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Speck of Sand, View from Above: The Overview Effect Doesn’t Need a Rocket Ship

Speck of Sand, View from Above: The Overview Effect Doesn’t Need a Rocket Ship

by | May 24, 2026 | Joy, Life, Meaning, Peace, Zen

Victor Glover, who was an astronaut in the recent Moon expedition said in April 2026 "the gratitude of seeing what we saw, doing what we did and being with who I was with... it's too big to just be in one body".. But then this overview effect is not just one event.. There are many astronauts reported this .. And many of them turned deeply spiritual. Like Edgar Mitchell who started his institute on Noetic science.

The Overview Effect isn't just visual or another experience. It is ontological. Meaning... there comes a sudden, overwhelming knowing that everything is connected and the universe is conscious and intentional. One can't reason one's way to it through any belief system or concepts. It is not something that you go to — it arrives.

But then one does not have to be an astronaut to have one...In the University of Exeter's Stoic Week , they teach you that Stoic meditation. "The View from Above" (Cosmic perspective). Don’t remember was it taught by Pythagoras.. It leaves one with a deep sense of unity and interconnectedness. A reduction of ego and personal anxiety.. and our day to day life problems becomes smaller and manageable/livable.

I think i have that recording... If anyone want to try out ,DM me...

But then It does not have to be view from above and outside.. when we look from inside too one can get that effect.. While sitting in Zazen and Shikatanza , often i experience the same..

Maybe that is why Fr. AMA always discourages me from sharing my experiences from Zazen. He terms it as Makyo — delusions. And also reminds me — it does not happen by our effort. So one shouldn't be egoistic about it. It is a grace.

But then this is not just views from a mountain.. way back in 2012 from Thuwal, KSA i wrote this..

"It has been some 6 years. Musings seems to have lost that melancholic tint. Most probably time still is the best antibiotic on memories. Even my mother's voice was less of tears this time and mostly tinged in matter of fact recollection. And partly orchestrated and rest coincidental, I found myself in the middle of a desert on a rather uneventful death anniversary day of my dad. Absolutely in the middle of nowhere. Almost like the proverbial empty quartet. Miles and miles of very plain land lay in all 8 directions from that oil gathering station. The barren brownish land needed a mercury level to make it self realize that it is not that flat. No tree, leave alone a blade of grass or hill was in sight.

Though the picture was in stark contrast with the lush green picturesque place in hinterland Kerala, where I was born and brought up, there indeed was something exhilarating about this place. Irritatingly the place did look familiar to me. Then I realized the number of hours I had spent as a kid reading the stories of "The thousand and one nights" (Arabian nights) casting a spell now. After all Aladdin got his magic lamp from the souks of Muscat. The deadening silence and sense of space can alter anyone's state of mind and make him a time traveller.

No wonder, Thesiger the last of the great explorers wrote in his classic travelogue "No one can live this life and emerge unchanged". In another perspective it is a paradox. While an oxford educated blue blooded Brit named Thesiger, loathed the modern civilization of cars and other amenities and adored lives of Bedus and nomads of Arabia, most of the current day – sons of soil – 's only aim is "coming to town". It is the town built on reclaimed sea from the riches of oil and banking where camels are replaced by Prados.

As the horizon was bathed in the color of saffron, i became aware of the sun setting not very far off. Maybe it is going into another oil well. The Sun gets more beautiful hues in the desert than in the sea. It is in those rather hazy moments with no specific starting or end points where day meets night, you realize that human lives does mirror nature.

When one visualize oneself rather egotistically as the centre of this vast ocean of sand, it is rather easy to forget as a person we are nothing more than a spec of sand in dunes of time."

The “overview effect” is not tied to altitude but to attitude. Whether through cosmic vision, desert silence, or the ordinariness of Zazen, it’s the same shift: the ego dissolves, and one sees oneself as a speck of sand in the dunes of time.

The Overview Effect can be even from the inside out, not from above. The desert, like space, offers negative capability: a scale so vast that the usual stories stop running.

One doesn’t need to leave the planet. One just need enough silence, enough flatness, enough saffron light, for the "I" to soften at its edges.  That's the real gift, isn't it? That the effect is available to anyone willing to sit still enough—whether on a cushion, in a desert, or just closing their eyes and letting the view from above settle in. No spacesuit required.

