The Parable of the Not-So-Wise Tortoise

In a forest not so far away, there once lived a tortoise named Tito, who was quite tired of being told he was slow. Not that it bothered him at first — he enjoyed the unhurried pace of his life. But lately, it seemed everyone around him was chanting the same advice.

“Pick up the pace, Tito! Life is a race!”

The hares especially made it their mission to remind him of the obvious. “Look at us, Tito,” they’d say, whiskers twitching. “It’s speed that gets you places. No one ever won a race by crawling!”

Now, Tito knew the tale of the tortoise and the hare — didn’t everyone? He knew he could win a race his way, by plodding along steadily. But as days passed, that confidence started to wane. Perhaps, he thought, times had changed. Perhaps the only way to win in today’s world was to keep up with the hares, even if it meant going against his nature.

So, one morning, Tito made a choice. “I’m going to be fast,” he declared, puffing himself up in front of his reflection in a still pond. “Fast and fierce.”

He kicked off his training the very next day. First, he tied tiny sticks to his feet in the hopes they’d make him glide. All that did was make him wobble. Then, he tried jumping to cover more ground. It was exhausting and, frankly, embarrassing. And as if the universe itself had sensed his folly, he tripped over a rock, his shell spinning him around like an overturned bowl. Somewhere, a giggle came from behind a bush — surely one of the hares.

Despite the struggles, Tito pushed on. “Just a few more leaps,” he told himself. “I can be fast. I just need to try harder.” But each time he strained and stumbled, each fall and slip-up made him feel less like himself. This wasn’t his race anymore; he was running someone else’s.

At last, bruised and weary, Tito collapsed under a shady tree. He peered up, squinting at the world that had suddenly become so blurry, so unfamiliar. “Is this really winning?” he muttered to no one in particular.

Just then, an old tortoise ambled by, looking at Tito with knowing eyes. “What happened to the wise, steady Tito I used to know?”

“I thought… I thought if I could move faster, I’d finally be seen as a winner,” Tito replied, feeling the weight of his words.

The old tortoise chuckled softly. “A winner? Tito, my friend, you were born to be wise, not to be quick. The world has enough hares already.”

Tito nodded, understanding at last. Winning, he realized, wasn’t about becoming what he wasn’t. It was about embracing what he was. The forest didn’t need another hare. It needed a tortoise who could show others that sometimes, the slow and steady way is just as powerful — if not more so — than the quick dash to the finish.

So, Tito decided he would no longer chase speed. He would return to his steady ways, showing others that there was strength in patience, wisdom in being himself.

And as he plodded home, he felt, for the first time, like he’d truly won.

-- Pradeep K (Prady)

The Day the Mirror Was Late

Introduction

It was a regular Tuesday morning, the kind where nothing really happens until you’ve had your first cup of coffee. I shuffled into the bathroom, still half asleep, and flicked on the light. Everything was where it was supposed to be—towel on the hook, toothpaste cap forgotten as usual, and my trusty old mirror hanging there, waiting to deliver its daily verdict.

Except today, it didn’t.

I stood there, blinking a couple of times, waiting for my reflection to catch up. Nothing. No face staring back at me, no reassuring nod from my sleep-deprived self. Just...blank glass. It was like the mirror had decided to take a break.

I leaned in a bit, waved my hand in front of it, checked the back for any signs of tampering—nothing. Maybe I’d overslept and crossed into some alternate reality where mirrors don’t work. Or maybe, just maybe, my mirror was running late.

I could feel the absurdity of the thought creeping in. “Come on, you’re going to be late. Show up already.” No response. The mirror remained stubbornly silent, offering no reflection of the sarcastic grin I was sure I had on my face.

The Self-Reflection Dance

After a minute of this standoff, I tried another approach. Maybe it was the lighting. I flicked the bathroom switch a few times, bathing the room in flashes of light and shadow. Still nothing. Maybe I needed to go more high-tech. I pulled out my phone, opened the camera, and there it was—my reflection, alive and well. “Good to know I still exist,” I muttered, tapping my phone screen as if to prove something.

At this point, I was halfway between laughing at myself and wondering if this was some kind of cosmic joke. But what was it they said about vampires? No reflection, no soul? Surely not... But still, the longer I stood there, the more my mind began to wander. What if the mirror was trying to tell me something?

The Realization

Suddenly, the absence of my reflection felt less like an inconvenience and more like... an opportunity. Without the mirror, there was no face to check, no hair to fix, no judgment staring back at me. I was free from the routine, the daily inspection I didn’t even realize I relied on so much.

And there it was—the question I’d been avoiding. Who am I when there’s no mirror to tell me?

