You are the stars, the moon, the sun, and the sky. You are your unlimited Self — the Source, the life-giving principle, pure Consciousness. That is who you are. Yet, you feel limited and inadequate.

It is the greatest delusion, the greatest error humanity can make: to be Almighty, yet feel minuscule. To be the ocean, yet feel worthless because you believe you’re just a wave.

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We are all gods and goddesses in this apparent world. Yet, we have lost sight of our true nature. Consequently, we have identified entirely with the body, mind, and ego, reducing our magnificent stature to something insignificant and small.

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Many years ago, in my early twenties, I was arrogant, self-centred, and deeply unhappy. Not a day went by without anxiety clouding my mind. I honestly thought the world was the problem. But it wasn’t until I went to India to study the ancient philosophy of Vedanta that I realised the real culprit was me and my ego.

I also realised I wasn’t alone. Almost everyone falls into the ego trap. The ego is the “I am” in us — “I am this,” “I am that,” “I am so important,” or even, “I am nothing.”

Ego steals our happiness by separating us from who we truly are, convincing us that we are merely a limited personality bound by the body, mind, and intellect. But we are so much more than the story we tell ourselves.

Imagine Timothée Chalamet as a beggar in a film. He dives deeply into character and begins to suffer as the beggar. When it rains, he curses the heavens. When a passerby ignores him, he genuinely feels wounded. He spends years defending his little corner of the street, hoarding scraps of food, and crying out, “This is my miserable life! This is who I am!”

Then, the director calls, “Cut!”

In that single moment, the beggar dissolves. Timothée instantly steps out of character and returns to himself. He knows he isn’t a beggar; he was just playing a role. He never lost his wealth, his home, or his status — and crucially, even while deep in character, he never once felt separate from his real self.

Similarly, we are not separate from our true Self. It is ever present. We are all like actors playing our roles. The only difference is that we have become lost in the script — as a mother, partner, daughter or son. We have identified so deeply with the characters we play that we’ve forgotten our true selves.

Make Your Mind Unshakeable

When we remember our true Self and that everything in life is temporary, like a play on the stage, we become unshakable in any situation.

Remember the Self, or pure Consciousness, in all actions.

Just as an electronic device cannot function without electricity, human action is impossible without the power of Consciousness, the unseen Source that animates all life.

When you anchor your mind and intellect in this truth, you become grounded and completely unshakable.

You begin to understand the illusory nature of the world.

Without this discipline, it is easy to forget who you are and become entangled in life’s dramas.

Therefore, look at your life as a grand play. Play your roles with excellence, but never lose yourself in them. Stand back, witness the performance, and step into the lasting peace of your true Self.

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My writing is my gift to you. If you enjoyed reading this, please like, comment and share.

Thank you for reading.

Till next time,
Be Well,
Meredith ♾️ The Elder Sage

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People spend their lives chasing money, believing that wealth will bring them the peace and happiness they long for. But if happiness truly came from possessions, then the wealthiest people would live in permanent joy.

They do not.

Wealth may provide comfort, convenience, and pleasure, but it cannot satisfy the deepest longing of the human heart.

So where does real fulfilment come from?

To discover it, we need not look to the stars or to the vast oceans. We can begin with the smallest thing imaginable — a mustard seed resting in the palm of your hand.

Look carefully at the seed. It appears insignificant. Tiny. Almost lifeless. You can describe its colour, shape, smell, texture, and weight. But is that truly what a seed is? Is a seed merely what the senses perceive?

Place the seed into the earth.

Within days, something extraordinary happens. The shell breaks open. A shoot emerges. Roots descend into the soil.

In time, the tiny seed becomes a flourishing plant carrying thousands of new seeds. Those thousands become millions, and millions become trillions.

And it all came from something so tiny.

What does this reveal?

The original seed perishes in the ground. Its form disappears completely. Yet something within it does not perish. Hidden inside that tiny shell was an immeasurable power — an invisible intelligence, a silent force, an infinite potential waiting to express itself.

That unseen power is the real seed.

The outer form was only ever a temporary covering.

We could manufacture an artificial seed with the same colour, size, smell, and weight as the real one. To the eye, it may appear identical. But place it in the earth, and nothing happens. No life emerges. No transformation occurs. Why? Although it outwardly resembles a seed, it lacks the invisible essence within.

The true nature of the seed was never its appearance. Its reality lay in the incredible power hidden within it.

This is one of the greatest truths of existence: the Infinite hides within the finite.

And perhaps the seed is teaching us not only about nature, but about ourselves.

Human beings tend to judge life by outer appearances — the body, status, possessions, age, success, and failure. Yet these are only the external coverings. Beneath them exists something immeasurably greater: the spirit, the Self, the infinite essence of life itself.

The body changes constantly. Thoughts change. Circumstances change. Eventually, like the seed form, the body too returns to the earth. But does the essence within perish?

No. The Infinite cannot die.

Just as the invisible life within the seed survives the destruction of its outer shell, the spirit within every human being remains unaffected by birth and death.

It is timeless, changeless, eternal.

The tragedy is that most people live unaware of this inner wealth. They search outside themselves for fulfilment while carrying infinity within.

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A mustard seed silently proclaims one of life’s greatest revelations: never mistake the outer form for the deeper reality.

Within the smallest seed lies a hidden universe.

Within you lies the Infinite.

Thank you for reading.

Till next time,
Be Well,
Meredith ♾️ The Elder Sage

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What if you were handed a manual for living on your first day of school? A blueprint for thinking clearly, loving selflessly, and standing tall in the face of life’s toughest challenges.

As you grew physically, you wouldn’t just gain bookish knowledge, you would mature mentally, so that you begin to see life AS IT IS, not as you would like it to be.

You wouldn’t feel bullied, anxious, or crumble under pressure, because you wouldn’t take yourself or the world too seriously.

The name of this manual is Vedanta.

Vedanta is an ancient philosophy that originated in the Himalayas over 10,000 years ago. It provides eternal principles for life and living.

These principles enable you to deal with life’s challenges in a calm and dignified manner. They teach you how to prepare for life’s eventualities; how to handle pressure, navigate pain, and rise when life knocks you down.

Above all, its philosophy leads you to the ultimate state of liberation: Moksha.

With the guidance this manual provides, you live the life you are meant to.

But, like most of us, it wasn’t like that for me.

I wasn’t handed any such manual. By the time the 1990s rolled around, I was 26 years old and completely adrift, like a small boat lost at sea, tossed and bossed by the chaotic winds of life.

While my friends were navigating the predictable milestones of their mid-twenties — settling into careers, getting married, buying homes, and starting families — I chose a path many labelled “radical and weird”.

I boarded a plane to India to “find myself”.

Shortly before, I had met a Swami in Perth during his Australian lecture tour. I read his book, Vedanta Treatise, and felt an inexplicable pull toward its concepts.1

While the world back home was spinning its usual wheels, I found myself cloistered in an Indian ashram under the brilliant guidance of a self-realised master, Swami A. Parthasarathy.2

For six years, I lived in the ashram, practised yoga, adopted a vegan lifestyle, and immersed myself in the study of this ancient philosophy — Vedanta.

What is Vedanta?

Vedanta is a Sanskrit word that literally means the end of knowledge. As radical as it sounds, once you know Vedanta, there is nothing more to be known.