Standing in line and Sitting in silence.

Standing in line and Sitting in silence.

by | May 21, 2026 | Harmony, Integrity, Joy, Life, Meaning

Kerala ex-CM Pinarayi Vijayan waiting for a train at Kannur station… it reminds me of those earlier gestures of ordinariness my father Sankara spoke of—Achutha Menon quietly boarding a KSRTC bus back to Thrissur, EMS living in a small party flat in Thiruvananthapuram till the very end. Power there is not a throne to cling to, but something handed back without fuss.

Kerala, God's own country and devil's too, carries this paradox in its people. Educated, alert, unwilling to tolerate arrogance—even when the government has achievements to show, they vote it out. And those who lose power do not resist returning to ordinary life. They stand at bus stops, railway platforms, in small apartments, blending back into the crowd.

Once, Sandeep Dixit came to APU as a guest lecturer on Policy and Politics. I asked him about his mother Sheila Dikshit—who governed Delhi for fifteen years, who held a capital city of millions in her hands, who oversaw its transformation through the Commonwealth Games years. He answered without performance, without pride or self-pity. She lives in a small apartment, he said. No lift. Knee pain keeps her from going down the stairs, from attending any public function.

That detail landed quietly but hard.

Power is partly logistics—cars, offices, access, priority, crowds parting. The moment it ends, you discover how much of your physical world was organised around that apparatus. The knees that once carried her through rallies and corridors now needed a lift that wasn't there. The radius of a former Chief Minister reduced to the walls of a walkup flat.

And yet—no bitterness in how Sandeep said it. Just a fact. This is where she lives. This is her world now.

It rhymes with the Pinarayi photograph in a way that surprises you. Both images strip away the Monroe mask and leave just a person. One sitting on a platform bench, waiting for a train that will not wait for him. One sitting inside, unable to go down the stairs.

But you don't have to lose power to practice this ordinariness. Some carry it while still at the peak.

At Wipro, I saw Azim Premji walk into the cafeteria many times — then Chairman of one of India's great corporations — and simply join the queue. No aide holding a tray, no table reserved, no subtle parting of the crowd. He would stand and wait his turn like everyone else, and he always chose the Healthy Menu. Now, I was never entirely sure whether that was a genuine commitment to nutrition or simply the wisdom of a shorter queue — and I say this having tasted it once, it was not particularly appetizing. But there he was. The chairman. Waiting. Choosing the simpler thing.

There is something in that image that belongs alongside the railway platform and the walkup apartment. Not loss, not limitation — but choice. A daily, quiet, almost stubborn insistence on not letting the Monroe mask harden into the only face you have.

And then there is Fr. AMA — our Zen Master at Kanzeon Zendo. His ninetieth birthday was not a different day. As usual, he was there for early morning zazen, sitting in silence as he has through decades of dawns, as if the years themselves were just passing weather. After the sitting, we all joined together to cut a cake and wish him. Before that I asked him — how does it feel to be ninety?

He smiled. And said: "Tired and peaceful."

Not grateful. Not blessed. Not the performance of a milestone. Just two words carrying the honest weight of ninety years, with nowhere left to hide and no desire to hide anywhere. A man who never put the Monroe mask on in the first place — and so had nothing to remove, nothing to hand back, nothing to prove by standing in a queue or sitting on a platform bench.

The cake came after the silence. That detail is everything.

There is a teaching here: roles dissolve, presence remains. The train platform, the bus seat, the cafeteria queue, the apartment without a lift, the zazen cushion on a ninetieth birthday morning — these are not falls from grace, but reminders that masks cannot last forever. Kerala's greatest gift may not be its backwaters or greenery, but this democratic ordinariness — where even ex-Chief Ministers wait with the people, unadorned, unafraid. And perhaps Delhi's most honest image is not its monuments or its power corridors, but a former CM quietly watching the city she built from a window she can no longer easily leave. And perhaps corporate India's most quietly radical image is a billionaire chairman holding a cafeteria tray, wondering, like the rest of us, whether the healthy option is really worth it.

And perhaps the most radical image of all is a Zen master on his ninetieth birthday, sitting in the same silence he sat in on every other day — because for him, there was never a mask to slip.