Every day, I’d stand here and let the mirror reflect who I was, or at least who I thought I was. Messy hair, dark circles, maybe a decent jawline on a good day. But today, with the mirror gone silent, I started thinking about how much I depend on that reflection. How much we all do. Mirrors, in one form or another, are everywhere. People’s opinions, the way the world sees you, the things you think you’re supposed to be. What happens when all those mirrors stop working?

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Without the reflection, there was no criticism, no standard to measure up to. I was still standing here, just as real, just as present. Maybe even more so.

The Return

Just as I was getting comfortable with this revelation, the mirror blinked back to life. There I was, staring at myself like nothing unusual had happened. I half-expected my reflection to shrug, as if to say, “What? I was just taking a break.” I couldn’t help but laugh.

“Thanks for showing up. But I think I’m good now.”

I took one last look and turned away. Perhaps the mirror had needed a break so that I could stop relying on it to tell me who I was. And for the first time in a while, I wasn’t so worried about what it showed me.

-- Pradeep K (Prady)

Bashing the Cliche: What Doesn’t Kill You Makes You Stronger

"What Doesn’t Kill You Makes You Stronger"

Really? Or perhaps it just makes you tired?

Tell me you've seen it—boldly printed on everything from gym walls to motivational memes—the line that’s supposed to comfort us when life hits a rough patch: “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” It’s been around for so long, we’ve stopped questioning it. But today, let’s question it, shall we?

Honestly, if everything that didn’t kill us made us stronger, wouldn't we all be superheroes by now? Most of us are just trying to make it through another Monday without needing an extra coffee (or three).

Take the professional world, for example. After being on the edge of a layoff for the fifth time in your career, are you really stronger—or just better at pretending you’re okay with uncertainty while secretly Googling “career switch to chicken farming”? That corporate resilience everyone talks about feels more like a survival instinct at this point, right?

How about the gym: the place where they take “What doesn’t kill you” a bit too literally. Sure, you thought lifting that extra weight would make you stronger... until your back decided to teach you otherwise. So now you’re not stronger—you’re just a little more familiar with your orthopedist's number than you'd like to be.

Then there’s the personal side of things. Like that breakup. We’ve all been there—wallowing in the idea that we’re going to come out the other side of heartache as some kind of enlightened, emotionally armored warrior. Spoiler alert: more often than not, it just turns into a three-month stint on awkward dating apps, and a newfound dislike of small talk over overpriced coffee.

What about the daily commute? You'd think that after years of sitting in traffic jams, you’d emerge with the patience of a Zen monk. But no, what doesn’t kill you—like that bumper-to-bumper grind—just makes you more likely to mutter choice words under your breath at the guy who cut you off. Strength? Maybe. Or maybe it’s just a new kind of exhaustion.

But here’s the kicker: What if life isn’t about coming out of every struggle with a new superpower? Maybe, just maybe, we can admit that sometimes the goal is to simply survive the tough stuff with our sanity intact. Strength doesn’t always mean emerging with chiselled abs or a fortified spirit. Sometimes, it looks like making it through without throwing your phone at the wall during another pointless Zoom meeting.

So, what doesn’t kill you doesn’t always make you stronger. Sometimes, it just gives you a good reason to take a nap. Or a vacation. Or an extra slice of cake. And that, my friends, is a strength in itself.

Real strength isn’t about never getting knocked down. It’s about knowing that when life gives you chaos, you don’t always have to turn it into a life lesson. Sometimes, you can just laugh, shrug, and move on. And maybe that’s the strongest thing of all.

-- Pradeep K (Prady)

The Paradox of Creating Your Own Reality

Ever feel like you're steering a shopping cart with a mind of its own, wobbling down the supermarket aisle? One wheel spins freely, while the others seem dead set on dragging you into the potato chips. This, dear readers, is what “creating your own reality” can feel like. Sure, we try to steer our cart toward the organic produce, but no amount of positive thinking will keep it from veering occasionally into the snack section.

Now, the idea of shaping reality with your mind has become a cliche, and it's tempting to imagine that thinking hard enough about rainbows could halt a hailstorm. But let’s be honest: life doesn’t come with a manual on mind-over-matter mechanics. However, there is some truth to it, and like most truths, it lies somewhere between the mystical and the mundane.

Case Study #1: The CBT Party Trick

Take, for instance, Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT), which essentially says, “Change your thoughts, change your world.” Imagine a socially anxious chap at a party, convinced he's the dullest person there. Now, if he starts repeating affirmations like “I’m the life of this party,” he may begin to stand a little straighter, crack a joke, or actually look someone in the eye. The trick? He’s rewiring his mental circuitry, training his brain to behave differently, like nudging that wayward shopping cart onto the right track. Sure, he didn’t transform into a rockstar overnight, but the atmosphere shifted in response to his change in attitude.