It’s like this: Imagine you’re in a dream. While you're in it, you are bound by the rules of that dream — the sky, the people, the threats, the joys. But the moment you wake up, the dream world loses its power over you. You don’t need to analyse every detail of the dream to understand it; you simply realise its illusory nature.

Vedanta is like that. It’s the alarm clock. It takes you by the hand and leads you to the realisation of your original nature — your true Self.

Yet, unlike other mystical schools of thought that get lost in abstract ideas, Vedanta is intensely practical. It accepts the reality of our current human experience — that we function with a body, a mind, and intellect — and teaches us exactly how to navigate the messy day-to-day, guiding us step-by-step toward ultimate transcendence.

A Universal Philosophy

In contrast to most religions, Vedanta was not founded by a single prophet, messiah, or master. Instead, it was mapped out by a galaxy of anonymous sages and saints.

This gives Vedanta a uniquely universal edge. Its truths are timeless, not because one person declared them, but because generations of enlightened souls independently arrived at the same understanding and conclusions through disciplined living, reflection, and meditation.

What makes Vedanta strikingly urgent today is that it teaches the rare art of combining dynamic, effective action with profound inner peace.

By instilling higher values and right action, Vedanta provides a blueprint for career success, business ethics, and domestic harmony. It guides you toward peace of mind amid action, rendering you completely unflappable, no matter what chaos swirls around you.

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Why It Matters Today

Stepping onto that plane at 26 wasn’t a retreat from the world; it was a deep dive into the very mechanics of how to live in it.

Today’s world is louder, faster, and people are more fearful and anxious than ever before.

Vedanta matters today because it reminds us that the quality of our lives is never determined by our bank accounts, our resumes, or our social status, but by the clarity of our internal state.

Looking back at those six years in the ashram, I realise that the timeless principles I studied under Swamiji are not just concepts in a book. They are the anchor of my existence.

They are living proof that the ancient past still holds the brightest key to our chaotic present — and they are the only manual you need for a truly peaceful future.

Thank you for reading.

Till next time,
Be Well,
Meredith ♾️ The Elder Sage

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For thousands of years, the Bhagavad Gita has inspired philosophers, poets, saints, and seekers in their search for meaning.1

Though born on a battlefield in ancient India, the wisdom of the Bhagavad Gita remains timeless because its philosophy is Vedanta — a universal philosophy for all humanity.2

It speaks to the eternal struggles of human life: fear, grief, purpose, duty, attachment, and the search for lasting peace.

The Gita is not a book to rush through. It is a scripture to live by. A companion in times of confusion. A guide when the mind is restless. A light when life feels uncertain.

What is remarkable is not only the depth of its philosophy, but the extraordinary range of minds it has touched across centuries. Some of the world’s greatest thinkers stood in awe before its wisdom.

To Einstein, the Gita placed worldly concerns into perspective. Compared to its vast vision of existence, much of human anxiety appeared small and fleeting.

For Thoreau, the Gita was not merely literature — it was nourishment for the intellect and soul.

Millions have discovered the same truth: the Gita has an uncanny ability to speak directly to the human condition. Open any page, and often the answer you seek appears.

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Its teachings are eternal because they address eternal problems: fear, attachment, grief, desire, confusion, ego, purpose, and inner peace.

The Gita teaches that lasting happiness cannot come from external possessions or changing circumstances. It reminds us that life is constantly changing — success and failure, pleasure and pain, gain and loss all come and go. Wisdom lies in remaining steady amidst the changing tides of life.

At its heart, the Gita is a call to rise above weakness and live with clarity, discipline, courage, and selflessness.

Act wholeheartedly, the Gita says — but do not lose yourself in anxiety over results. This single principle has the power to transform daily life from stress to serenity.

The enduring power of the Bhagavad Gita lies in its extraordinary ability to awaken the human spirit. It does not ask us to escape life, but to face life’s challenges with dignity and poise.

At the heart of the Gita is Vedanta — the timeless philosophy that teaches that true strength lies not in controlling one’s circumstances, but in mastering oneself.

The battlefield of the Gita symbolises the battlefield within every human being: the struggle between right and wrong, clarity and confusion, courage and fear, wisdom and impulse.

This is why the Gita continues to live across centuries, because it speaks to something universal in all of us. Every human being longs for peace. Everyone faces uncertainty, loss, disappointment, and change. And everybody seeks something lasting amidst the fleeting nature of life.

To read the Gita is not merely to study a scripture. It’s to encounter a philosophy that has the power to transform the way we think, act, live, and face the world.

Perhaps that is why generation after generation continues to return to it.

Not simply for knowledge, but for strength, clarity, courage — and ultimately, for peace.

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Read what the Bhagavad Gita teaches about staying steady in a shaky world.

Till next time, 
Be well, 
Meredith ♾️ The Elder Sage

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The Bhagavad Gita is one of the world’s most revered scriptures. It is a powerful guide to handling life with a calm mind and a clear intellect, especially during times of stress, change, or emotional upheaval.

Unlike any other scripture, the Gita opens on a battlefield.

Arjuna, a master archer and the greatest warrior of his time, stands ready for battle. For thirteen years, he and his brothers have prepared for war. The kingdom they once ruled was usurped by their cousin, and they were exiled.

But just before the battle begins, Arjuna asks Krishna, his charioteer and friend, to place the chariot between the two armies so he can see who he must face.

What he sees undoes him.

Across the field are not enemies, but his own cousins, teachers, elders, and friends. His composure collapses. His bow slips from his hands. His body trembles — and he refuses to fight.

Witnessing Arjuna’s agitation, Krishna remains silent. He knows there is no point in speaking when someone is emotionally unhinged. Krishna doesn’t say a word until Arjuna surrenders to Him for guidance in Chapter II, Verse 7.

Arjuna’s breakdown is not unique. It’s human.

We remain composed while life is in our favour. But when it turns — when plans fall apart, when relationships fail, when there’s loss or uncertainty of any kind — our composure goes with it.

We forget to pause. We react and take things personally. We become overwhelmed, confused, and unable to act with clarity.

This is where the Gita becomes invaluable as a guide to daily living with calm, clarity, and composure.

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What is Unflappability?

Being unflappable is the highest art of living.

It’s the ability to witness your mind and the world with love and attention, without getting emotionally entangled.

Most people do the opposite. They get involved with the hope of satisfaction, only to lose themselves and whatever peace they had.

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This body will be 62 in July ‘26. Over the last six decades, there is one thing I know to be true: life is impermanent. It’s constantly changing.

Just look at what the world was like fifty years ago. It was very different from what it is today. The forties, fifties, and sixties, right up to now — each decade has been different. Every year, month, week and day, the world changes.

You have changed… I have changed… everything has changed.

The person you were yesterday is not the person you are today. The you who went to sleep last night is not the you who woke up this morning. You might have been thinking one way last night, but now, after a good night’s sleep, you’re thinking just the opposite.

Today your life might be great... Everything is just the way you want it to be. Or things might not be the way you want them. You may have lost a friend, and you’re feeling sad. Your child might be unwell, or your partner might be angry about work, and it’s affecting your relationship.

Whatever your situation, there’s one guarantee… It will change.

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Good becomes bad and bad becomes good in an instant. That’s life. Morning becomes noon and noon becomes night. Nothing remains the same. Friends become enemies and enemies become friends. Children grow up. Profits go down.