It is both God's country and devil's country because it refuses to sanctify power. What it sanctifies instead is the ordinary pulse of life.

The train platform, the apartment without a lift, the cafeteria queue, the zazen cushion — all say the same thing.

You were never the chair. You were always just yourself.

Where Else…

Where Else…

by | Apr 19, 2026 | Joy, Life, Literature, Meaning, Relationships

The van, the auto, the waste cart, the seaside library, the guest room, the kitchen – all are libraries. All are literature.

On the way to Kochi, someone had named his tourist carrier Rumi Ride. A Force Urbania. Dark grey. Kollam registration. And right in the middle of Cherai beach — not a bookshop, not a university — a two-storeyed library. Named Janakeya Vayanasala. A People’s Reading Room, in Malayalam. As if the beach needed one. As if, of course it does.

Francis Bacon, Father of Science, wrote in his essay Of Studies — Reading maketh a full man, Writing an exact man. Most people stop there. But the full sentence adds: conference a ready man. Conversation. Dialogue. The third leg. The one we always drop, as if reading and writing alone were enough. Bacon knew better. Readiness is not solitary. It happens in the presence of another mind.

In Kerala, that third leg has always been the street. Not the seminar hall. The street corner where an auto driver names his vehicle after a novel.

A few years ago, a photo went around of an auto in Kerala. The driver, Pradeep, had named his three-wheeler The Alchemist — after reading the Malayalam translation of Paulo Coelho’s novel. That was ten years before the photo was taken. He had changed the vehicle a couple of times. He never changed the name. Someone photographed it, tagged Coelho on Twitter, and the Brazilian writer — fifteen million followers — reposted it with just this: Kerala, India (thank you very much for the photo). Pradeep became an internet sensation without quite intending to. Coelho probably smiled and moved on. But the auto kept running. Same name. Same roads.

And then there is Dhanuja Kumari. She is a sanitation worker in Thiruvananthapuram, with the Haritha Karma Sena — the door-to-door waste collection service. She dropped out of school in the ninth grade. She began writing on scrap paper. Not to publish. Just to cope. What came out was a memoir — Chengalchoolayile Ente Jeevitham. My Life in Chengalchoola. Published in 2014. By 2024, it was part of the BA curriculum at Kannur University and the MA curriculum at Calicut University. She still collects waste in the mornings. She is writing her second book. Her colony has a library. She started it. It is called Wings of Women.

Two libraries. One on a beach, one in a colony. Both named after people.

Pradeep changed the vehicle. Never the name. Dhanuja wrote on scrap paper. It ended up in syllabi.

I remember reading, a long time ago, how Mahasweta Devi — the Bengali literary giant — encouraged an ordinary rickshaw puller (Manoranjan Byapari) to write. It stayed with me. I didn’t know then why. I think I do now.

After my own days of trauma — the nights, the twilights, the dawns — I sat in an online writing workshop and learned one thing. Perspectives matter. But more than that: those who have suffered, who have tasted the salt in their own tears — they are the ones who write literature. Mostly.

Rumi on a tourist van. Coelho on an autorickshaw. A library facing the sea.

Where else.

On our last day at Kochi, I told Nishad, who was taking care of us at Kochi, that we got to pay a visit to Kaladi Sankara’s birthplace. I had been there a couple of times. Thara has not. In the dedication page of my first published book “Fallen Flower and Fragrant Grass”, I had penned, “There were three Sankaras in my life.. EMS, Sankara and Adi Sankara. Of the three, it was Sankara, my late father, who taught me without teaching me to walk on the Middle Way between left and right. I dedicate this book to his wonderful memories.” And on our way, there was a board Pazhayidam Naivedyam. That triggered a photo of a Sadya on leaf shared by my sister Sandhya when she was visiting Guruvayoor, just a week back. My sister Sandhya, my nephew Anand, and my brother-in-law Manjunath — when they visited Guruvayoor last month — had their lunch at Pazhayidam Ruchi, a restaurant run by him.

Pazhayidam Mohanan Namboothiri.