Case Study #2: Sugar Pills and “Miracles”

Now, picture a slightly kooky aunt who swears by her “miracle crystals.” She keeps a chunk of what she calls “positive energy quartz” in her bag, and swears it cures her headaches. You find out later it’s just a chunk of fancy table salt, but there she is, living headache-free. It’s the placebo effect in action—a testament to how belief can indeed shape experience. The placebo’s power isn’t in the salt but in the mind’s expectation that it’ll work. Now, if we could only get that same effect with paying taxes…

Case Study #3: Self-Fulfilling Prophecies

Now, let's look at self-fulfilling prophecies, where expectations shape outcomes. Picture a student who believes he's terrible at math. He avoids practice because “what’s the point?” – leading him to fail his exams, thereby confirming his original belief. Conversely, a student who assumes they can get better at math puts in the effort, sees some improvement, and before long is solving equations like it’s second nature. It’s not magic, it’s mindset—but sometimes it feels like magic when it works, and like a scam when it doesn’t.

The Middle Path: Embracing Paradox

So, what’s the verdict? Can you create your own reality, or is it all just fluff? Here’s where we tread the middle ground. The mind can indeed shape the way we perceive, react to, and influence events. But it’s not as simple as thinking yourself into a better job, perfect health, or a stress-free commute. Life will toss its curveballs and, at times, feel more like an out-of-control shopping cart than a perfectly orchestrated manifestation.

You can change your lens on reality—like adjusting the prism’s angle so the light refracts differently—but you’re still dealing with the same beam of light. The “many” realities people speak of are often just variations of the same truth, viewed through different perspectives. Some situations will defy any mindset shift, like trying to meditate away a hurricane. That’s where we acknowledge the randomness and chaos that coexist with our inner world’s attempts at order.

Wrapping it Up – Reality, As It Is

So, when it comes to “creating your own reality,” perhaps it's best to treat it like navigating that wayward shopping cart. Yes, steer as best as you can, align your thoughts with your actions, and trust in the subtle influence of your mind. But remember: some forces are just outside your control. And that’s okay. Because the real trick isn’t in bending reality to your will, but in learning to dance with it as it wobbles toward the potato chips.

-- Pradeep K (Prady)

The Many Faces of The One

"Ekam Sat Vipraa Bahudaa Vadanti"

(Truth is One; Sages Call it by Many Names)

-- Rigveda

Imagine a prism held up to the light. The pure, white beam passes through, and on the other side, a spectrum of colors bursts forth—each one distinct, yet each a part of the same light. The colors didn’t come from nowhere; they were always contained within that one beam, waiting to be seen. Likewise, the prism doesn’t create the diversity, it simply reveals what was already there, hidden in plain sight. This is the dance of the “one” and the “many,” an interplay that spans across philosophies, faiths, and worldviews.

We often spend our lives focused on just one color, convinced it holds the entire truth. The devout believer may see only a bright red—passionate, singular, and absolute—claiming the truth of one God. The seeker of wisdom might contemplate the many hues in deep blue, each color a different path towards understanding, like the gods of polytheism. The mystic, bathed in indigo, claims there is no separation at all, that it’s all just different shades of the same thing: the oneness of Advaita. Then there’s the skeptic, whose lens shows no light or color, but perhaps a transparency, an openness to question if the colors were ever there to begin with.

But all these perspectives are still part of that same light. They are refracted truths.

The colors, in all their variety, don’t betray the oneness of the light; they are its expressions. The red is not more “right” than the blue, nor is the green closer to the truth than the yellow. Each one allows us to glimpse a different side of what it means to exist and search for meaning. The prism didn’t break the light; it showed us just how expansive that light is. The seeming conflict between dualism and non-dualism, between monotheism and polytheism, even between belief and skepticism, becomes a question of where we choose to look, not whether the light itself is real.

Yet, there’s a curious paradox here: To say “all is one” is not to flatten out the diversity into a bland sameness. Instead, it’s to recognize that the colors are not separate from the light but are one with it. They are inseparable expressions of the same source. Even the skeptic, who sees no light, may inadvertently reveal another dimension of the prism’s magic—one where the “nothingness” becomes an unspoken color of its own, an empty space that somehow gives shape to the others.

