“You are not a drop in the ocean. You are the entire ocean in a drop.” —Rumi
In the final days of the year, a deliberate ritual unfolded. Standing in the backyard with twenty-five years of journals—dense with prayers, confessions, and late-night spirals—she chose to release them to fire. The act was not theatrical. It was precise, calm, and intentional, reflecting a decision made years earlier to end daily journaling that had long ceased to serve insight.
Those notebooks had functioned like an inner courtroom. Page after page accumulated evidence, not for understanding but for indictment—of self and others. The entries documented adaptive shrinking, people-pleasing, and a sophisticated capacity to gaslight oneself in the name of harmony. The premise was that writing equaled healing; in practice, it frequently became prosecutorial rather than restorative.
When she reviewed the volumes one last time, a striking continuity emerged. The first pages carried the fervent petitions of a devout fifteen-year-old, asking for guidance. The final entries, decades later, appealed to guides and energies for the same direction. The terminology had shifted; the energy had not. Across births, moves, career changes, and evolving spiritual identities, the operative pattern remained: a persistent orientation toward being saved by forces beyond personal agency.
Her language revealed a recurring storyline: life as something happening to a powerless passenger who could not quite name the forces at work. Variations of the same refrains appeared repeatedly—Please help me stop doing this; Why does this keep happening to me?; I don’t know why I can’t change; When will the perfect thing I need be delivered? The subtext was clear: authority lay elsewhere.
This posture resembled spiritual bypassing disguised as reverence. It felt devotional, humble, and like surrender—but there is a measurable difference between wise surrender and abdication of responsibility. That difference became impossible to ignore when a mentor in a shamanic training program observed, without judgment: “You’re relating to the spiritual realm like you have no agency.”
The observation unsettled long-held assumptions. Wasn’t asking the heavens the point? Over time, the distinction clarified: prayer is not synonymous with powerlessness. One is permitted to ask for what is wanted, to choose, and to lead a life—especially when believing in realities greater than oneself.
This insight created a discipline of noticing. Each time familiar phrases appeared—if it’s meant to be, it will be; I’m waiting for confirmation; the Universe will show me when it’s time—she paused and recalibrated. The pattern was not fate; it was habit. The consequences were tangible: staying too long in misaligned relationships framed as “lessons,” deferring opportunities in the name of “divine timing,” and postponing dreams until an “effortless” path appeared.
In hindsight, decision-making had been outsourced to the cosmos. The simpler, braver conclusion emerged: she had been waiting for permission from herself. This turning point reframed spirituality as participation rather than passivity—consistent with dharmic wisdom that honors both grace and effort.
The shift began in small, rigorous ways. Instead of consulting cards about whether to apply for a role, she asked what she actually wanted. Instead of praying for clarity in a difficult relationship, she acknowledged what was already known about needs and boundaries. Instead of waiting for a sign to change, she changed—accepting uncertainty while acting with care.
Old doubts rose in protest—Who is she to decide, to want, to act without cosmic approval?—yet they gradually quieted as a more integrated stance solidified. Spirituality did not require smallness. Faith did not negate will. Mystery did not erase importance. It became possible to honor unpredictability and still choose, to trust timing and still move, to surrender outcomes and still accept full responsibility for decisions.
So the journals burned. Not out of denial, but out of completion. There was no need to relive every crisis or revisit every plea—Save me. Fix me. Tell me what to do. Bring me what I need. The fire closed a chapter of petition without participation.
Attention turned to authorship of the year ahead: not appeals for rescue, not dossiers for self-accusation, but truth—messy, imperfect, and still powerful. A life could be written as active collaboration, not passive waiting.
The orientation matured: still spiritual, still reverent toward mystery and the unseen, yet no longer relating to the sacred from a posture of helplessness. Prayer now resembled partnership rather than begging; requests sought support, not salvation; signs were welcomed but not required for permission to live. The animating principle coalesced into a single sentence: the Universe does not want obedience; it wants participation.
This reframing aligns with the unifying ethos of dharmic traditions. Hindu thought emphasizes puruṣārtha (purposeful striving) alongside surrender; Buddhist teaching encourages disciplined self-reliance and mindful choice; Jain philosophy centers on self-effort and ethical accountability; Sikh wisdom integrates spiritual devotion with responsible action (Miri-Piri). Across these streams, a shared insight emerges: grace meets the one who moves with awareness, courage, and compassion.
Reclaiming agency, then, is not a rejection of the sacred but a return to it. Participation becomes a form of devotion; responsible choice becomes an expression of faith; aligned action becomes a path of healing and growth. With this clarity, she shows up—fully, consciously, and in partnership with something greater than herself.
Inspired by this post on Tiny Buddha.