Life is full of changes. It is passing, fleeting and ephemeral, like a river; it is never the same from one moment to the next.

The sooner we accept this fundamental truth, the sooner our lives become smoother, and our minds become balanced. Instead of jumping for joy and sinking into sorrow, we remain steady and composed amid the highs and lows of life.

Two Selves

So when it comes to turning 62, or any age, you have a choice of where you place your focus: on this ever-changing self or that changeless Self.

If you focus on the changes in your body, on what is fading, you will never find peace. You will long for what has passed and feel incomplete in what is. You will crave your lost youth and always feel dissatisfied.

Thus, you will search… outwardly. For more, better, different; hoping something will finally satisfy you. But it never does. Because what you are seeking cannot be found out there. It must be discovered within.

Seek Wisdom

Turn inward. Gain knowledge; not of the world, but of the Self. Contemplate sacred texts — and you will find that this knowledge does something extraordinary: it removes the restlessness within: the anxiety, the dissatisfaction, the sense that something is missing.

Spiritual knowledge fills you up… internally.

So, whether life rises or falls, you remain full. Complete and unruffled. Not indifferent, but detached — full of love and understanding.

So when it comes to turning sixty-two, there is very little to say. Age is just a number.
In a moment, it will be seventy. That’s simply the nature of life.

So don’t chase what’s passing. Seek what is permanent. Embrace the pursuit of wisdom. Not the fleeting knowledge of the world, but the profound understanding of the Self.

Know That. And you will find the peace, fulfilment, bliss, and contentment that has been waiting within you all along.

Until next time,
Be Well,

Meredith ♾️

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In a single second, life can turn completely upside down — and show you what you’re really made of.

It began just over a week ago, on Good Friday. My husband and I had just spent ten glorious days skiing in Corvara, Alta Badia, celebrating our 25th wedding anniversary — a long-awaited gift to ourselves. Everything felt effortless. Light. Perfect.

We were having a ball. By the end of our ten days, I had proudly skied 15 slopes (24 km) in a day. Not bad.

But then, in an instant, everything changed.

I fell.

I’d fallen before, quite spectacularly, I’ve got to say, and walked away with nothing more than bruises. But this was different.

Before I explain the fall, there’s something worth mentioning.

This was an extra day of skiing. An unplanned indulgence — like a dab of wasabi: exciting in the moment, but a second later you’re questioning why you ever thought it was a good idea.

And, as it turns out, it wasn’t a good idea. But more about that later.

Back to the fall.

The slopes were new. We were now in Plan de Gralba in Val Gardena. I’m an intermediate skier; Paul is advanced. He enjoys the steep runs, but I don’t. I prefer control and predictability — solid ground beneath my feet. Not ideal for skiing, but I’ve never been one to take too many risks. I always prefer to err on the side of caution.

From Paul’s perspective, I had improved out of sight. He had no doubt about my ability to handle the steeper slopes.

So we took the lift to the top.

Standing there, looking down, he pointed out the blue runs — the ones within my comfort zone. But to reach them, I had to traverse a short red run.

He skied ahead a few metres down the slope and waited.

“Come on,” he said. “You can do it.”

I hesitated. A subtle tightening inside — the kind you cannot afford on a ski slope.

He waited. But I could sense his impatience.

So I pushed off.

One turn. Then another.

And then I was down.

“Ouch.”

I raised my arm. “I’ve hurt my knee.”

“No, you haven’t,” I heard him say.

Yes, I have!” I yelled.

A paramedic was at my side within moments.

“Are you okay?” He said.

“No. I need help.”

Another paramedic arrived. They helped me to my feet and checked whether I could stand. My knee felt very unstable.

“I can’t ski,” I said.

So they brought a snowmobile and carried me down.

Strangely, I wasn’t in much pain. I simply enjoyed the ride. This is something I’ve learnt through Vedanta: to meet each moment as it comes and to find the good in it — even in adversity.1

So that’s what I did. I breathed in the mountain air. I spoke to the paramedics in my broken Italian. We laughed. They sympathised. They were kind, gentle, and unhurried.

Since studying Vedanta, I’ve come to see that the best and worst of life are simply experiences. They come and go. Nothing stays long enough to justify losing your balance.

Everything passes. Including this.

There’s a beautiful Sanskrit word called Titiksha, which is the capacity to endure difficulty with grace. To meet discomfort without agitation.

A beautiful quality worth cultivating.

The next thing to happen was that Paul picked up the car and drove me to the doctor. I watched the mountains pass by, still calm, still at ease.

While driving, he said, almost casually, “Don’t be alarmed, but I don’t think we’re insured for today.”

I said, “It’ll be fine. We’re with RAC. They’ll look after us.”

(We had ski insurance for ten days, not eleven.)

The doctor saw me immediately. X-rays were taken, and he explained that “My left knee was like a jelly pudding.” But to understand the full extent of the damage, I needed an MRI, which meant travelling to another clinic.

So we went.

If you’ve never had an MRI, it’s a strange experience. Fifteen minutes of absolute stillness — not even a twitch was allowed. And the noise was deafening. Mechanical and relentless. Yet, despite it all, the process was seamless.

I couldn’t help but admire the Italian system, especially the ethos of the Dolomiti Sports Clinic, which is designed specifically for ski injuries and where diagnosis and surgery occur with remarkable speed.

But the results were grim. Two cruciate ligaments were torn, and the meniscus was badly damaged. In essence, a full knee reconstruction was necessary.

I could have gone into surgery that evening, but Paul wanted to confirm the insurance coverage first. It was going to be an expensive operation.

But confirming cover proved complicated. It was Easter. In Australia, everything shuts down. Still, there was an emergency line, and Paul managed to reach someone in America. No one mentioned the dates, so it all seemed fine to proceed. Still, there was no confirmation from Australia. Which meant one thing: we would have to pay up front.

The doctors were clear — this kind of injury required immediate surgery. Waiting until we returned to Australia, despite having private healthcare, wasn’t advisable.

So on Saturday, Paul paid the €15,000 bill, and I went in for surgery.

The two-hour operation was like a comma in a sentence — barely a pause. One moment, I was there, being prepared. The next, it was over.

On Easter Sunday, I met Tao, the physiotherapist. She was from Georgia, just thirty years old, bright and full of warmth.

“I like your pants,” she said.

“They’re from India,” I replied — and just like that, a conversation began.

I told her I had lived in India for six years, and had returned many times since. She was intrigued.

“What were you doing there?”

“Studying philosophy.”

“Really? What kind?”

“Vedanta.”

For me, meeting someone genuinely interested in Vedanta is rare — and deeply satisfying. We spoke for two hours about human nature and small miracles, as we worked through the therapy.

At one point, I smiled and said, “I’m almost certain I had this accident just to meet you.”

After physio, I was allowed back to the hotel, where I continued to rest.

On Easter Monday, we had to leave and head back to Venice. But before we left, Paul got some bad news.

“They’re not paying,” he said.

RAC travel insurance had confirmed that the ski portion of our holiday was covered only until April 2nd. The accident happened on April 3rd, Good Friday.

One day.

That was all it took.

I had believed they would assist. After all, that was their job. That’s what we paid them for. Instead, we found ourselves on our own — injured, overseas, and paying for everything.