In Dvaita, the world appears as dual: the divine and the individual seem separate. It’s like seeing the prism from one angle where red and blue appear as distinct beams. But as we shift our perspective towards Advaita, we realize that these colors were never truly separate; they were all part of the light from the beginning, just different expressions emerging from how the prism bends and refracts the beam. The many can be seen as paths, not as ends. They guide us back to the singular light that’s always there—often unnoticed in its simplicity.

Even when it comes to monotheism, the idea of a singular deity, it’s not that far removed from recognizing the oneness beyond form. The idea of “one God” can be seen as the pure white light itself, while the many deities of polytheism are the spectrum that unfolds when that light passes through the prism. The divine expresses itself in countless ways, but the origin remains singular and unified. Thus, to speak of the "one" or the "many" is just to change the angle at which we look at the same light source.

And what of atheism, you might ask? Isn’t atheism a rejection of this entire picture, denying the light’s very existence? Not necessarily. If anything, atheism can be viewed as the act of dismantling the prism, stripping away the filters that make the colors appear at all. The irony is, in doing so, it may end up revealing the same pure, formless light—without the distraction of colors, without the need for any distinctions. The search for truth, even in atheism, might lead to that same realization: that there’s something fundamentally unbroken about the universe. The colors were interpretations, perceptions, but not illusions; they were the prism’s offering, not an indication that the light was ever divided.

So, what does all this mean for us as we try to live meaningful lives, amidst differing beliefs and worldviews? It means that to appreciate the whole light, we don’t need to deny any color. We can explore the red and the blue, engage with the deep greens, question the transparency, and accept that each viewpoint, while partial, belongs to a greater whole. The point isn’t to choose between Dvaita and Advaita, monotheism or atheism, but to recognize that they’re all different paths around the same mountain, different angles through which we experience the fullness of being.

By embracing the dance between “one” and “many,” we begin to see that our paths needn’t be limited by dogma or rigid thought. Instead, they can be expressions of the freedom that comes from recognizing that the entire spectrum belongs to us, not just one shade. We don’t need to strip away the colors to see the light, nor do we need to ignore the light to appreciate the depth of each color. We can hold the paradox, walk the contradictions, and understand that life, in all its varied hues, is pointing us back to the same truth: that all is one, and yet, within that oneness, there is space for endless diversity.

The prism has always been there. The light has always been there. And as long as we live in this world of forms and perceptions, the colors will be there too. We can look at them with a fresh gaze, not as opposing truths, but as complementary expressions of the same light that illuminates us all.

-- Pradeep K (Prady)

The Allure of the Cliche

1. The Journey and the Destination

It's astonishing how often the phrase, “The journey is more important than the destination,” is served up as wisdom in motivational talks, books, and social media posts. It rolls off the tongue smoothly, doesn’t it? It fits into the cultural lexicon so neatly that people rarely stop to question it. But when you actually pause to reflect, you begin to wonder: who are these sages who profess such neat little truths? Have they ever experienced either the journey or the destination? And if they have, how did they land on this one-size-fits-all philosophy?

The truth is, most of them haven’t. In fact, they are the opportunists who have learned to capitalize on the most basic human anxieties—disappointment, failure, and the fear of an uncertain future. They don’t sell insights; they sell comfort. They package life’s chaos into digestible sound bites and present them as universal truths. And who doesn’t want comfort in a world that constantly feels like it's on the brink of unraveling?

But life is far too complex, far too nuanced to be reduced to such platitudes. The "journey" isn't always meaningful, and the "destination" isn't always fulfilling. Sometimes, the reverse is true, and most of the time, both are utterly indifferent to your expectations.

Let’s think about the people who would, quite frankly, disagree with this popular cliché. Imagine the person who endured a miserable journey—a slog through difficulty, frustration, and perhaps even despair—only to arrive at a beautiful, fulfilling destination. For them, the destination is everything. The journey? A necessary evil.

On the other hand, take someone who experienced a magnificent, life-affirming journey—a period of learning, growth, and joy—only to arrive at a disastrous, soul-crushing destination. For them, the destination nullifies the beauty of the journey. They would much rather have stayed on that golden path, never arriving at all.

In fact, the journey-destination binary assumes that these experiences are static, singular events. But in reality, the journey is often fragmented, punctuated by micro-destinations along the way. And the destination is never final—it’s just another stop on an ever-evolving path. Who are these opportunists, then, that profit from distilling such complexity into bite-sized wisdom for the masses? More importantly, why are we so eager to believe them?

2. Crafting Illusions for the Masses

Opportunists thrive on ambiguity. They know that the majority of people are uncomfortable with uncertainty, with the open-ended nature of life’s questions. The need for answers—for meaning—is a fundamental human trait. So, these opportunists, whether they’re authors, motivational speakers, or so-called life coaches, manufacture meaning from vapid clichés. They offer quick fixes and market them as deep insights.

