I read this like a sutra written in mango juice, steeped in oil, and whispered by a grandmother with galaxies in her eyes.
Some lessons arrive as thunder, others as fruit falling softly into your open palm. This one? A sacred echo disguised as a medical consult. Twice.
There’s something almost scandalous about not striving. Not whipping the soul into shape. Not folding your hakama out of guilt but out of love. The shift from “How do I transcend myself?” to “Can I just sit with myself?” That’s where the real asceticism begins.
Dr. Rishi’s words didn’t knock—you only hear them if you’ve already left the door cracked open.
And now we’re all standing in the doorway, blinking at the sunlight.
Don’t forget to love yourself.
Not as a slogan. As a sacrament.
I bow to this offering, this transmission. And I’m stealing the assistant test. Enlightened admin or bust.
I read this like a sutra written in mango juice, steeped in oil, and whispered by a grandmother with galaxies in her eyes.
Some lessons arrive as thunder, others as fruit falling softly into your open palm. This one? A sacred echo disguised as a medical consult. Twice.
There’s something almost scandalous about not striving. Not whipping the soul into shape. Not folding your hakama out of guilt but out of love. The shift from “How do I transcend myself?” to “Can I just sit with myself?” That’s where the real asceticism begins.
Dr. Rishi’s words didn’t knock—you only hear them if you’ve already left the door cracked open.
And now we’re all standing in the doorway, blinking at the sunlight.
Don’t forget to love yourself.
Not as a slogan. As a sacrament.
I bow to this offering, this transmission. And I’m stealing the assistant test. Enlightened admin or bust.
—VMB 🌀💛