But I don’t say this to complain. The mistake was ours, and we take full responsibility. Yet, to have our claim denied and be cut off from any assistance — to have no discussion. No exception. No help was a genuine blow.

We both felt flat — for a moment. But we decided to put it behind us and keep moving forward. We had a drive ahead of us to Venice, and that required all our focus.

So we drove. Forgetting the past, not concerned about the future. Our full attention was on the road. Consequently, we enjoyed the road trip immensely.

I should mention that the emergency organisation working on behalf of RAC was exceptional. Human, responsive, and genuinely helpful. They arranged flight options for us, including upgrades so I could lie flat, and even lodged a complaint to RAC on our behalf.

Venice was another adventure. It’s a city with no cars — just vaporettos (water buses), water taxis and gondolas. You have to walk to get anywhere. This was our third visit, so it didn’t bother me that I would have to stay mostly in the hotel. I saw it as an opportunity for rehabilitation.

So, we dropped the rental car at the airport and took a water taxi into the city. I was slightly apprehensive; it meant being carefully lowered into the boat. But it was all good.

It was a beautiful day. And a fabulous way to arrive in Venice.

Finally, in the hotel room, Paul and I breathed a sigh of relief.

What an ordeal.

And yet… here we were.

In Venice.

On crutches, unable to go far — but still, incredibly happy.

The flights arranged for us were long and indirect, avoiding certain regions. But we discovered a shorter route via Dubai — Venice to Dubai, then onto Perth. With a ceasefire in place and reassurance from friends in Dubai, we felt comfortable choosing that option.

So that’s how we travelled home.

And as I sit with it all — the fall, the surgery, the cost, the uncertainty — I’m reminded of something simple.

Life is a flow of experiences. Some we welcome. Others we would never choose. And in that moment, we have a choice: to resist or to accept, to collapse or to remain steady.

We may not control what happens to us, but we do have a say in how we respond.

That is where our freedom lies.

Everything passes. The best of things and the worst. So why not meet each experience with a little grace?

Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed this story as much as I did writing it for you. If you have any questions or anything you’d like to say, feel free to write them in the comments.

Until next time,
Be Well,

Meredith, The Elder Sage

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Many people have given up hope of ever finding happiness. Not because happiness doesn’t exist, but because they have been searching for it in circumstances, possessions, and other people. They believe that a new relationship, a better job, more money, a larger house, or the approval of others will bring them the happiness they desire.

However, happiness isn't found on the surface of life; it's discovered in the depths of wisdom and the heights of noble thought.

The tragedy is that we have been conditioned to look outward rather than inward.

We chase experiences, accumulate possessions, and try to arrange the world in ways that comfort and satisfy us. But even when we reach our desired level of ease and satisfaction, there is always a nagging feeling of incompleteness. Something still to fulfil. And this is endless.

This is because two forces drive our lives.

1. The first is a persistent feeling of inadequacy — a subtle sense that something is missing. It isn’t loud; it simply stays in the background, quietly influencing everything we do. Even during times of great pleasure or success, it lingers. We achieve something, and for a moment, it seems enough. But soon, the emptiness returns.

2. The second is the constant desire for fulfilment — the urge to fill the void and remedy this situation. This is what drives us outward. It prompts us to seek, acquire, improve, and become. It tells us that somewhere ahead, in the next experience or the next achievement, we will finally feel complete.

Together, these two create an endless cycle: a sense of lack appears. Desire then steps in to fill it. For a moment, the mind feels satisfied. Then the lack returns. So we begin again — searching for fulfilment.

But what if there was another way? A way to find more lasting fulfilment? A way that doesn’t require us to do anything, except shift our attention?

Let’s consider the following experience.

Have you ever been absorbed in a beautiful sunset, a piece of music, or a work of art, that for a moment you forgot yourself completely?

In that instant, no one was trying to enjoy the experience. Yet strangely, that was the moment of deepest happiness.

The same principle applies to creativity and inspiration.

A writer does not produce their finest piece while thinking, “I am writing something remarkable.”

A musician does not create great music while thinking, “I am performing brilliantly.”

The work becomes alive only when the sense of “I am doing this” disappears.

There is no one trying to enjoy, achieve, or become. There is no sense of “What am I getting out of this?” There is only complete attention and presence. The writer becomes the writing. The musician becomes the music. The doer vanishes, and something greater begins to flow.

Joy. Happiness. Contentment.

When the Mind Becomes Full

Picture rain falling.

Rain falls only after the atmosphere becomes saturated with moisture. The air can hold water vapour only up to a certain point. When that point is exceeded, the clouds release their burden, and rain pours down.

Before the rain, there is often a strange stillness in the air — a sense that something is about to happen. Then suddenly the sky opens, and the rain falls.

The human mind works in a similar fashion. At first, the mind is scattered. It is filled with countless desires and distractions. In such a state, nothing remarkable happens. But when a noble thought fills the mind and drives out every other distraction, something incredible occurs.

The mind becomes still.

Suddenly, like the rain, ideas begin to emerge and expand. Incredible insights. Solutions to problems.

Don’t we say, “It struck me.”

In truth, it struck only after the (small) self stepped aside.

Sages, throughout history, have long understood this.

As long as we insist on being the enjoyer, happiness slips through our fingers. But when the ego (small self) steps aside, something extraordinary happens.

Life itself begins to flow through us. Thoughts become clear. Actions become effortless. And the subtle hum of happiness begins to emerge.

Children often reveal this truth naturally.

A child becomes completely absorbed in play, forgetting everything else. In that moment, there is no self-consciousness or concern for recognition. There is only play. That is why children can experience such spontaneous joy.

But as we grow older, we gradually become preoccupied with ourselves — with our achievements, our status, the opinions of others and our own self-importance.

The ego grows louder, and with it the restless search for happiness.

A New Way of Life

The question is: how can this level of happiness become our natural state? How can we learn to live this way — not occasionally, but consistently?

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Everyone wants to be happy, yet most people seek happiness in the external world — in circumstances, possessions, and other people.

But happiness isn’t found in these things. Or if it is, it’s only temporary. The true source of happiness lies within us: in the way we think. But not just any kind of thinking. It’s thinking, not with the mind, but with the intellect.1

According to the language of ancient philosophy, Sanskrit, the faculty of thinking is called buddhi, intellect.

Unlike the mind, which rambles, reacts impulsively and later regrets, the intellect pauses, reflects, and considers the consequences before taking action.

Intellect is the forgotten, yet remarkable faculty that thinks clearly and cleverly.

It is our inner power to discern, reason, and make wise decisions.

While the mind thinks negatively and creates problems after problems, the intellect thinks positively and solves them.

It is often said that our thoughts determine the world we see. This means that if our thoughts are negative, then the world we see is negative; but if our thoughts are positive, we see a positive world.

Over a hundred years ago, philosopher William James suggested a simple fix for life’s frustrations. He said, “Choose one thought over another.” In other words, when negative thoughts come up, deliberately replace them with better ones.

Since then, psychologists and self-help educators have repeated this advice endlessly. We’re told to think positively, to swap negative thoughts with positive ones, and to develop a better attitude towards life.

There’s truth in this. Thoughts do shape our experience. A mind full of resentment and pessimism will inevitably lead to a troubled life. However, positive thinking alone is unsustainable because negative thoughts keep coming back — and sometimes even stronger than before.