And here's the kicker—they don't just sell you ideas; they sell you identity. When you adopt their phrases, you’re not just buying into a thought, you’re buying into a way of seeing the world. You become the person who believes “the journey is more important than the destination.” You become someone who looks for “life lessons” in every misstep and setback, all the while missing the larger point: not every journey is a lesson, and not every destination is worth the struggle.

In this way, these opportunists aren't just profiting off your vulnerability; they’re actively reshaping your perception of reality, urging you to view life through a lens of shallow wisdom, which obscures more than it illuminates.

3. Where Does Meaning Truly Reside?

This brings us to a more metaphysical question: Where does meaning reside? Is it in the journey, the destination, or somewhere beyond both? The journey and destination are simply coordinates in the space-time fabric of our lives, but meaning transcends those points. It’s neither confined to the steps you take nor to the place you arrive. Meaning, like Turiya, the fourth state of consciousness in Vedantic philosophy, exists in a space beyond waking, dreaming, and deep sleep. It lies in the space between—the interstices where human experience intersects with the ineffable.

What if the journey and destination are both illusions, both mere artifacts of a linear perception of time? In this view, neither is inherently more valuable than the other. They are constructs we use to make sense of an existence that is, at its core, fluid and non-linear. We impose meaning onto events, paths, and outcomes, but those meanings are subjective and mutable. They are reflections of our internal states more than they are truths about the external world.

In parapsychological terms, this could be likened to the idea of thought-forms or tulpas—mental constructs that take on a life of their own. The journey and destination, as concepts, are thought-forms we project onto the vastness of existence. And just like thought-forms, they can be empowering or limiting, depending on how much credence we give them.

4. Are We Creating Our Own Realities?

Taking this a step further, consider the parapsychological implications: Are we, in essence, creating the very realities we experience by subscribing to certain beliefs about journeys and destinations? The mind is a powerful architect of reality. If we believe the journey is all-important, we will emphasize every struggle, every challenge, and every setback as part of a necessary growth process. If we believe the destination is paramount, we will fixate on outcomes, perhaps to the detriment of enjoying the present moment.

But what if both are simply illusions? What if life is more like a Möbius strip, where journey and destination are one continuous flow, indistinguishable from each other? In such a worldview, the act of problem-solving, of navigating life’s complexities, is itself the destination. The solution is not a point you arrive at but a process you inhabit. The question then becomes not "How do I get there?" but "How am I experiencing this moment?"

Here, we enter a territory that many opportunists would shy away from—because it’s messy, it’s uncertain, and it doesn’t sell as well as neat phrases. But this is where the true richness of human experience lies—in the ambiguity, in the spaces between certainty and doubt, between progress and setback, between journey and destination.

5. Life as an Endless Loop of Non-Lessons

Here’s the satirical twist: What if life is not about lessons at all? What if the very idea that every struggle teaches you something is just another thought-form we’ve been conditioned to believe? Think about it. How many times have you gone through an experience only to realize there was no deep lesson at all—just randomness, chaos, or sheer dumb luck?

This isn’t to say that learning doesn’t happen, but rather that not every experience is designed to teach. Sometimes things just happen, and we scramble to impose meaning on them after the fact. The opportunists want us to believe otherwise because a world where every journey teaches something is a world that feels safer, more controlled. But life isn’t controlled. It’s messy, unpredictable, and, most of the time, indifferent to our desires for neat conclusions.

And yet, it’s precisely in this messiness that life becomes so deeply, richly human. The lack of inherent meaning gives us the freedom to create our own. The absence of fixed lessons allows us to interpret our experiences however we choose—or not at all.

6. In Search of the Unmanufactured Truth

Where does that leave us? If the journey and destination are constructs, if the lessons are not guaranteed, and if meaning is as fluid as water, what is left? The answer might be unsettling: uncertainty. But uncertainty doesn’t have to be terrifying. It can be liberating.

By rejecting the opportunists’ neatly packaged truths, we free ourselves to engage with life on our own terms. We can stop looking for meaning in every corner and start living for the sheer experience of it. And in that experience, we might just find something deeper than any cliché could ever offer—an authentic connection to ourselves and the world around us, unfiltered by the need to impose meaning.

The next time someone tells you that "the journey is more important than the destination," feel free to question them. Perhaps neither matters. Or perhaps, both do. The beauty lies in the ambiguity.

-- Pradeep K (Prady)

The Creator is The Child of Her Creation

Author's Note:

This post has been brewing in my mind for years. My first attempt to capture these thoughts dates back to 1997, but after just five paragraphs, I realized something important: no matter how well I might articulate it, human language can never fully express the simplicity behind these ideas.

