I feel like a receiver, picking up a signal, and then, as soon as I notice it’s there, I feel responsible for it. Obligated to understand it, to figure out what it means."
"So you’re not just observing these thoughts," the voice says. "You feel bound to them."
"Exactly. I don’t want to be passive about it. I want to understand the impact they have on me, and… how they shape my life."
"Do you think everyone feels that way?"
I pause, considering. "I’m not sure. Sometimes I wonder if others feel this same... connection to their thoughts, this sense that they aren’t entirely under their control."
"Connection or lack of control?" the voice asks as if testing me.
"A bit of both, maybe," I admit shifting uncomfortably. "It’s weird to realize how much of my mind is influenced by impressions, ideas that just surface, unannounced."
"And that disturbs you?"
"It can, yes. It makes me question how much of me is really... me. Or if I’m just a collection of random memories and passing thoughts."
"A mosaic of other people's influences, perhaps?"
I sigh. "Sometimes I wonder if I’m shaped by things I never chose for myself. But isn’t that what makes the mind so intriguing and unpredictable? There’s this endless archive of impressions that pops up without warning, shifting my mood, pushing me in directions I don’t always understand."
The voice sounds curious now. “Do you resent it?"
I shake my head. "Not exactly. I’ve learned to embrace it. To explore these fragments when they come up. I’ll spend hours tracing connections, looking for patterns. It’s my way of making sense of things, of making sense of myself."
"And you prefer that to… a simpler life?"
A smile appears in the corner of my mouth. "Absolutely. I’d rather be lost in these thoughts than distracted by trivial things. I guess that’s the Sagittarius in me, the part of me that always wants to look deeper, to see the meaning hidden beneath everything."
There’s a pause, and I can almost feel the voice considering my words. Then it returns, but its tone has shifted, a little skeptical.
"What about Tina? Didn’t you talk to her about this?"
"As a matter of fact, I did. I was telling her about this feeling I’ve always had, a sense that there’s a seed of wisdom germinating inside me. I can’t fully define it, but it’s there, nudging me toward bigger questions. Thoughts about the relativity of truth, fairness, and the importance of helping others have occupied my mind for as long as I can remember, shaping the way I act."
"And do you think you’re alone in that?"
"I am not sure." I tilt my head. "I’ve always felt a bit... separate from others. Like I’m tuned into a different frequency."
"Is that due to loneliness or standoffishness?"
The question takes me off guard. "I don’t think it’s that," I say slowly. "It’s more like a quiet certainty, a sense that there are questions worth asking or searching for, even if others don’t feel the same pull."
"And yet, you still wanted to be in the world. I remember you desired to cure cancer when you were younger." There’s an edge of teasing in the voice now. "Doesn’t that suggest a wish to achieve something concrete, not just to dwell on abstract matters?"
"Yes," I admit. "That ambition was real. Even if it collided with the reality of being young and inexperienced. Even in my naivety, I wanted to make a difference. I still do. But..."
"But?"
"The part of me that wants to seek meaning and the part that wants to achieve something tangible… they coexist. I’m not sure how they fit together."
"Perhaps that’s the whole point of growth," the voice suggests. "Learning to accept these parts of yourself without needing them to align perfectly."
"So," the voice continues, "if doing something tangible to help others feels essential to you, why do you keep a distance from people?"
I bite my lip. "It’s safer that way. I can understand people without letting it overwhelm me. I’ve always tried to maintain a sense of calm by keeping others at arm’s length. I think… it’s a kind of self-protection."
I glance out the window, lost in thought, and suddenly I see another window from another time, the old "kibitz" window back in Pančevo, where I’d sit as a kid and watch people pass by on the street, separated from them by glass.
"Now, I realize that distance might have limited my capacity for real connection. It’s not that my compassion for others was shallow… but I was more comfortable analyzing than participating."
"You mentioned the move to Pančevo," the voice continues. "How did that change things for you?"
I respond, feeling a nostalgic ache. "In Foča, it felt like I belonged to the world around me. There were open fields, rivers, trees to climb, forests to explore, kids to play with. I could run barefoot, feel the earth under my feet. It was... full immersion. Pure, uncomplicated."
"And Pančevo?"
"Pančevo was different. It was flat, gray. Buildings everywhere, like everything had been boxed up, arranged. There, I felt... cut off. Like a part of me had been left behind, sealed in those open fields I couldn’t reach anymore."
"So you felt trapped?"
"Yes," I surprise myself at the intensity of the word. "It was losing a part of myself that felt natural, grounded, connected. I’d watch people through the window, that little “kibitz” window in the rented house. It was like watching life happen outside of me instead of living it."
"And how did that feel?"
"Honestly, It felt… safe. I was lonely, but there was something comforting about being a spectator. Observing from a distance kept me from having to engage too deeply, from being seen too clearly."
"Isn’t that a contradiction?" the voice asks. "You say you longed for connection, yet you chose distance."
"True. I did want connection, but only on my terms. I wanted to understand people without being vulnerable, to feel close without giving up control."
"A paradox, then," the voice muses. "A desire to connect, tempered by a fear of exposure."