The solution, therefore, lies in understanding the nature of the mind and intellect.

The Mind and Intellect

Most people assume that the mind is the organ of thinking. But if we observe carefully, we notice that the mind cannot think. It can only ramble from one thought to another — remembering the past, imagining the future, and often reacting emotionally to whatever is happening now.

Left to itself, the mind behaves like a two-year-old child. A child is emotional, excitable, easily distracted, and prone to tantrums. It cannot manage a household or make responsible decisions. For this reason alone, a child needs supervision.

The intellect plays the role of a loving parent. It watches and guides a child's actions, preventing it from getting into trouble and hurting itself.

Similarly, the intellect watches the mind, guides it, and keeps it from running into worry, anxiety, fear, anger, addiction, and despair.

When the intellect performs its role well, the mind becomes calm, balanced, and happy.

But when the intellect is absent, and the mind is left unsupervised, it’s like a child left alone in charge of the home.

No parent would say to a two-year-old, “Darling, mummy and daddy are going away for the weekend. Please take care of everything while we’re away.”

That would never happen. Yet it’s exactly what we do with ourselves. We allow our restless, immature minds to run the show.

The Non-Thinking Mind

As Albert Einstein once said, “We cannot solve our problems with the same thinking we used when we created them.”

Most people assume they are thinking clearly. But in reality, much of what we call thinking is simply the mind wandering from one thought to another.

The mind cannot think. It reacts. Worries. Imagines. Left unguided, it simply follows its feelings, preferences and emotions.

The intellect, however, is different. It is clear, focused, rational, clever and wise. When the intellect is strong, it guides the mind toward better choices in life.

The Thinking Intellect

So perhaps when William James spoke of choosing one thought over another, he was pointing to a deeper truth: we must allow our intellect, our sovereign power, to supervise and guide our restless mind. Then life becomes smoother, clearer, more peaceful and happier.

Like a wise ruler governing its domain, when the intellect governs our thoughts, everything falls into place — emotions settle, the body relaxes, and actions become measured and thoughtful.

In this natural order, a deeper sense of well-being emerges.

Change the way you think, and the world you experience changes. For the mind will not govern itself. It must be guided — and that responsibility rests with you.

Govern your mind, or your mind will govern you.

Thank you for reading. If you have any questions, feel free to write them in the comments.

Until next time,
Be Well,

Meredith, The Elder Sage

Next week, an essay on horizontal versus vertical happiness, as touched on in the note below, will be delivered same time, same place.

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Beyond Sitting Still

Dear Reader,

You might be wondering why I’m welcoming you now, almost a year after starting here on Substack. The reason is simple: last week, one of my notes (below) had the great pleasure of reaching thousands of new readers.

It was posted like any other — with truth, honesty and sincerity. People seemed to like it, and the momentum grew from there.

So I’d like to take a moment to welcome our new readers to The Elder Sage.

A fellow writer recently asked, “How did I come to choose such a sublime name? Was it simply the title of the publication or about me?”

The short answer is: it’s both. It’s the name of the publication, and it’s also me. I’ve reached the age of an elder — well, not quite, but I’m growing into it — and I’ve spent more than thirty-four years in the spiritual field, six of which were spent in India at what I often call a spiritual boot camp: the Vedanta Academy.1

So while I’m still growing into the title, I’ve at least put in the hours — and in that sense, the name has been slowly earned over the years.

I’m a practical philosopher who has spent over three decades immersed in eternal wisdom — the knowledge of the Self. I live simply in a small cabin on a hill on the south-west coast of Australia, with my husband Paul and Huxley, our Airedale.

Our nearest neighbour is over a mile away. So there is space. Lots of it. And while this sounds idyllic, this coastline is known for its winds. And when they rise, the cabin can feel as though it might slide down the hill and into the water below.

The roof rattles. 
The walls tremble. 
The winds howl.

Life is no different.

When the winds of life howl — loss, uncertainty, change — the world shakes. And in those moments, I turn to the philosophy I have studied, taught and lived for decades. Not just for comfort, but as a solid foundation.

I’ve learnt that while we cannot stop the winds of life, we need not be blown about by them.

The external may rage, but the internal can remain steady.

This is what I share with you here: how to live fully and enjoy life, yet not be inwardly disturbed by it. How to remain calm in turbulence. How to stand firm on your own hill, whatever weather comes your way.

If that kind of inner strength speaks to you, then you are very welcome here. This is a place for learning how to live fully in the world without being shaken by it.

If you have any questions or you’d just like to say “Hello,” please don’t hesitate to leave a comment.

Until next time,
Be Well,

Meredith, The Elder Sage

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• What Keeps You from Happiness

Let’s consider, for a moment, where happiness resides. Does it live in comforts? Money? In a partner or a child? What about recognition or achievement? Or is it somewhere else entirely?

When we look closely, we begin to see a recurring pattern: happiness travels.

In infancy, happiness dwells in our mother’s arms. The whole universe fits inside her warm embrace — nothing else matters. Books mean nothing. Wealth is irrelevant. All joy is right there.

Then, a few years later, happiness relocates to toys. Dollies, cars, and playthings become the centre of everything. I’m almost embaraced to say this, but when I was a child, I believed that Barbie would be with me forever. But toys and Barbie eventually lose their magic.

Happiness moves again. This time to books and games. The child becomes a student, and joy now lives in grades, sport, praise, achievement, and the approval of teachers and peers.

Later still, it migrates to ambition, career, money, and status. The young adult pours everything into work, convinced fulfilment waits just ahead — in the next promotion, the next milestone, the next trip or possession.

Then happiness moves once more. It settles in romance. A partner becomes the new centre of joy — and life reorganises itself around this fresh source of happiness.

Then there’s a child. And for a season, happiness seems to have reached its peak.

Notice the recurring pattern?

At every stage, the feeling is absolute. Final. This is it. This is where happiness truly lives. Yet it never stays. If happiness actually resided in the object itself, it would remain forever. Toys would stay enchanting. The first big success would satisfy permanently. Romance would never settle into routine. And a child would remain at the heart of joy indefinitely.

But this is not what happens.

The glow fades. The centre keeps moving. The mind starts scanning the horizon once again.

So what is really going on?

Think of sunlight moving across the earth. In the morning, it lights up one landmass; by afternoon, it bathes another. We say, “The light is here,” then later, “The light is there.” But the ground is not producing the light. The light belongs to the sun.

In the same way, happiness shines upon objects, people, and experiences, but they are not the source. If they were, happiness would not vanish when circumstances change. A partner could never disappoint. Success could never grow dim.

Yet we watch the same objects that once sparkled become ordinary, even heavy.

The truth is, the world does not contain happiness.

Happiness is in YOU

The moment we label something as “mine,” it glows with value. A book with your own notes feels irreplaceable. Your child is more beautiful than any other. What has changed externally? Nothing. But your sense of “I” has poured itself into the object. You have gilded it with your own self, your own desires, and fallen in love with it.

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For too long, we’ve been sold a fantasy. We’ve been brainwashed into believing that love is all about finding “the one”, falling in love, and living “happily ever after”! But it’s all an illusion — a rush of emotion that doesn’t last.

Love isn’t about falling and breaking your heart; it’s about rising to meet the permanent LOVE that lives within you.