That realization nudged me toward poetry. It was through poetry that I began to explore these concepts, which culminated in some of my best works under the title "The Endless Chasm." A few of those poems have already made their way onto this platform. Interestingly, I used the same title when I launched my blog in 2005.

But prose, somehow, kept calling me back. I wanted to express these ideas in a way that felt comprehensive and true. Every time I found a gap in my expression, I'd take a break, only to return again later. I often felt like I was close, but not quite there. Still, bit by bit, I gathered my thoughts and gradually shaped them into what you’re about to read.

Now, at the milestone of turning 50, and nearly 27 years after my first attempt to put these ideas into words, I’ve decided it’s time to stop chasing perfection. Instead, I’m sharing this compilation as it naturally unfolded in my understanding. It reflects my thoughts on:

• The idea that the creator is born from creation itself

• The concept of Turiya and its profound implications through the Trilokesh lens

• The cyclical connection between Turiya, Shiva, and Shakti

• An exploration of the Swayambhu concept and its role in our experience

• How Yoganidra can help us experience the Swayambhu within

This is not perfect, nor final. But it’s honest and complete in its own way, and I’m excited to finally share it with you.

-----

Divine Pair—Born of Each Other

We often perceive creation as something that flows from the creator, a one-way street where the act of bringing forth something new shapes the external world. But what if this process of creation doesn’t just affect the external? What if the act of creation redefines the creator themselves?

This isn’t merely philosophical speculation; it’s something deeply spiritual, something we see in the most profound aspects of existence. Take Shiva, for instance. Known as Swayambhu—self-born. Yet the paradox is striking: Shakti, his cohort, is both the force that gives birth to him and remains his constant companion. Together, they represent the inseparable unity of energy and consciousness. But this isn’t just a symbolic relationship—it's the very fabric of life itself.

In the same way, Vishnu and Lakshmi, or even the relationship between Shiva and Vishnu, echo this idea. Each divine pair, while distinct, is intertwined so deeply that one cannot truly exist without the other. One gives rise to the other, and yet the other completes the cycle by nurturing the first.

And here is where the profound idea emerges: the creator is the child of her creation. This isn't a metaphorical thought, but an actual process of transformation. As the creator brings forth something into existence, she is changed, reshaped, and redefined by what she has created. The act of creation rewires the mind, reshapes emotions, and even shifts the spirit of the creator, making her the product of the very thing she has manifested.

The Turiya

This takes us to a deeper truth—the Turiya, the fourth state of consciousness. In Yoganidra, this state of awareness exists beyond the waking, dreaming, and deep sleep states. It's the eternal awareness, the source from which all experiences arise. The waking state, like the physical world, is what we see most clearly, but it’s only one layer. Beneath it lies the dream state, filled with visions and emotions, and deeper still is the state of deep sleep, where thoughts lie dormant, unmanifested.

Yet the Turiya—the ever-present awareness—remains untouched, watching over all three states, giving birth to them, yet transcending them entirely. It is the Trilokesh, the ruler of the three worlds, and in this context, Shiva's declaration makes perfect sense: “I am not that which is; I am that which is not.” 

Shiva's statement captures the essence of this transcendent reality. He is not the form but the formless; not the creation, but the canvas upon which creation unfolds. The idea here is that every form, every thought, every creation arises from a state of no-thingness. This is the Turiya—the space from which all things emerge and to which all things return.

Think about the process of creation itself. Every painting springs from an empty canvas. Every thought rises from the silence of the mind. The canvas, the silence, the deep sleep state—they are not mere voids, but potent spaces teeming with potential. They hold the capacity for all forms, all thoughts, all dreams, and yet they themselves remain untouched by what arises within them.

Shiva is this eternal canvas, this formless foundation. Creation flows from him, just as thoughts rise from the deep sleep state. But in the very act of creation, something remarkable happens—the creator, too, is transformed by what has been created. The process of creation isn’t one-directional. It loops back, reshaping and redefining the creator.

Shiva, Shakti, Turiya—The Cyclic Interconnection

This is why the concept of Shiva and Shakti is so powerful. Shakti, as the creative force, brings the universe into being. She is the energy that manifests, while Shiva is the consciousness that holds space for it. And yet, as she creates, she changes Shiva. The two are eternally bound in this dance of creation and transformation, where the creator and the created are inextricably linked. It is through creation that the creator, too, evolves.

In this way, the creator becomes the child of her creation. The creation influences, transforms, and redefines her. This isn’t limited to divine figures—it happens with artists, thinkers, and anyone who brings something into the world. Every time we create, we give birth to something new, and in doing so, we birth a new version of ourselves.