And then, in the kitchen, another stage: Pazhayidam (literally “Old Place” in Malayalam, often contrasted with Puthiyaidam — “New Place”) is always fresh in taste. A six-flavoured culinary art that never tires the eater. Even those weary of life, ready to die, find themselves returning to the rasa — the essence of life — through it… He would say that life thirty years ago was not beautiful. After completing a degree in chemistry, there was a search for jobs. Nothing was working out. He started supplying equipment to school and college laboratories. That too failed midway. Then he began to lose hope. He was 28 years old. Sitting at home without any work or employment, he even thought of death. Even when he was completely depressed, he did not forget the path to the Kuttichathan Public Library. Behind that journey was his love for M.T.’s stories. When it felt like darkness was ahead, standing at a junction, he happened to flip through a weekly magazine hanging in a shop. In it was the beginning of M.T. Vasudevan Nair’s Randamoozham. It started like this: “That day, the sea had a dark colour…” He read the chapter titled Yatra two or three times. His mind told him that if he left the world without finishing this novel, it would be a loss. He journeyed with the novel until the 51st issue. Later, as brand ambassador for a food product, Mohanan Namboothiri earned his name and fame cooking for thousands at Kerala School Festival (one of the most reported events in Kerala), holding rare records and earning accolades.

Not sure Sandhya was aware of the story.

On our way to Kochi, Thara and I stayed at Usha Aunty and Dr. Radhakrishnan’s home in Coimbatore. Family friends for forty years. In the guest room, on the table there was a book. The Academy of Magic. Written by their granddaughter, Sanvi. A schoolgirl. Just that — a child’s first published story. No syllabus. No struggle. Only the ordinary miracle of a child who wrote. Who knows. I was about to take it and read it, then Nyra, the author’s cousin sister walked in to talk to Thara and I, and the rest of the evening went for it. So I added that book to my reading queue. The title of the book sounds like one of those J.K. Rowling series. “The Academy of Magic”. Who knows she may be the next J.K. Rowling.

The van, the auto, the waste cart, the seaside library, the guest room, the kitchen — all are libraries. All are literature.

Where else? Everywhere there is hunger. Not for food. For the thing that makes food worth making. Last month, my family sat at his table. They didn’t need to know. That’s how it works.

Being Irrelevant, and Other Things I Learned at University…

Being Irrelevant, and Other Things I Learned at University…

by | Apr 6, 2026 | Career, Change, Friendship, Life, Meaning

[Photo: Rupali, Flavia, and me — outside Pixel Park, APU Campus, Bangalore, during one of our APU days. Original photo reimagined as a time-travel — returning us to the child’s seat, a gentle leap backward into the schoolyard of learning and ordinariness. 🙂 ]]

There is a particular kind of madness in going back to university in your forties. Not an online course. Not a weekend workshop. A full-time, show-up-every-day, write-your-assignments, sit-in-a-classroom PG course— surrounded by students who were born around the time you were writing your first appraisal at work. In 2016, that is exactly what I did, walking away from a perfectly good career in IT to join Azim Premji University, Bangalore, for an MA in Education. I had watched that old comedy Back to School as a teenager and found it funny. I had no idea I was taking notes.

During those two years, I was the oldest student in the university. Many of the professors were younger than me — including my erstwhile colleague Vikas Maniar. I think I did attempt to follow his footsteps. After an MBA from IIMA, he had built a great career at Wipro, then moved on to work in the social sector, and eventually did a Ph.D. from TISS on Education. His was one of the courses I attended — in fact, I did two courses with him.

There were other real stalwart professors too: Dr. Rohit Dhankar (Philosophy of Education), Dr. Kaustav Roy (Marx to Laing to Phenomenology to Hermeneutics!), Dr. Rajasshree, Dr. Indira Vijayasimha, and Dr. Indrani Bhattacharji — who taught me, or tried to teach me, Epistemology. She had two Ph.Ds, the second one from the University of Massachusetts on Epistemology. And she had Gettier as one of her professors there. Gettier deserves a full blog of his own — the philosopher who dismantled Plato's theory of Justified True Belief in roughly 800 words, producing one of the most cited papers in the history of Philosophy.

But my best memories from those two years are a handful of moments.