To fall in love is to shrink into dependence, where you’re dependent on the other for your happiness. To rise in love is to grow in understanding. Love is allowing another to be exactly who they are — and not wanting them to be any different.

But a selfish mind feels incomplete and seeks fulfilment outside itself. It moves through life with a restless hunger, scanning every room, every face, silently pleading: “Who will complete me? Who can make me feel whole?”

A selfish mind has an inner blueprint of how love should look, feel, and behave. It wants the other to provide admiration, validation, security, and excitement.

When someone appears to match the blueprint, their needs mirror each other. For they too were searching. They also felt incomplete. They scanned faces for completeness. In that moment of mutual recognition, the chemistry ignites, and they declare, “This is it. This is the one who will fill me.”

And so, they fall in love.

But beneath the romance lies selfish thinking: “I will provide you with everything you need, as long as you give me what I want.” Each one dancing to the tune of each other’s desires.

This is not love.
It’s attachment.

Attachment is love plus selfishness.
Love is attachment minus selfishness.

Love does not arise from need or want but from selflessness. A selfless person has no attachments, harbours no expectations, and makes no demands that life bend to their will. Instead of insisting that the world conform to them, they effortlessly adapt to it.

They move through life with grace, doing what needs to be done — steady in peace, clear in thought, and composed in action.

The love a selfless person has is universal. They have no attachment. No ego. No preferences. Their mind is steady, governed by their inner wisdom. They are able to meet life with clarity, dignity, and poise.

If such a person has a partner, their relationship is built on understanding. Understanding each other’s character completely — their strengths, their weaknesses, their needs and desires.

This deep understanding leads to harmony in relationships.

Where there is selfishness, there is tension. 
Where there is selflessness, there is peace.

You will never find a selfish person who’s truly peaceful and happy. Nor will you find a selfless person who is consumed by fear. Selflessness breaks down fear by dissolving the constant preoccupation with oneself.

The Selfless Love Within

Hidden deep within every human heart lies the divine spirit of Love, which is undying and eternal. Everything else changes, but Love alone is permanent and imperishable.

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I was just twenty-two when the ground beneath my feet began to shudder. It all started the day I married a man my parents warned me not to. Naturally, they thought he wasn’t good enough for their little girl.

Turns out they were right!

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Today, meditation is commonly understood as self-reflection: sitting quietly, checking in with your feelings, observing your thoughts, and questioning yourself. But that’s not its original meaning. Still, it’s how the word is understood — and by that definition, I have been meditating for over thirty years.

However, the original meaning of meditation, dhyana, is far more demanding: single-pointed concentration on one thought, to the exclusion of all others. This is incredibly difficult for one reason: the nature of the mind.

An untrained mind is restless by nature. It’s like a child: impulsive, reactive, and easily bored. A child needs constant stimulation. Ask it to sit still, and it rebels almost immediately, because that’s the nature of a child.

The mind is no different. It jumps, reacts, and seeks entertainment. And the moment we ask it to sit and be quiet, it does the opposite. That’s because the mind’s default setting is to wander, drift, and meander.

It’s something like this: imagine sitting in a perfect meditation posture, looking serene, like Lord Buddha. You begin the chant: “Om… Om… Om…” But very quickly it slips: “Om… Om… home… home… what’s for dinner? Rice or pasta? Did I remember to buy vegetables?” Before you know it, the sacred chant has been hijacked by a menu.

That’s why, for years, when people asked if I meditated, I said, “No. I prepare for meditation by making the mind meditative.”

A meditative mind is peaceful, calm and content no matter what's happening. Not switched off and in a daze, but switched on — sharp, clear and fully charged with dynamic energy.

This preparatory work is carried out through three ancient spiritual disciplines, or yogas. Yoga isn’t limited to asanas and breathing techniques. Yoga means union: uniting with your higher Self, or God, or Divinity, or whatever you prefer to call that pure, all-pervasive Consciousness.

To explain these disciplines, I’d like to wind the clock back thirty-four years to when I stepped through the sanctuary gates of the Vedanta Academy in Malavli, India.

It was 1992.

A day at the Academy began in the hush of pre-dawn. We rose early for the sacred pre-meditative practice of Jnana Yoga, the yoga of knowledge.

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In Vedic times, preparation for meditation began at school. Students were trained to steady their minds, sharpen their intellect, understand their true nature, and develop strong ethical values before even attempting meditation.

Today, the emphasis has reversed. Education is almost entirely focused on worldly success. Young people are under extraordinary pressure to perform, compete and achieve. Consequently, their minds are racing in all directions. And when the strain becomes too much, we ask them to sit down, close their eyes, and meditate!

Yet without essential mental preparation, meditation becomes a sedative, not a source of strength. And in many cases, it can do more harm than good.

In today’s world, peace has become a rare commodity. That’s why the promise of “peace of mind” sells so well. The meditation industry is thriving, with countless forms to choose from: mindfulness, transcendental, Zen, Vipassana, sound baths, breath awareness, apps, and retreats.

But what’s often left unsaid is this: the peace you experience through modern meditation is only ever temporary.

No matter how pleasant the experience of meditation is, it doesn’t change how you meet life’s challenges. An innocuous comment or a delay is enough to throw you off balance, leaving you wanting and waiting for the next meditation session to put your shattered self back together.

But what if peace didn’t depend on the next meditation session? What if there were another way to gain lasting inner peace?

There is, but let me warn you, the techniques outlined below require effort.

Philosopher A. Parthasarathy offers a compelling example to illustrate the difference between modern and traditional meditation. 

He says that meditation without preparation is like pushing a rusty piston inside a rusty cylinder. If you use force, either the piston will break, or the cylinder will crack, or both.

You must first knock off the scales of rust — the negativities like worry, anxiety, anger, fear, stress and depression. Use rough sandpaper on the inside of the cylinder and on the outside of the piston. Once that’s done, use fine sandpaper to remove the last traces of rust. Wipe it clean. Lubricate it inside and out. Then, finally, take the piston and place it at the top of the cylinder. Let it go, and it slides straight in.

That’s meditation.

The Buddha State

The aim of modern mediation is to gain peace of mind, not liberation. That’s fine. However, the peace gained is fleeting, passing, temporary. Traditional meditation requires us to prepare our mind by strengthening the hidden faculty that keeps it in place before we sit to meditate.

That faculty, in Sanskrit, is called Buddhi. I love this word. Let me try to explain why.

Each one of us has the capacity to realise the Buddha state within — a state of deep inner peace and contentment. Buddha means the enlightened one or the awakened one.

Buddhi is Buddha with an “i” on the end. Buddhi means to awaken, to be aware, to understand, and to know.

According to the philosophy of the Vedas, Buddhi is the way to the Buddha state.1 Buddhi is the Sanskrit word for intellect. It is our awakened thinking. Not to be confused with academic intellect or intelligence.

This non-academic intellect is our superpower. It’s our ability to observe without judgment and to see things as they are, not as we would like them to be. It is our capacity to remain calm, focused and in control of our mind and our lives.

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The Three Yogas

The three yogas are not about standing on your head, breathing techniques, or physical postures. They are ancient spiritual disciplines designed to relieve us of mental baggage — and prepare our minds for meditation.

When the mind is prepared — when it is calm, composed, and content, meditation becomes natural, effortless, and profound.