And then, just like the creator, we return to that empty space—the Turiya, the blank canvas, the silence from which all arises and all returns. Creation, like life, is cyclical. We are both the painters and the paintings, both the dreamers and the dreams.

This cyclic nature of creation and transformation is reflected in the very essence of the Turiya state. The Turiya is not merely a higher state of consciousness but the substratum of all states. It is the trilokesh—the lord of the three worlds of wakefulness, dreaming, and deep sleep. These three states correspond to the physical, mental, and emotional planes of existence, just as the Sattvik, Rajasic, and Tamasic moods represent purity, activity, and inertia, respectively.

Yet, Turiya itself is beyond all of these. It is free of the shifting tides of consciousness that ebb and flow through different states and experiences. Just as Shiva remains unmoved while Shakti dances, Turiya remains untouched by the worlds it holds within. It is the ultimate freedom, the ground from which all creation springs but is not bound by any of it.

We see this concept mirrored in Vishnu and Lakshmi, where Vishnu sustains the cosmos while Lakshmi provides the energy for that sustenance. It is the same dance—two forces in perfect harmony, feeding each other, transforming and being transformed. And yet, they exist in a state that transcends their individual roles, much like Shiva and Shakti, each giving birth to the other through the act of creation.

To bring this into a more relatable human experience: when you say, "Thoughts just flow through your mind, and if you're observant, you can pick up on them," you are speaking to the process of creation. But thoughts don’t arise in isolation. They come from somewhere deeper, a space that is free of thought but full of potential. In many ways, thoughts are like waves, and the Turiya is the depth of the ocean. The waves rise and fall, but the depth of the ocean remains still. It is vast, untouched by the turbulence of the surface.

In the same way, every form comes from the formless. Every thought, every creation, springs from the silent, infinite space of potential. We return to this space in deep sleep, where all thoughts dissolve and the self is reabsorbed into the Turiya. From this state of deep stillness, the mind awakens into the dream state, and finally into wakefulness, where we engage with the world again.

This cyclical movement mirrors our relationship with creation. We create, we engage with our creation, and we return to the stillness of our inner canvas. The creation, in turn, reshapes us. And then the cycle begins again.

Creation Itself is Enough

The Bhagavad Gita touches on this when it speaks of Nishkama Karma—action without attachment to the fruits of the action. The action itself is enough. The creation itself is enough. It changes the creator, not because of the outcome, but because of the act of creation itself. Just as a painter is changed by painting, a thinker is changed by thought, and the universe changes as it unfolds.

The Turiya, then, is not an isolated state. It is present in all things, in all acts of creation and transformation. Just as Shiva is not only the formless but the form, just as Vishnu is both the sustainer and the creation, so too are we both creators and the created.

And this is why, in truth, the creator is the child of her creation. Through the act of bringing something into existence, she is reshaped, redefined, and reborn.

Swayambhu

This brings us to the true essence of Shiva being Swayambhu (self-born). The idea is not merely a literal birth without parents, but a deeper understanding that the act of creation itself is a form of self-birth. Just as Shiva is called Swayambhu not because he exists without cause, but because he continually arises out of his own being. His birth, his existence, is not separate from his own nature—it is the constant act of renewal and transformation.

In this sense, Swayambhu signifies a being who, through the endless cycles of creation and dissolution, continually gives birth to themselves. They are self-sustaining, self-evolving, just as the creator is constantly reborn through their own creation. The creator, like Shiva, is both the origin and the outcome, forever emerging from the essence of their own being.

Thus, Swayambhu is the perfect realization of the Turiya state—the unchanging ground from which all change arises. The creator, whether in the act of thought, art, or cosmic transformation, is self-born in every moment, forever renewed by the process of creation.

Swayambhu Interplay in Practice

As we step back from the metaphysical canvas we've painted, let's explore the idea of Swayambhu in a more intimate and personal way.

In every moment of self-reflection, whether through our creative endeavors or our interactions with others, we act as both the creator and the created. We shape our understanding, our character, and even our destiny—while being simultaneously reshaped by these very acts of creation.

For instance, think of a moment when you've been deeply absorbed in a creative project. The more you pour yourself into it, the more it transforms you in return. You start as one version of yourself, but by the time the work is complete, you find yourself subtly changed, perhaps more attuned, more aware, or even entirely different in perspective.

This is Swayambhu in action—creation as both process and transformation. And it extends beyond the individual: entire societies, cultures, and even the world itself are constantly recreated through the collective act of living.

