Present moment

 I see you — moving slowly, deliberately, without force.

I feel how gravity carries you now, instead of you fighting it.

Running is no longer escape.

It is conversation.

Each step listens. Each breath answers.

I accept this place for what it is — temporary, quiet, sufficient.

I don’t rush to define it.

I don’t fear when it will change.

I honor solitude without turning it into loneliness.

I let stillness teach me what noise never could.

I see discipline clearly now.

It can’t be bought.

It can’t be forced.

It arrives only when I choose to show up — again and again.

I forgive the younger version of me for having skill without patience.

I keep the lesson without carrying regret.

Today, five miles was enough.

Today, slow was wise.

Today, presence was the work.

I don’t waste this moment.

I don’t rush the next one.

I walk, I jog, I read, I breathe, I observe.

That is plenty.

I trust where I am.

I trust what is unfolding.

I trust myself in the quiet.

Yoruba Yogi.

Tuesday

 Reflection

I see you.

I see how early you rise, even when the body asks for softness.

I feel the patience you are learning — not forced, not performed, but earned through listening.

Today, the body led again.

Not with explanations.

With breath, effort, stillness, and trust.

Movement into posture. Posture into darkness.

Not knowing — and remaining present anyway.

I honor that understanding does not need to arrive today.

The moon does not explain itself.

The sunrise does not rush its meaning.

Neither do I.

Memories surfaced, and I acknowledge them without attachment.

Connections. Chapters. Moments of giving. Moments of departure.

I see the pattern without judgment.

I arrive when others are at turning points.

I offer presence, discipline, clarity.

And sometimes, the chapter ends.

That does not make me empty.

It means I was real.

I release the need to carry those stories forward today.

They taught me. They do not define me.

I also honor desire —

for love, intimacy, touch, connection, and family.

There is nothing wrong with wanting closeness.

Discipline does not require denial.

I allow myself to attract love

the same way I attract breath, patience, and awareness.

I speak gently to my mind:

Thank you for remembering.

Thank you for protecting me.

You can rest now.

I do not need to name the future.

Whether opportunity, abundance, or responsibility arrives,

it will meet me grounded, steady, and awake.

Today’s practice was patience.

Today’s lesson was trust.

Today’s work is simple: move, walk, read, breathe, observe.

I am safe in not knowing.

I am steady in becoming.

I am present in this body, on this land, in this moment.

I continue — quietly, clearly, faithfully.

Yoruba Yogi.

Monday

 speaking to my higher self

Today, I see you.

I see what you’ve carried for more than a decade.

The studying. The running. The yoga. The silence.

The Bible, the Quran, the miles, the nights without sleep.

The stroke. The accident. The homelessness.

And still—you did not numb yourself. You did not abandon yourself.

Today, my body finally spoke louder than my will.

Not as punishment.

Not as failure.

But as truth.

I have been at war for a long time—

against time, against expectations, against shame, against the idea that worth is measured by money or titles.

And today, the war paused.

I realize now that discipline saved my life,

but rest is what will allow it to continue.

Yoga saved me. Meditation held me together.

And even when nothing made sense—religion, identity, career—

I stayed with the breath. I stayed with the body. I stayed with God, even when God felt like silence.

I forgive myself for not fitting into the world’s timeline.

I forgive myself for outgrowing people, places, and versions of myself.

I forgive myself for choosing truth over comfort, even when it cost me everything.

I see now that my journey was never meant to look like anyone else’s.

Like Joseph, I wandered without knowing the ending,

trusting that meaning would reveal itself later.

Today, I choose gratitude over shame.

I choose rest over proving.

I choose presence over comparison.

If I step back from those who measured me by material things, it is not bitterness—it is clarity.

I honor the path that kept me sober, awake, and alive.

I trust that strength is returning, not through force, but through listening.

I trust that this pause is not the end, but the beginning of a quieter, wiser chapter.

Today is a beautiful day.

I am still here.

I am grateful.

I am proud of myself.

Yoruba Yogi.

Higher self

 

Higher Self)

Today I stop explaining myself. Not out of frustration, but out of clarity. I know who I am now. I feel it in my breath, in my patience, in how long it takes me to be disturbed. I’m not reacting anymore—I’m responding, slowly, honestly.

My run today reminded me of that. It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t loud. I felt gravity along my spine, guiding me instead of fighting me. I’m learning how to live inside the moment, not ahead of it, not behind it.

I see impatience around me, and I don’t absorb it. I understand where it comes from—pressure, grief, responsibility, attachment—but I don’t carry it anymore. I can be present without being pulled.

I’ve invested years into my inner world. Breath by breath. Step by step. Others invested in material things, and that’s okay. Different work, different rewards. My peace is not visible, but it is real, and it is earned.

I’m grateful for this small opportunity, for this pause before the next chapter. I don’t rush what’s coming. I trust it. I embrace the sun, the snow, the quiet, the now.

I am learning to live. Fully. Patiently. Without explanation.

Yoruba Yogi.