The three disciplines or yogas are:

• Karma Yoga — selfless action, performed without attachment to results.

• Bhakti Yoga — selfless love and devotion, which reduces the ego and opens the heart.

• Gnana Yoga — self-inquiry and scriptural wisdom, which sharpens the intellect and reveals Truth.

When these three are lived rather than merely studied, you become reflective, contemplative, and meditative. Your life begins to feel like a continuous meditation.

Your actions become wiser. You become efficient and at the same time, peaceful — your mind becomes calm, clear, focused, and no longer disturbed by outside circumstances. You become a complete individual, full of love, wisdom, kindness and generosity.

There is a precise order to meditation, just as there is a method in any science. If you want to enjoy the fruits — lasting peace, clarity, energy and joy — the mind must be prepared through these disciplines. What follows is not a fleeting glimpse of peace, but a steady inner freedom.

When the foundation is laid, peace is no longer temporary. It becomes your natural state. And from this state of mind, you will slide into meditation effortlessly.

This was always intended as an introduction. Next week, I’ll go into greater depth.

Till then,
Be Well,

Meredith — The Elder Sage

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This publication is just getting started. It will grow slowly and deliberately — the same way the mind is trained.

If something in this essay unsettled you, challenged you, or resonated, I’d love to hear from you. Your thoughts help shape what this space becomes.

Thank you.

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Over the past forty years or so, worry, anxiety, stress, and depression have skyrocketed in Western society. Alongside this rise, the popularity of meditation has grown and flourished — and today it is a multi-billion-dollar industry.

Everyone is meditating — from high-performing executives and elite athletes to schoolchildren, office workers, and hospital patients, all trying to cope with modern life. But meditation was never meant to be reduced to a coping mechanism, like a sedative to get through the day.

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The hall was packed. Everyone wanted to see the Swami.1

Dressed all in white in a simple kurta and dhoti — with a mala around his neck and a red line on his forehead, signifying his spiritual status — he sat cross-legged on a raised platform on the stage.

His dignified presence commanded the room.

He closed his eyes, took in a deep breath, and chanted OM… The sound echoed throughout the auditorium, quietening the many minds seated before him.

In his talk, he spoke of the hollowness of human pursuits, saying that our lives are primarily driven by two motivations: acquisition and enjoyment.

“To feel happy,” he said, “you seek comforts and pleasures from the world, and then enjoy what you’ve acquired.”

He emphasised that there is nothing wrong with acquiring; there is no limit to what we may seek, as long as the starting point is contentment.

His words struck a chord. I wanted to learn more. And even though the hall was full, I felt as though he was speaking directly to me. They say that when the student is ready, the teacher appears — and I couldn’t have been more ready.

After the talk, I was introduced to Swamiji, who was incredibly humble and charming. I told him how much I had enjoyed his talk and that I was in awe of his book, Vedanta Treatise, which I had just begun reading.2

He listened as though there was no one else in the room. Then he told me about his academy in India, near Pune, and suggested I do the three-year residential course.

The seed was planted.

The Retreat

The retreat ran from Friday to Sunday and was held at Point Walter, overlooking the magnificent Swan River in Perth, Western Australia.

On Friday afternoon, we were welcomed by the organisers and shown to our rooms. Approximately forty people attended, including seven guests from India.

The evening lectures were open to the public, and the first talk was held that night.

As we walked into the hall, an Indian lady and a young Australian woman sat on the floor, chanting and singing Bhajans (Sanskrit songs). The hall slowly filled. The title of Swamiji’s talk was Bhaja Govindam: Seek The Self.

From what I understood, which was very little, knowing the Self would bring peace and happiness to my troubled mind, and I was troubled back then. On the outside, I was all smiles and shiny, but on the inside, I was like the matted coir of a coconut.

Swamiji entered and sat cross-legged on a raised platform on the stage. He paused. And at exactly six-thirty, he closed his eyes and chanted OM.

An exhilarating sense of calm filled the air.

He began by saying that all the stress and strain of life arises because the starting point is discontentment. Feeling empty within, so we try to fill ourselves with things, beings, and experiences. But as long as discontentment is the foundation, any amount of happiness we experience will only ever be temporary.

The message, therefore, was to seek the Self within, where permanent peace and happiness reside.

It was exactly what I needed to hear. Everything made sense. When we look for happiness outside, we may find it for a while, but it never lasts.

Throughout the retreat, there were talks by Swamiji, Q&A, yoga, music, meditative walks, joy, friendship and laughter. The retreat was designed to give a glimpse of life at the Vedanta Academy in India. It certainly whetted my appetite.3

Six weeks later, I was in India, studying Vedanta at The Academy.

That was thirty-three years ago.

What happened between then and now is another story for another time.

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But what I will say is that the six years I spent in India under Swamiji’s guidance transformed my life. To be fair, it only took three years. But that’s three years. It’s a long time. So you can imagine how sceptical I am when people offer enlightenment in three days, or say their enlightenment came to them one night.

All they need is to be a smooth talker and have a good marketing team, and their career as a guru takes off. You know the ones I’m talking about.

And that’s one of the remarkable things about Swamiji. He doesn’t promote his work or seek publicity. Even finding information about him online is difficult because he doesn’t have a webpage. He does not even own a mobile phone!

His only interest was the spiritual growth of his students. He had all the wisdom. It was up to us to learn from him and apply the knowledge in our lives. Like a bird that teaches its fledglings to fly, he taught us well — and then set us free.

Thank you for reading. If you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to ask.

Till next time,

Be Well,

Meredith — The Elder Sage

Every moment of every day, you are doing something, but the question is, how are you doing it? When you’re making a cup of tea, how do you make it? When you’re eating a meal, how do you eat? When you work, how do you work?

Are you rushing and anxious about the results? Or do you go through your life calmly, steadily, composed, and dignified?

We often believe we have complete freedom — to do what we want, when we want, and how we want. Yet behind every choice lies an unchangeable law: every action has a consequence.

But how many of us stop to consider the consequences of our actions before we act?

Think Before You Act

We’ve all heard the phrase, “Think before you act,” but most people act first and think later. Impulsiveness has become a part of modern life, with regret its faithful companion. To avoid regret, we must learn to think of the consequences before the action, rather than suffer them afterwards.

A wise person thinks of the end at the beginning. Yet most people are paying for their past in the currency of guilt and regret — replaying what they’ve done, what they’ve said, what they should or shouldn’t have done.

The Psychology of Impulsiveness

Impulsiveness arises when our irrational mind overpowers our rational intellect. The mind is driven by emotion. It demands pleasure, relief, comfort, satisfaction — now. It doesn’t care about tomorrow. This tendency of the mind towards impulsivity explains why people lash out in anger, overeat, overspend, or make choices that undermine their well-being.

In contrast, the intellect, the faculty of reason and discernment, observes, guides, and directs the mind. Yet most people have weak, underdeveloped intellects, with minds that are noisy, restless, and constantly craving gratification.

Impulsiveness, therefore, is not a personality flaw — it is simply the natural result of a strong mind and a neglected intellect.

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Cultivating Foresight

Foresight is the ability to project the consequences of your actions before you take them. You cultivate foresight through reflection — daily study, quiet contemplation, and by observing your own mental patterns.