"Yes," I admit, feeling the tension in my neck. "Maybe that’s why I turned to books. They became my sanctuary after the move to Pančevo. I could disappear into them, absorb entire worlds without risking anything."
"What did you find there?"
"Everything." I said quickly, remembering those long hours in my room, surrounded by pages filled with characters who felt more real than the people around me. "Hugo, Flaubert, Zola, Steinback, Hemmingway, Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky... their characters faced struggles that were bigger, more honest than anything I’d seen. Reading their stories felt like permission to feel deeply, to question things, to exist in a way that didn’t always fit with real life."
"So books gave you a sense of validation?"
"Exactly. They showed me that it was okay to stand apart, to be observant, even a little detached." I pause, realizing something else. "But it wasn’t just validation, it was a way to resist the pressure to conform. I didn’t feel the same need to belong that seemed to drive everyone else around me. I could just… be myself, even if that meant feeling out of place."
"Isn’t there another contradiction here? You sought connection in those stories, but they also encouraged your separateness."
I frown, caught off guard. "I… hadn’t thought of it that way. But you’re right. Books became both my escape and my justification for keeping others at a distance. They reinforced the idea that it was okay, even preferable, to be a bit removed."
"And do you still believe that?"
"I don’t know," I say, feeling a twist of doubt. "I’ve always thought that being a little detached was part of what allowed me to think deeply, to ask big questions. But maybe it also kept me from real experiences. Kept me from connecting fully with people."
"Is that why you felt drawn to Sri Preethaji’s recent teaching?"
"Yes," I say, remembering the talk I listened to yesterday, the calm, resonant voice of Sri Preethaji, a spiritual teacher from India, speaking about “opening the heart.” “She talked about opening yourself to love, gratitude, compassion. It made me question if I’d ever truly done that.”
"Had you?"
I stare out the window, thinking. "Maybe, in some ways. I’ve always felt compassion for others, a kind of instinctive empathy. I can sense other people’s pain, their struggles. But… my compassion was mostly intellectual, safe. I understood others without letting it touch me too deeply."
"A wall, then," the voice says, mirroring my thoughts. "Compassion without a risk."
"I was trying to protect my sense of calm, my own inner balance."
"But doesn’t that limit you?"
"I think it has. That distance, that habit of observing rather than connecting, kept me safe, but it also kept me separate. I’ve always been more comfortable analyzing life than truly living it."
"And yet," the voice persists firmly, "you miss those fields in Foča, don’t you? The freedom of running barefoot, the exhilaration of being fully alive."
I close my eyes, picturing it, those open fields, the feeling of grass under my feet, the wind in my hair. "Yes," I whisper, almost to myself. "I do miss it. I miss that feeling of being connected to the energy of nature, without thinking, without holding back."
"So why not reclaim it?" the voice asks, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. "Why not open the window again? Step outside."
I hesitate. "I… don’t know. I’ve grown used to the distance. It’s comfortable."
"But isn’t comfort the very thing that confines you?"
The question hangs in the air, heavy, and I feel a strange, restless urge to move, to break out of the invisible walls I’ve built around myself.
"Think about it," the voice continues. "You’ve built a life around observing, analyzing, controlling. But isn’t there a part of you that longs for something else?"
I nod slowly. "Yes. There is. I’ve always felt this pull toward something deeper, a sense of opening up, surrendering, letting go."
"Maybe that’s what you meant when you talked to Tina about that seed of wisdom," the voice suggests. "A pull toward something larger than your own carefully controlled world."
I feel a lump in my throat. "I think you are right. It’s this quiet awareness I’ve sensed for as long as I can remember."
"So what’s stopping you?" the voice asks with urgency now. "What keeps you from stepping outside, from opening yourself to this… something more?"
"I think it is a lack of courage. Fear of losing control. Fear of being overwhelmed by all the things I can’t predict. And maybe…" I hesitate. "Maybe even fear of rejection. Of finding out that I’m not good enough."
"But isn’t that what living fully entails?" the voice presses. "To face uncertainty, to risk failure, to step into the unknown?"
I take a deep breath. "Yes," I agree quietly.
There’s silence, a kind of peace that fills the space. The voice doesn’t say anything anymore.
I glance out the window, imagining what it would feel like to let go of the need for control, to allow myself to feel deeply, to connect without holding back. It scares me. But it also feels… necessary. Something I’ve been avoiding for too long.
Finally, I speak. "Maybe it’s time," I say, as much to myself as to the voice, "to let the walls down. To be more than an observer."
"Then go," the voice breaks its silence with a warmth that feels like encouragement. "Open the heart. See where it leads you."
I sit there, letting the words sink in. I know it won’t be easy. It might be uncomfortable. But as I stare out the window, I feel a loosening of the tightness in my neck and even shoulders. It’s time to let myself be fully alive.
I’ve come to a place where I can accept myself as I am. Different parts of me can coexist peacefully. I can recognize them and the inner tensions they create without the need to fix or escape them. There’s discomfort at times, sure, but it doesn’t feel like a state of suffering. Maybe that’s what real self-acceptance feels like, learning to live with a sense of calm. My inner voice seems to be in agreement. No more dialoguing, no more pondering. It is time to quiet the mind, and just be.
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