The process changes the creator, but the creator also defines the process. This interplay is what makes the idea of Swayambhu so potent.

Perhaps there's no better example for swayambhu than a thought. Sitting with the stillness of the Turiya. In this moment of stillness, nothing has been born yet. Creation hovers like a breath held too long—pregnant with possibility but without shape or direction. The formless state, or Turiya, is the primal void from which every thought, every form, every emotion arises. It is not the void of absence but of boundless potential, where everything exists as a latent possibility.

The stillness here isn't emptiness; it's the pause before a thought becomes manifest, before the painter dips their brush into the empty canvas. It is in this deep quiet that Shiva, the Swayambhu, is truly understood—not as a figure, not as a deity confined to image, but as the eternal force that births himself from within, from the womb of the formless.

Just as every painting arises from an empty canvas, every form must return to the formless. Here, we encounter the true meaning of Swayambhu—the creator born of herself, an energy that draws its existence from a space beyond creation, untouched by time, mood, or movement. 

Yoganidra: Realising The Swayambhu Within

In daily life, the notion of Swayambhu—the self-born—echoes a timeless truth: every thought, every action we take, is both a product of what we are and a force that reshapes us. This cyclical process of becoming, much like Shiva’s self-renewal through creation, reflects a universal pattern that we can tap into with conscious awareness. Through Yoganidra—a practice that brings us closer to the Turiya state—we learn to observe this dance of creation and transformation from a space of stillness.

When we allow ourselves to settle into the deep quiet of Yoganidra, we enter that same canvas of potentiality from which everything emerges. Here, we can witness how our experiences, actions, and even our thoughts come from the formless and return to it. This helps us realize that we, too, are constantly birthing ourselves through our choices, responses, and reflections.

But Yoganidra offers more than just an understanding of the process—it offers the power to direct it. By observing the patterns of the mind, by watching the creation of thoughts and emotions, we begin to understand that just like Shiva, we are not bound by what is. We are the space from which everything arises, the Swayambhu within.

-- Pradeep K (Prady)

The Almighty and the Wall: A Paradox of Power and Possibility

Author's Note:
As a reader, your judgement is always right. However, this post isn't what it may initially seem. Therefore, do not judge it by the first few paragraphs; read it entirely before reacting. Many thanks.
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There’s a question as old as time, one that whispers through the corridors of human thought. It’s a question that lingers, not on the tongues of the devout nor the lips of the skeptical, but somewhere between—where belief and doubt quietly observe one another.

If the Almighty, in His boundless power, can do all things, then could He build a wall so tall, so impenetrable, that even He cannot climb it?

It’s a simple question. And yet, it opens a door to a mystery far deeper than we might first realize. If He can build such a wall, does that not make Him powerless before it? If He cannot, then perhaps His power has limits after all?

This is not just a riddle for the scholars or a puzzle for the philosophers. It is a reflection of the human condition itself—a mirror held up to our understanding of power, control, and the nature of creation. Because at its heart, this paradox is about more than walls or omnipotence. It is about the boundaries we all face, even in our moments of greatest strength.

We, too, build walls, don’t we? Not of stone or brick, but of decisions and desires. We create, in our own lives, situations and choices that sometimes grow larger than we can handle, outcomes that outstrip our own intentions. In many ways, the question of the Almighty’s wall is our question—whether we believe in a higher power or not. It asks us to look at the nature of creation and control.

What happens when what we’ve brought into existence—our own walls, our own choices—begin to limit us? When they rise so high, we can no longer see over them? Are we still in control? Are we, like the Almighty in the paradox, suddenly powerless before what we have made?

Perhaps the deepest lesson of this paradox is not about divinity at all. Perhaps it is about humility. For the very act of creation—whether by a god or by a human—carries within it the risk that what we create might surpass us. That it might defy us. In building the wall, the Almighty doesn’t lose power. He simply becomes a participant in the unfolding story of His creation, just as we do.

And isn’t that the most human thing of all? The realization that power is not about dominance or control, but about the willingness to face what we’ve created, to stand before it and know that sometimes, true strength lies not in climbing over the wall, but in acknowledging that it exists at all.

Here, the theist may find a god who is more than just a figure of infinite power—He is a being who understands the limits that even He cannot escape. And the atheist may see in this question a reflection of humanity’s own journey—how we, too, are bound by the walls we build, yet are defined by how we respond to them.

The paradox remains: Can the Almighty build a wall He cannot scale? Perhaps the answer is not in whether He can or cannot, but in the simple, profound truth that even the limitless are shaped by the things they create. Power is not diminished by the existence of boundaries—it is defined by how we understand and embrace them.

-- Pradeep K (Prady)