Every time you PAUSE before acting, you are training your intellect. Every time you ask, “What will this lead to?” you are building foresight. Over time, that pause becomes a habit, and that habit becomes strength. This is the beginning of self-mastery — and the foundation of Karma Yoga.

What is Karma Yoga?

Karma Yoga is the path of selfless, intelligent action. It’s the art of acting without ego or expectation. It means doing what needs to be done calmly, consciously, and responsibly, without any thought of “What’s in it for me?”

Most people act from impulse or a desire for reward. Karma Yoga teaches you to act from the intellect rather than the mind. Before you act, PAUSE and consider the consequences. Then act fully, wholeheartedly, without any attachment to the outcome.

Karma Yoga for Peace of Mind

If more people practised even a little Karma Yoga, that is, using their discerning intellect to govern their mind and actions, then the world would look radically and radiantly different.

Mental health issues would plummet because worry, anxiety, fear, anger, hatred, jealousy, stress, addiction, and depression are all symptoms of a restless, ungoverned mind. A trained intellect calms the mind; a calm mind heals the person.

Physicians would see far fewer patients because a disciplined, clear mind reduces stress-related illnesses. Crime and corruption would decline because self-governed individuals wouldn’t exploit, steal, or harm others.

Hate, violence, and extremism would dissolve because these arise only in minds clouded by ignorance and agitation. When individuals govern themselves, they no longer cling to rigid identities — religious, political, or cultural — nor do they feel threatened by those who think differently.

Left wing, right wing, this group or that group — all such divisions lose their sting when the mind is calm, and the intellect is clear. A person anchored in Karma Yoga does not hate, attack, or terrorise; they recognise the same Self in all.

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How to Practise Karma Yoga

1. Fix a Higher Purpose

A higher purpose, higher ideal, or goal anchors your actions. The most accessible and transformative ideal is this: Become a better human. It is within everyone’s reach. Reflect on what being a “better human” means to you — then orient your life according to that definition.

If you want a greater challenge, try this: Strengthen your intellect so your mind remains calm and composed under all circumstances.

A higher purpose gives your life meaning, direction, and a steady stream of unbroken peace.

2. Follow Your Nature

Your health and happiness depend on knowing your nature and functioning accordingly. Acting against your nature creates agitation and conflict. Acting in harmony with it brings peace, energy, and prosperity.

No two people share the exact nature. The Sanskrit word Swadharma — one’s own nature — is unique. Swa means “one’s own,” dharma means “nature.”

3. Be Selfless

Work not for ego, reward, or recognition, but for a cause greater than yourself. The ideal of becoming a better human being is selfless, because a better you benefits everyone around you. Imagine a world where every person lived with this ideal in mind. Humanity would transform.

4. Practise Dedication

Whatever takes you toward your ideal becomes your duty. Perform your duties with dexterity and commitment. Dedicate every action, big or small, whether it’s writing, reading, eating or exercising — dedicate it to the realisation of your ideal. Dedication transforms ordinary actions into a powerful spiritual practice.

5. Practise Morning Contemplation

Between 5 and 6am, read a passage from an inspiring text and reflect deeply on it. Use the 20/80 formula: 20% reading, 80% reflection.1

If necessary, adjust your habits: sleep early, rise early. “Early to bed and early to rise makes a person healthy, wealthy, and wise” is not a cliché; it is a timeless psychological truth.

Morning contemplation strengthens the intellect and prepares the mind for the day ahead, enabling you to remain calm and composed, no matter the circumstances.

6. Practise Being Present

Train your intellect to keep your mind where your hands are. Focus entirely on the task at hand. Do not let your mind wander into the past or drift into the future. Presence is power. Presence is elevating. Presence is divine.

The Quiet Rewards of Karma Yoga

Karma Yoga does not mean there are no rewards — it means the rewards are not the motive. When action is performed with clarity, dedication, and without expectation, its phenomenal fruits of karma begin to appear: peace of mind, joy, happiness, contentment, and material prosperity. But not expecting them is the key. Otherwise, they will keep away from you.

One way I practise Karma Yoga is through writing. This work is an offering, a gift, a sharing of what has been learned, lived, reflected upon, and understood over many decades. It is given freely, without demand or expectation. If it serves you in some way, then it has fulfilled its purpose.

A simple way to practise Karma Yoga is to support this work by subscribing, or upgrading your subscription and becoming a patron — not as payment, but for your own benefit. By giving, you gain. You reap the quiet rewards of karma yoga.

Thank you for reading. If you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to ask.

Till next time,

Be Well,

Meredith — The Elder Sage

I turned sixty-one this year. I’m officially ancient.

Not really. I certainly don’t feel old, but I’m finding it difficult to reconcile how I feel with how I look. Every time I look in the mirror (which is as little as possible these days), I want to apologise, and say: “Sorry, wrong person,” and walk away.

Age snuck up on me slowly. Then all at once, altering my face and leaving behind lines that remind me of a life well lived. That’s just how it is. No one escapes it. We arrive, we grow, we spend time trying to be “someone” — and then we fade. We get older, people forget us, and then the inevitable happens.

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Lately, I’ve started to look more like my mother did when she was my age, which is both comforting and a little unsettling. I feel comforted because she was a wonderful woman. But unsettled, because I remember thinking she was an old woman at sixty-one, and now here I am — and I don’t feel old at all.

I’m certainly not the gorgeous woman I once was, but that’s alright. Thanks to philosophy, I understand that our bodies are just vehicles; temporary rentals with no guarantees. We do our best to take care of them, but they’re not who we are.

This body is not who I am.

Still, the world responds just as you’d imagine. People pass by without a second glance, and teenagers barely register your presence. You begin to blend into the background — muted, beige, and irrelevant.

You begin to feel invisible. But being invisible is highly underrated. There’s a beautiful freedom in it. No one is watching, judging or expecting anything from you. You can simply observe life as it unfolds, no longer swept up in its endless performance. It’s like people-watching from a café. That delicious sense of detachment. But now, you don’t even need the café — you can witness the world from anywhere, unnoticed and free.

And that’s beautiful.

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But it’s not really about how others see you. It’s about how you see yourself. The gap between how you feel inside and how you look outside is not a mistake; it’s an invitation to ask a deeper question: If this changing body isn’t me, then who am I?

The Philosophy of Aging

As we age, something interesting happens: our attachment to our identity begins to loosen. The things we once clung to — youth, attractiveness, relevance — start slipping through our fingers. Age slowly dismantles what was never truly “us” to begin with. It removes the costumes so we can finally meet the actor.

You start to notice that the person who feels hurt, flattered, embarrassed, proud, or insecure is also fading. Those emotional reactions belonged to the personality — a temporary bundle of preferences, fears, habits and self-images accumulated over decades. But beneath that bundle, there’s the ever-present witness that has been steady all along. A presence that doesn’t panic when your hair becomes unruly, or your waistline thickens. A presence that observes everything yet remains unaffected by anything.

This is who you really are — the constant awareness behind every experience. Oddly, getting older makes its existence more obvious. When you wake up feeling thirty inside but see someone over sixty in the mirror, the mismatch makes you wonder: “If I’m not the changing body, who am I?” That question turns you inward, toward the part of you that doesn’t belong to time at all.

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Thank you for reading.

Till next time, be well,

Meredith — The Elder Sage

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