What If We Saw with Softer Eyes?

A quiet moment arrives after a long exhale. The light softens. So does the breath. Even the mind begins to loosen its grip. In that hush, we remember—we don’t need to strive to arrive. We’re already here. We simply forgot. Come, walk with me for a little while.

The Doorway of Innocence

Sometimes, when we sit across from someone, we let our vision blur just slightly. We imagine them as a small child—muddy knees, eyes filled with wonder, a little unsure but so alive. And in that seeing, something in us shifts. We no longer need to protect or perform. We soften. Namaste stops being a word and becomes a feeling: I see the divine in you.

Tenderness rises when we change how we look—not by force, but by presence.

I’ve found that in those moments, something in me softens too—as if the child in me is also being seen.

And sometimes, we forget we were once that child too. What would shift if we saw ourselves with those same soft eyes?

The Circle of Compassion

At times, we may think compassion is only about giving—our time, our energy, our attention. And yet, there comes a moment when the body gently reminds us: giving without balance can lead us away from our own center.

In time, we might begin to sense compassion not as a straight line reaching out, but as a circle—one that holds us gently within it. It’s not about choosing between self and other. True compassion holds both.

We need both. The self and the other. The giving and the receiving.

Harmony blooms when the circle is whole.

And when we forget, we place our hands over our hearts and ask: Have we included ourselves in this kindness? And just as importantly: Have we included the other?

The circle widens, and something softens.

The Mirror That Feels

Close your eyes and notice: thoughts drift like birds across a wide sky. Some bright, some heavy. Some fleeting, others sticky. You might notice a flicker of an old story, a fear knocking at the edge of awareness, or a surge of gratitude that surprises you. Maybe there's nothing at all—just a quiet hum.

And yet, beneath it all, there is stillness. Like a quiet lake beneath rippling thoughts—reflective, open, undisturbed. Thoughts arrive like ripples across the surface—arising, moving, softening, disappearing. The water doesn’t resist them. It simply reflects.

Notice where the mind goes—but also where the body stays. The warmth in the chest, the pulse behind the eyes, the subtle sway of your breath.

This isn’t detachment. It’s the kind of presence that lets everything pass through—like wind through an open room, or sunlight across water—without getting stuck. A wave of sadness may wash through, followed by quiet contentment. Then maybe a thought about dinner. We feel it all, and we let it go. This is resting in the knowing.

I remind myself often: feeling deeply doesn’t mean I’m lost. It means I’m alive.

The Fruit Basket of the Mind

There’s something so simple, so human, about checking the fruit on our kitchen counter—seeing what’s ripe, what’s gone soft, what might still be used for something nourishing.

What if we did the same with our thoughts?

Some beliefs were once sweet, but now leave only a bitter aftertaste. Others surprise us with unexpected freshness. And some, though past their peak, might still hold wisdom—not to be consumed directly, but perhaps composted into the soil of something new. An insight. A creative shift. A letting go.

Mindfulness is the act of noticing. Of asking: Is this still serving us? And then gently deciding—what to keep, what to let go, and what might be transformed.

Wave and Ocean

When we stand before the great ocean and look closely at a single wave, we might forget it's made of the same water as everything else. It rises for a moment, unique in shape and sound, before folding back into the vastness. The wave doesn’t forget it’s the ocean—and neither should we.

We are the wave. We are the sea. We are the rhythm between them.

We play roles. We carry names, identities, stories. But beneath it all is something vaster. Spacious. Alive.

The ocean remembers—even when the wave forgets.

To remember this isn’t to escape life. It’s to meet it more fully.

A Moment Between The Waves

Breath between two waves—

salt on the tongue of silence,

nothing left to grip.

Closing Ripples

Writing these words is a remembering—for me, as much as for you.

A soft circle of breath and presence, between us.

This isn’t a how‑to. It’s a whisper. A thread back home.

Mindfulness isn’t something to master—

it’s something to return to.

And we are always welcome here.