“I can guide myself only with will and intention. But will and intention are simply part of myself Consequently they are insufficient to express my wholeness. Intention is what I can foresee, and willing is to want a foreseen goal. But where do I find the goal? I take it from what is presently known to me. Thus I set the present in place of the future. In this manner, though I cannot reach the future, I artificially produce a constant present. Everything that would like to break into this present strikes me as a disturbance and I seek to drive it away so that my intention survives. Thus I close off the progress of life. — The Red Book by C. G. Jung

“Anyone can talk about reflection, but he cannot master it if he does not know what the word means… Within our six-foot body we must strive for the form which existed before the laying down of heaven and earth.” — The Secret of the Golden Flower, translated and explained by Richard Wilhelm

In the past couple of weeks, while tending to my garden, I noticed that some of my potted plants — indoors and outdoors — had either stopped growing or begun to show signs of decline.

I removed them from their pots to examine their roots and discovered that many had completely outgrown their containers.

Rather than transferring them into larger pots, I decided to prune their roots first.

As I worked, I encountered dense, tangled masses pressed tightly against the sides of the pots. Air circulation was nearly impossible, and there was barely any soil left to provide nourishment. Roots require oxygen to breathe and sufficient soil to absorb nutrients. Without space, even healthy growth turns into suffocation.

One by one, I untangled them. With tools — and sometimes just my hands — I gently yet firmly combed through the roots again and again. Dead and unhealthy strands loosened and fell away, revealing strong, vital roots capable of sustaining the plant. I also broke apart soil that had been compressed so tightly within the root system that it had hardened like clay.

After clearing the congestion, I returned each plant to its pot with fresh soil. Once freed from
unnecessary roots, the pots felt spacious again. I watered them thoroughly and left them to settle.

I expected signs of shock the next morning. Instead, to my surprise, most of them appeared vibrant — upright and glistening in the early light. As their caretaker, I felt a quiet joy.

That same morning in meditation, the memory of pruning returned to me. It had been demanding work, especially with the thick, net-like root systems that had taken years to establish. Those roots once supported survival and growth. Yet over time, as they multiplied and crowded the space, what had sustained the plant began to constrict it.

In meditation, my focus rests on breathing — in and out — guiding attention into the depth of my body and into my heart. As I stay with the breath, subtle sensations arise in my chest, on both the left and right sides. Paying attention to these sensations by breathing feels like sitting quietly with an old friend with quiet, listening ears, speaking softly of my life — the joys, the pain, the regrets, the wounds.

The body remembers what the mind forgets. Though we may not consciously recall every experience, they remain embedded within us, sometimes deep into the unconsciousness. The body remembers.

When attention is given to the heart, the heart is heard. By staying present with it for a while, it feels acknowledged, seen, and understood, quietly listened to. This is my healing process.

Breathing becomes like combing through tangled roots — patiently, intentionally, with care and love. With each breath, gentle light moves inward, illuminating hidden shadows, or sometimes just a feeling of sorrow. In the physical world, the object that casts a shadow is always smaller than the shadow itself. Likewise, in the mental world, once the true substance of a shadow is recognized and named, it loses much of its commanding power. As unhealthy strands of roots gradually fall away under careful hands, so too do fear and distortion loosen their grip through steady breathing. What remains are the strong roots — love, trust, respect.

Little by little, day by day, past fears, anxieties, regrets, sadness, and unprocessed wounds —
debts unpaid in the currency of attention and love — begin to dissolve.

Judgment is another kind of tangled root. It is part of the human condition; we all judge. We differ only in degree and in how much it clouds our vision. Like densely packed fine roots, judgment and prejudice crowd the mind, preventing us from seeing the world as it truly is.

Fear, anxiety, and unhealthy attachments — especially when my sense of security clings to relationships, money, or others’ opinions — restrict my ability to live fully. I do not know any life other than the one I have now. How, then, can I live it more completely? Appreciate it more deeply? Trust that every experience arrives with something to teach — something to feel, to witness, to explore in the hidden crevices of existence?

When I rise from meditation, I usually feel slightly lighter. Over time, this quiet grooming restores me to myself — to a more direct connection with life’s nourishment. I begin to see things more clearly, less veiled or calloused by delusion, rigid beliefs, or unhealed pain. The beauty beneath the sky, the light behind the clouds, the intricate details of the natural world — life moving through everything.

Each day, I devote the first waking hours to this process: to restore, to heal, to gently loosen
mental entanglements. To live as fully as I can — by letting go, by following the flow, by trusting
my own heart. Life feels refreshing. I simply experience.

When we release rigid, man-made systems of belief and expectation, we become freer to observe the natural order — the Tao and its patterns. We become freer to see people as they truly are, rather than as we project them to be. Day and night coexist. Summer follows winter. Light and darkness both belong. Often it is darkness that allows light to appear luminous.

Within each of us are hidden spaces waiting to be explored. They are not inherently dangerous,
but rich with potential beyond conscious imagination. As I become more comfortable in my own solitude, I can see and feel the new space opening up from my mental pruning. That space allows me to breathe mindfully, to create, to explore, to stretch, or simply to rest, to be.

Such is the beauty and wonder of life, within and without.

All is well….