Begin where you are.
This isn't about technique. Or tradition.
This is about learning how to look.

Not to believe. Not to fix. Not to escape.
But to listen. To sense. To receive.

To meet what's here with full contact.

Set a timer for three minutes. Just three.

Before you begin, carry two intentions with you.
First, let yourself rest on the breath.
Feel how it supports you—quietly, without effort.
Then, be curious—open, ungrasping.
Beneath both, what matters most is presence.
Just bring that.

Sit.
No special cushion required. A chair is fine.
Back upright, not rigid. Balanced, not braced.
Let your spine rise. Let your hands rest.
Let your body remember how to be.
Let comfort support attention—not escape it.

Relax your tongue. Just a little.
Feel your shoulders melt.

Settle.
Let yourself rest on the breath.
Don't change it. Just observe it.
Cool air drifts in through your nostrils.
You may feel it pass across your upper lip.
Your belly rises, then falls.

Count each inhale.

Inhale... One

Exhale...

Inhale... Two

Exhale...

Inhale... Three

Exhale...

Soften.  Let the breath find you.
Inspect it gently—like lifting a snowflake to see it more clearly.
Its intricacy. Its quiet design. Its delicate nature.
How light catches along its edge
—just for a moment—
then slips away...

...into stillness.
That pause.
The one between breaths.
Notice this.

Exactly when does the exhale become the inhale? That single turning point.
See if you can find it— not by force, but with the wonder of a child
gazing up at the stars,
suddenly realizing the night has no edge.

Like a hidden jewel tucked in a fold of time. Not obvious. Not loud.
But waiting, quietly, to be seen.

You will wander. That's not a problem. That's the path.
The moment you notice—that's success.
That's awareness returning.
Each return is the bell ringing through you.

And "return" means this:
The moment you catch yourself drifting.
The moment you wake inside the wandering— that's the opening.

No correction needed.
Just return.
Remain curious. Rest in stillness. Follow the count.

Again. And again.

With each return, stillness seeps in.
Like the tide— not arriving.
Just revealing what was always there.

That's the practice.