Clture

 Another beautiful day.

I notice how much I am listening now.

To the sun.

To the moon.

To my breath.

To my body.

I carry a notebook everywhere because something in me wants to remember.

Not facts — meaning.

Writing has become a way of staying present.

Reading no longer feels like entertainment.

It feels like prayer.

Each page reminds me how much there is to learn,

and how little I truly know.

As I slow down, my body teaches me.

It shows me how thought travels through the spine.

How patience lives in the nervous system.

How humility calms the mind.

When I rest, anxiety softens.

When I bow, I rise differently.

I understand now that beginnings are quiet.

Nothing rushes into form.

Everything starts slowly —

like a child learning how to stand,

like legs remembering how to run again.

I study the body the way one studies scripture.

With respect.

With curiosity.

With gratitude.

Living close to nature has reminded me that I am seen.

That I am held.

That I do not need to force anything.

I feel a deep gratitude for where I come from.

For the wisdom that shaped me.

For the questions that were planted early

and are only now beginning to bloom.

I no longer compare my path to others.

Every life unfolds in its own rhythm.

What matters is alignment, not approval.

I have walked many miles.

Enough to understand that endurance is not speed.

It is presence repeated daily.

Running, reading, breathing, sitting in silence —

these have been my work.

And I no longer apologize for that.

The last layer of ego is loosening.

The need to explain is fading.

Surrender feels lighter than resistance ever did.

I trust this moment.

I trust the discipline that carried me here.

I trust the intelligence of my body

and the quiet guidance of the universe.

I am not escaping life.

I am meeting it fully.

This is not the end of anything.

It is the beginning of contribution.

Of service.

Of truth lived gently.

I stay here.

I listen.

I remain open.

I am returning to myself.

Yoruba Yogi.