One. Along with me, two of my friends from Sobha Hillview had joined the course. We used to carpool. Rupali and Flavia. And here is the thing — when we were classmates at APU, Flavia's son Ryan, Rupali's son Raghav, and my son Rishi were simultaneously classmates at The Valley School, KFI, Bangalore. Three parents studying the philosophy of education, while their sons shared a classroom at a Krishnamurti school. I am not sure life gets more poetic than that. All three of us did quite well too in the course— firmly on the right-hand side of the bell curve. 🙂

Two. I got elected to the Student Council during the first year — after surviving an open debate in front of all voters, where two of my opponents were genuinely brilliant orators. One had graduated from Visva-Bharati, the other from St. Stephen's. A long time ago, I had lost a college union election at Government Victoria College quite badly. That had sat as something incomplete on a checklist inside my heart. This felt like closing that loop. Though my bosses boss at Wipro was then Vice Chancelor of University, I could organize protest against  parking fee hike or food quality at canteen etc- a delicious iron not lost on me.  🙂

Three. Once, I received an O+ for one of my papers, and I was trying to use it to motivate my son Manu — showing off, really. He immediately replied: "Papa, when I was 12, my football coach made me play in the age group of 10, and we won a football match. So at this age, getting an O+ while studying with younger people is no big deal. It is like me going back to Primary Class 2."

He deflated my ego balloon with a sharp and incisive argument. After that, I never shared my grades with him. And luckily, universities do not have CTMs — Child-Teacher Meetings for reviewing parents-as-students.

A few years after I left APU, Manu did get an admission there. I wrote to my professor: "My son Manas is going to join your university — and BEWARE, he is a tougher nut with a sharper mind." Pat came the reply: "We took care of you. We will take care of your son too. Send him here."

But then he chose Jindal Global University. So they never had to.

And lastly — during the Covid years, I tried to get into a Ph.D. at ISEC, a prestigious institute in Bangalore. I managed to rank 2nd in their entrance exam. The interview was online. The Director scanned through my one-page research proposal — "A Phenomenological Analysis of Krishnamurti's Teaching in Education" — and asked, very derisively, "Can't you do something useful?"

I feigned as if I had not heard that comment.

Then he said, "Who is going to guide you in these things? If you choose another, more relevant proposal, come and meet us."

I never went back. Maybe I never had another relevant research proposal for him. Or maybe I was simply irrelevant.

That research proposal, by the way, was my thesis course for three full credits with Dr. Kaustav Roy in the final semester, and I had wanted to continue working on it. Krishnamurti's ideas on education — on freedom, attention, and the nature of the self — are not a footnote. They are a living question.

But perhaps that is a story for another blog.

The photo above was shared by all three of us on our Facebook pages back in the day — Flavia, Rupali, and me, outside Pixel Park, bags on our backs, heading into class. Older than most of our professors. Younger than we had ever felt.

Perhaps that is what Back to School really meant — not returning to classrooms, but returning to the child's seat, where learning is renewed by ordinariness, irrelevance, and play.

Dilbar Coffee

Dilbar Coffee

by | Mar 17, 2026 | Harmony, Joy, Life, Meaning, Zen

 

Some of the most remarkable insights in life have not come from self-made billionaires on Forbes covers. Or spiritual gurus on mountain tops. The most unexpected people, in the most ordinary moments taught me those wonderful life lessons.

This is one of those.

During those days, post covid Corporates were trying to get out of work from home rule. My boss was in faraway Zurich gave me the freedom to decide. But one jealous senior colleague, with whom I had an argument, did not like that. He made sure that I had to visit my work office in the United States of Sarjapur at least on once in a week. Corporate office was in the United States of Sarjapur, northeast of normal Bangalore. Every second Thursday I would drive cross-country very early in the morning. The reason was simple. To avoid an hour of meditation at the infamous visa and passport check at Silk Board junction. 😄

An early morning breakfast at TRC was a routine affair. That's where I first met Dilbar. The quiet, friendly barista at TRC, brewing that perfect South Indian filter coffee like it was the most important thing in the world.

And in a way, it was.

Now let me tell you a little about Dilbar. He is from Assam — a young boy who failed his 10th standard, with no degree, no diploma, no connections. Just a quiet desperation to support his family. So he did what many young boys from smaller towns do: he packed whatever little he had and came down to Bangalore in search of a job. Any job.

And somewhere along the way, he found coffee. Or perhaps coffee found him.

