(This post is in response to the kind invitation by Dr. Tamy Faireman M.D.)
Thank you Dr.
Choosing me for this reflection, amidst all the voices out there, feels like a singular honour.
I deeply appreciate being seen in this way.
Thank you. Truly. Your nomination in ‘‘Sunshine Blogger Award’’ is a gentle nudge, a welcome invitation to pause amidst the daily currents and truly feel what life is calling forth.
For anyone who doesn’t know
https://substack.com/@tamyfaierman?utm_source=global-search
Dr. Tamy is a remarkable journeywoman from the intricate world of cosmetic surgery to a profound soul surgeon of the written word.
Through her Substack, she generously shares her wisdom, seamlessly weaving together insights on science, self-discovery, and the vital awareness of the present moment.
Her actionable tips offer a true lifeline for anyone navigating the tides of stress in their daily lives.
The Sunshine Blogger Award Rules:
• Display the Award’s official logo somewhere on your blog (as your badge : ).
• Thank the person who nominated you.
• Provide a link to your nominator’s blog.
• Answer your nominator’s questions
• Nominate up to 11 bloggers.
- Provide up to 11 questions for your nominees
And now, I'd like to extend that invitation to others whose voices and perspectives I deeply admire.
My answers to Dr.
‘s questions.1 - What is Life calling forth in You?
The quiet hum had grown louder, a frequency only I could hear, urging me to finally choose the path that felt like my own feet on my own pavement.
It isn't about avoiding the strange, dark corners anymore; it is about stepping into them, alone, if necessary.
2. Are you LOL-ing = Living Out Loud?
Not really.
Not yet, anyway.
The concept floats around me sometimes, like a familiar, half-forgotten tune played from a distant window.
I'm on it, though. Definitely on it.
There's no turning back, no shying away from the climb now.
3. Are you really, Living Out Loud?
I don't think so.
Not truly.
The question itself feels like a ripple in a quiet pond, disturbing a surface that has long preferred stillness. There's a particular kind of sound that echoes when you truly live out loud, a resonance that I haven't quite mastered, or perhaps, haven't quite allowed myself to produce.
It's like knowing the melody but still fumbling with the keys.
The urge is there, a faint, insistent thrum beneath the everyday quiet, but the full orchestra remains largely unplayed.
4. Is your mind your master or your servant?
The mind, it has its part to play, of course.
It's the loyal guard dog, always alert, sniffing out shadows, doing its protective duties.
But it's not the one driving the car.
The real navigator sits elsewhere:
in the quiet hum of intuition, the deep, wordless wisdom of the heart,
the profound stillness of silence, and that unmistakable clench in the gut.
My role is to listen to all of them, to hold the meeting, as it were.
And after that strange, internal council concludes, I am the one who makes the final decision.
The mind presents the data; the heart provides the direction.
And I, well, I simply choose.
5. How do you manage your sticky thoughts, those that recur and don’t leave you alone?
They arrive, unannounced, sometimes at dawn, sometimes in the deep quiet of 3 AM, like unexpected guests ringing the doorbell.
These recurring thoughts, tenacious and insistent, often feel like pebbles stuck in the sole of your shoe – small, but persistently annoying.
My method, if you could call it that, is rather simple, and perhaps a little peculiar.
I find a quiet place, perhaps a worn armchair in a sunbeam, and I simply sit with them. I don't try to shoo them away, nor do I immediately offer them tea.
Instead, I just listen to them.
It's like an old Rumi poem I once stumbled upon, about welcoming every sorrow and bitterness as a guide. I imagine each thought, no matter how unsettling or dull, taking a seat across from me.
I let them speak, let them show me whatever it is they feel compelled to reveal. Sometimes, they present a puzzle, sometimes a shadow from a forgotten room.
I simply observe, without judgment, letting their narratives unfold.
And then, once they've had their say, once their peculiar energy has dissipated a little, I make a quiet choice.
Do I select a piece of what they offered, a small, polished stone of insight?
Or do I simply let them go, watching them fade like smoke rings into the ceiling, leaving only the quiet hum of the refrigerator behind?
It's a delicate process, this hospitality of the mind.
6. How do you open to your subconscious without words?
The subconscious, it's a deep, murky well, isn't it?
Full of forgotten things, strange voices , and sometimes, unexpected flashes of light.
Words, those clumsy, everyday tools, often feel entirely inadequate for plumbing its depths.
For me, it often begins with the simplest of acts: breathwork.
