It turns out that pure bliss is not something earned by getting everything right.
It is something remembered when you finally stop running from yourself.
True peace is not about tying everything neatly together.
True peace is standing barefoot in the middle of uncertainty,
heart bruised but still open,
and whispering:
“This, too, is holy. This, too, belongs.”
There are moments in life when certainty slips out of reach.
When you cannot explain yourself fully.
When you cannot fix what has unfolded.
When you are asked to sit inside the rawness, the delusions, the mistakes, the misunderstandings, the missed timing — and simply stay.
We went over this last time, didn’t we?
It’s never actually too late.
The pain is just fuel for our practice.
Without my mistake, I wouldn’t have had these shifts — even if they are just by one degree.
And even the smallest shift is a promise:
A promise that I am loving my faith.
A promise that the destination is truly a moving target.
Where can I let myself feel good even when I’m overwhelmed with embarrassment?
The key is kindness —
seeing my goodness even in moments of disappearance.
I know my intentions are pure,
but maybe my execution is still tangled in unspeakable patterns.
And that's okay.
I’m remembering all the times I’ve helped friends step out of their delusions —
and this time, the medicine had to be my own.
I called GB in tears,
having just swallowed a spoonful of my own poison.
His words didn’t land at first — they needed three hours to marinate.
But eventually, they clicked.
I realized:
"I’m mad because I’m scared.
I’m ashamed because I leaned into my delusion.
I messed up, yes — but I am awake to it.
And that awareness itself is the portal to change."
I’m so grateful for my little anger,
my little sense of betrayal surfacing now —
giving me a chance to address them, to purify them, to find the joy of coming back to myself.
I’m practicing this now:
The art of staying when nothing is certain.
Not forcing resolution.
Not chasing closure.
Not making myself wrong for being human.
Just staying.
Breathing.
Softening.
There is still a part of me that wants to sprint toward safety —
to say the perfect thing,
to undo the moments when fear spoke louder than love.
But I’m learning that true growth isn’t found in scrambling for a redo.
True growth is found in breathing into the exact place where things went wrong —
where the madness rose, where the hands cramped, where the hot oil spilled.
I once heard you should never spill when holding a Japanese sushi knife —
and guess what I did?
I spilled.
I let my delusions tighten my grip until everything slipped.
And now, I am learning to love myself even there.
A few days ago, I guided a bliss meditation.
I didn’t know at the time that it was also the roadmap my own heart would need.
We started by recalling a memory of effortless joy —
something pure and small, from childhood or the last 48 hours.
We brought that memory into our chest, letting it expand like a tiny sugar crystal dissolving into light.
We let the feeling grow until it filled our whole bodies.
We remembered how kindness flows naturally when we feel good —
how, when we are full, we spill sweetness almost without trying.
We imagined a life where bliss wasn’t something we chased,
but something we allowed to stream through us —
constant and clean.
In that practice, I realized:
Even now, when life feels uncertain.
Even now, when parts of me wish for a different ending.
Bliss is not lost.
It is waiting to be chosen.
Not because everything is perfect.
But because bliss is a quality of presence, not perfection.
So today, I stay.
I breathe.
I forgive myself for the ways I stumbled.
I bless the sweetness I still have to give.
I trust the invisible work happening beneath the surface of things.
I trust that not-knowing is also a kind of knowing.
I trust that standing still is sometimes the bravest movement of all.
And most of all —
I trust that pure bliss,
the real kind,
was never waiting outside of me.
It was always here.
It was always home.
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