I was seeing him after some time when I asked whether he had been on leave. He, self-effacingly, replied that he had been in Mumbai. When I persisted, he said he had been at Mota Bhai's house. He was one of those who went with the TRC team for Mota Bhai's son's wedding. And it so seems Mota Bhai and another family member had taken a liking to his South Indian filter coffee .

Now here is where the story gets interesting. In India, no one says no to Mota Bhai. So when his managers spoke to Dilbar's employer, there was no notice period. Dilbar was now working at one of the most prestigious addresses in India — may be beyond India too.

His entire job there was to make one or two cups of coffee. Every single day. For Mota Bhai. And the ritual was something else. When Mota Bhai arrived for breakfast, his personal butler would radio the kitchen manager. Only then would Dilbar begin his work. He would brew that perfect cup, hand it to the kitchen manager, who would walk it to the butler, who would then serve it.

A relay of respect, for one cup of coffee.

But here is the twist in the tale.

After a few days, Dilbar got bored. Not even the other kitchen staff drank coffee — they were either tea drinkers or badam milk people. 😄 A coffee maker with no one to make coffee for.

Think about it: a musician without an audience. Sanju Samson batting in front of an empty stadium. A writer without a reader (like me?). Or a barista without that beautiful chaos of steam, clinking cups, and a queue of sleepy people waiting for their first hit of caffeine.

Making two cups in a palace, how much soever prestigious in LinkedIn — safe and secure, but not alive. So after a few days, he walked up to the kitchen manager and said he wanted to leave. Word reached Mota Bhai. He did not meeting him in person. Through the kitchen manager he enquired and offered to double his salary.

Some one who as a master communicator thru Coffee, Dilbar had to struggle to explain: it is not about the money. This is a society of spectacle where increments on a payslip, or designations in LinkedIn profile are success barometers. In this world, Dilbar's quiet "no" was nothing short of a revolution. Corporate workshops spend millions trying to teach Corpoarzens this: "purpose over package".

Because how do you explain to the richest man in the country that a craftsman needs his crowd? That a barista needs his rush? That making two cups a day, how much soever prestigious, is not living — it is mere existence?

Think about what happened here. A boy who failed his 10th standard, from a small town in Assam, was being offered a doubled salary by the richest man in India — and he said no. Not out of arrogance, not out of foolishness, but out of a deep, unshakeable understanding of what truly fulfils him.

How many of us — with our degrees, our MBAs, our LinkedIn profiles — can say that with such clarity? Sooner than later, he was back. To TRC. To his station. To his thousands of coffees a day (including the one for yours truly 🙂). Back to the chaos, the steam, the noise, the orders. Back to where he belonged.

No fanfare, no Instagram post, no "as seen at Mota Bhai's house" badge on his apron.

A man, his coffee, and his calling.

And this story dismantles a myth we all grew up believing — that success is a linear ladder, always pointing upward. For Dilbar, success was a circle that led him right back to his station at TRC. He didn't see working for India's richest man as a promotion. He saw it as a detour.

Think about it. In one of the most discussed wedding where everything was curated to perfection. In that world of million dollar wrist watches and Michelin-star menus, what lingered was a humble cup of South Indian filter coffee. Brewed by a boy who failed his 10th, who travelled from Assam to Bangalore with nothing but hope.

That's not luck. That's mastery.

And mastery, I have come to believe, has nothing to do with where you studied, or where you come from, or what certificate is framed on your wall. Mastery lives in your hands and heart—not in your head. And in the way you show up for your craft every single day in an honest manner.

In a city like Bangalore, which runs on ambition and caffeine, Dilbar is as essential as the morning news. Some people don't chase the spotlight. The spotlight finds them. And some people — after standing in the spotlight — quietly walk back to where their soul sings ☕.

Now here is the part that gave me goosebumps. I looked up the meaning of his name. Dilbar, in Urdu, translates to one who fills the heart. A boy named Dilbar, who fills hearts for a living, with a cup of coffee. You can't make this up. He doesn't only serve coffee. He administers a small dose of warmth, and a quiet sense of normalcy, to hundreds of strangers every single morning. He brewed a life lesson. And yes, some coffee does fill the heart. Especially when someone whose heart is already full makes it. The boy from Assam taught me more about purpose, mastery, and self-awareness than most books I have ever read.

Some people inspire me. Some people remind me that purpose is brewed, not bought. And yes—there are things money can’t buy. For everything else, there’s Mastercard.