A deliberate, rhythmic inhale, a slow, full exhale. It's like a quiet, internal tide, gently pulling back the surface layers of the conscious mind, revealing something vast and shimmering beneath.
Then there are long showers.
The steam, the white noise of the water, the way the droplets run down the tiles, mimicking silent tears or forgotten rivers.
In that warm, misty space, thoughts seem to dissolve, and something else, something without clear edges or names, begins to surface. It's a peculiar kind of cleansing, not just for the body.
Sometimes, it's intuitive calligraphy art.
No plan, no expectation, just the ink and water creating and mingling, moving, guided by liberation that feels less like my own and more like a conduit.
The ink spreads, lines form, and something unsaid takes shape on the page, like a message sent from a distant, dreamlike shore.
And then, of course, there's the earth.
Lying on grass, feeling the tiny, insistent pressure of each blade against my back, the slow, rhythmic pulse of the planet beneath me.
Or simply sitting with trees, their ancient, silent presence absorbing the static of the day, allowing me to hear the fainter whispers that rise from within.
In those moments, the world itself seems to speak, not in words, but in a language of roots and sky, and my own subconscious, without needing to translate, seems to understand perfectly.
7. How do you cultivate presence, silence, and stillness in your daily life?
Cultivating these things, it's less about grand gestures and more about finding tiny, almost invisible cracks in the ordinary flow of days.
It often begins with the simple act of walking.
Not going anywhere in particular, just the rhythm of feet on pavement, the subtle shift of air, the way the light falls on a brick wall. It's a kind of moving meditation, allowing thoughts to drift by without catching hold.
Then there's breathwork, of course. A few deep, deliberate breaths, anchoring me to the precise moment, pulling me back from the chaotic periphery.
My tea-drinking ritual is another anchor.
The slow heating of the water, the scent of the leaves unfurling, the warmth of the cup in my hands. It's a small, deliberate pause, a sacred moment carved out of the daily rush, where only the present exists.
Sometimes, it's just moving my body however it wants to.
A stretch, a sway, a spontaneous dance in the kitchen.
It releases the tightness, the stored-up tension, allowing a different kind of quiet to settle in. And the showers, those warm, misty cocoons, are perfect for washing away not just the day's grime, but also its insistent chatter.
Rest, true, unburdened rest, is vital. Yoga Nidra helps.
Not just sleep, but conscious downtime, where nothing is demanded, nothing needs to be achieved.
And reading, losing myself completely in a story, allows my own mind to quiet, as if on vacation.
It makes perfect sense how calligraphy art would become such a sacred anchor for me. The focused precision, the rhythm of the brush or pen, the deliberate shaping of each line – it's a profound way to quiet the mind.
Your racing thoughts simply can't keep up with that level of singular presence, can they?
It pulls you completely into the moment, creating that stillness you seek.
Finally, there's the peculiar ritual of stream of consciousness writing. Putting pen to paper, letting the words flow without judgment, without direction.
It's a way of emptying the mind, of seeing what strange and wonderful things reside within, leaving a vast, quiet space behind.
It's in these small, deliberate acts that presence finds its foothold, and silence,
like an old friend, settles in.
Here are my 5 questions for Creators on Substack.
You have a choice to answer a few or all of these questions.
Sometimes big life events, like heartbreak or a difficult time, show us that nothing lasts forever. Has a moment like this made you realize that life is just a passing time, and how did that change what's important to you?
Your work consistently leaves me in awe of its beauty and depth. Could you share a glimpse into your creative process and tell us, how do you manage to bring such artistry/creativity and insight into everything you do?
Imagine a scenario where belief in you is absent, and resources are scarce.
In such a moment, what would compel you: to endure the present circumstances, or to actively seek a path where you could definitively conquer every obstacle, despite the unknown ahead?
….. Despite the unknown ahead?
Can you recall a specific event or experience that profoundly shifted your life's trajectory, altering your path in a fundamental way?
Thank you all beautiful souls for inspiring me with wonder and curiosity.
I cant wait to read your responses.
Ending with beautiful words of
It’s through engagement with others that we get to meet our own selves more deeply.
And we don’t have to do this Life alone , after all, WE ARE ALL JUST WALKING EACH OTHER HOME.
Thankyou for reading.
You can join Well Being Society if you like their work.
Loved getting to know you through these prompts, Ayesha. Thank you for sharing yourself so openly 💖✨🥰
Thank you for the invitation, Ayesha! Your words are honest and beautiful "It isn't about avoiding the strange, dark corners anymore; it is about stepping into them, alone, if necessary." Yes!