Begin where you are.

This isn't about a technique. Or tradition.

This is about learning how to look.

Not to believe.

Not to transcend.

Not to solve.

But to listen. To feel.

To meet what's here with full contact.

Set a timer for three minutes.

Just three.

Bring only one thing: the intention to be present.

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.

Let the breath find you.

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.

One . . . out

Two . . . out

Three . . . out

The breath gives the mind just enough to hold — 

without needing to grasp.

What matters here is curiosity.

Bring your full attention to observing the breath—

with focus, yet relaxed.

Between each breath, there is a pause—

a stillness that doesn't need your help.

Notice this moment when breath turns—

not with thought, but with wonder.

Inspect the transition like a Fabergé egg—

delicate, intricate, wondrous.

You are not watching the breath. 

You are watching the stillness underneath each breath.

Exactly when does the inhale become the exhale?

That single turning point.

See if you can find it—

not by force,

but with the wonder of a child gazing up at all the stars,

just 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.

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.

To the breath itself.

To the count, unfolding.

To the moment—already here.

Again.

And again.

With each return, stillness seeps in.

Like the tide —

not arriving.

Just revealing what was always there.

That's the practice.