P.S. When I first shared this story with my near and dear over WhatsApp, I did include his photograph — taken with his permission. After his narration, over a second cup of coffee, I told him I was going to share this in my group, and he said okay. But as I write this for reach, I realise the story's soul is that this man walked away from the spotlight. As a coach, the most empathetic thing I can do is not drag him back into one without his full, informed blessing. So Dilbar's face remains, in a befitting manner, between the steam and the silence

Dilbar taught me that purpose is brewed, not bought. But if you'd like to help me keep brewing these stories, you're welcome to buy me a coffee — every cup fuels the next.

☕ buymeacoffee.com/vishysankara.     

Or simply click the coffee cup on the right side of this page — it's always warm and waiting. 😄

 

When the North Star Disappears — Lost Is Where It Begins…

When the North Star Disappears — Lost Is Where It Begins…

by | Mar 10, 2026 | Life, Meaning, Transformation, Zen

Since olden times, people looked outward for direction. Sailors on sea, wanderers in desert, travellers on land—all leaned on North Star and compass. They became symbols of constancy, external lighthouses available at any point of time. They remind us of the human need for validation, for something outside ourselves to say: this is the way.

But as with all symbols, context undoes them.

At the North Pole, Polaris is no longer a guide—it hangs directly overhead, dissolving its function as "north." In Norway's summer months, as a Norwegian friend at the Zendo described, the sun refuses to set—and locals speak of "time-free zones," where the ordinary rhythm of day and night disappears. Near magnetic poles or iron-rich lands, the compass needle falters, pointing in strange directions. In those places, navigators abandon it altogether.

Thomas Kuhn wrote that paradigms change only when experience breaks the programmed frame. These examples show the same truth: guides are not absolute, they are contextual. The North Star and compass are reliable until they are not.

What is harder to name is the in-between. The moment the star disappears but the inner light has not yet steadied. That gap—disorienting, even frightening—is perhaps the most honest place on the journey. Many turn back here, reaching for a familiar guide even when they sense it has begun to mislead them. The known wrong direction feels safer than the unknown right one.

The poet David Whyte, reflecting on Dante's opening lines from the Commedia—"in the middle of the road of my life, I awoke in a dark wood where the true way was wholly lost"—offers a striking reframe: "How do you know you're on your path? Because it disappears. That's how you know." The loss of the way is not a failure. It is a signal. A threshold.

The Zen tradition calls it don't-know mind. Not ignorance—something subtler. The willingness to stand in open uncertainty without rushing to fill it. To let the question breathe before the answer comes.

Rumi points to the same field: out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and right doing, there is a field. When the compass loses its north, that field opens.

The Tao Te Ching whispers the same: the Tao that can be named is not the eternal Tao. What guides us most deeply resists being fixed, pointed to, written down. The ancient Chinese navigators of the interior did not seek a star to follow—they sought a quality of listening, a receptivity to what the moment itself was asking. Wu wei—not forcing, not grasping. Moving with what is, not against it.

The Salish people of the Pacific Northwest speak to this directly. In a teaching recounted in David Wagoner's poem Lost, young ones ask the elder: what do I do when I am lost in the forest? The answer was not to search harder or move faster. It was to stand still. To stop imposing direction. The forest knows where you are. You must let it find you. Whyte, reflecting on this teaching, draws the Zen parallel himself: the elders of the Northwest and the masters of Zen were pointing at the same truth—that the deepest orientation does not come from our seeking, but from our allowing.

There is a difference between surrender and giving up. Giving up turns away from the journey. Surrender turns toward it—with empty hands. To release a guide is not to abandon the path; it is to trust that the path continues even when the markers disappear. That trust is itself a form of navigation.

In our human journey, external guides—teachers, traditions, communities—can illuminate the way. But there are moments when they fail, when the compass lies or the star disappears. Then the invitation is to turn inward, to cultivate an inner compass, to discern direction from lived experience, silence, and presence.

The North Star and compass are not wrong; they are incomplete. They remind us of our longing for orientation, but also of the wisdom to know when to trust them—and when to let go.

And this is why the Buddha said: Appo deepo bhava—be a light unto yourself.

When the outer lights go dark, we do not become lost. We become ready.

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