In a world overflowing with interpretations, theories, and introspection, the best way to live a human life might be simply this: to live a normal human life. Not through the lens of theology, psychology, sociology, physiology, philosophy, reason, emotion, ideology, or even nature—but through life itself.
All these frameworks have their place. They enrich our understanding, offer insights, and help us in specific moments. But we cannot—and should not—try to live each day consciously aware of one of them, interpreting every experience through a particular prism. If we do, we risk losing touch with the ordinary flow of being human.
Take theology, for example. If someone attempts to live solely through theological reflections—constantly searching for divine messages or scriptural parallels in every situation—they may find themselves disconnected from the simplicity of everyday life.
Similarly, consider Carl Jung’s idea of individuation—the ongoing dialogue between ego and soul—and his belief that our dreams carry important messages. This video also even suggests we should write down our dreams immediately upon waking, before our feet touch the floor.
But how many people actually live like that? Most don’t even remember their dreams. And even those who do rarely try to extract deep oracles from them. In India, where dream interpretation is common, people may consult someone else to interpret their dreams. But very few will grab a diary in the dark and try to capture fleeting dream fragments before they vanish.
Suppose someone tries. Suppose they train themselves to record dreams religiously. One day, if they forget, or fail to reach the diary in time, they may feel as if they’ve missed something important. That absence—something forgotten, something unrecorded—might haunt them all day. They won’t live that day normally.
Let’s take another example: nature.
Does it convey messages? Does it teach us something new?
Yes—and no.
For me, nature remains what it is: just nature. It does not speak. It does not intend to teach. All the messages I seem to find in it are my own creations—projections of my own thoughts. When I say, “this tree reminded me of hope” or “this bird whispered a truth,” I’m using the language I’ve inherited from culture, poetry, and collective consciousness.
I’ve written over 2,000 poems, many inspired by nature. In them, I’ve said that nature conveyed something to me. But in truth, it didn’t. I only imagined it did. That’s the vocabulary I was taught: to interpret. To find meaning. But the truth is simpler: the tree was just a tree. The bird just a bird.
In one of my articles, I reflected on the Turkey Dance. There’s a Tamil folk expression and a poem I wrote based on it: the image of a turkey spreading its feathers, seemingly imitating a peacock. But the reality is—the turkey isn’t imitating anything. It dances its own way. The peacock, too, dances its own way. We are the ones who read imitation into that moment. We create the metaphor. We write the moral. The turkey simply dances.
This example applies to so many areas: relationships, ideologies, feelings, logic, expression. Our minds are constantly tempted to read between the lines of life, but there is no final line to reach. The more we search, the more we create. And there is no end to this.
So what, then, is the alternative?
It is this: Live life as it is.
Don’t try to interpret every event. Don’t burden each experience with a need for meaning. Don’t treat your dreams, emotions, or encounters with nature as encrypted messages waiting to be decoded.
Because the moment you begin to live that way—always alert to meaning—you lose the capacity to simply live. You’ll feel like you’re constantly forgetting something, missing something, misunderstanding something. That’s not normal life. That’s a life caught in a loop of self-imposed expectations.
Let life breathe. Let moments pass. Let nature be. Let yourself be.
Not every experience needs a lesson. Not every dream needs a message.
Not everything needs to mean something.
Let life be life.
Afterthought: Between Theology and Normal Life
Spiritual traditions across cultures speak of living in constant awareness of the divine. The Muktiveda says, “In Him we live and move and have our being” (Acts 17:28). The Gita echoes this through Krishna’s counsel:
“Whatever you do, whatever you eat, whatever you offer or give away, and whatever austerities you perform—do that, O son of Kunti, as an offering to Me.” (Bhagavad Gita 9.27)
Similarly, Saint Abirami Bhattar affirms in the Abirami Andhadhi:
“Even when I stand, walk, lie down, or sit—my only thought is you, O Abirami!”
These are noble ideals, but can one truly live a normal human life constantly governed by such theological frameworks? Can we do everything—eating, walking, working, even resting—with unbroken, conscious offering to the Lord?
Even the most devout, like a Sannyasi, cannot sustain this as a constant inner posture. The beloved story of Narada and the farmer offers a gentle correction. Narada, who proudly repeated God’s name all day, was puzzled by a farmer who took the divine name only twice a day—once in the morning, once at night. But when Narada tried to walk with a bowl full of oil without spilling a drop, he realized how absorbing ordinary life can be. In his intense concentration on the task, he forgot to chant God’s name even once.
The lesson was humbling: a person sincerely doing his daily duties with integrity and quiet remembrance—even if not vocal or ritualized—may live more aligned with the divine than someone mechanically repeating sacred names.
Even the Lord warned, “Not everyone who says to me, ‘Lord, Lord,’ will enter the kingdom of heaven, but only the one who does the will of my Father.” (Matthew 7:21)
This is not to devalue devotion or conscious living, but to caution against reducing them to a mechanical theology. True spiritual life may not lie in constant overt expressions of religiosity, but in the depth of intention behind ordinary acts. Sometimes, a silent, surrendered heart plowing a field or cooking a meal may be more divine than the loudest praise.
Part 2: Reconciling Contradiction — A Personal Note
At this point, I feel it is necessary to offer a clarification, even a reconciliation, of what may seem like a contradiction in my own thoughts.
In several of my writings, I have often emphasized the value of practicing the presence of God, of reading divine messages in the natural world, of listening to the soul and becoming more aware of God’s signs in the ordinary flow of life. This, I’ve said, is how one may cultivate a spiritually conscious life—through silence, observation, and reflection.
Yet, in the same breath, I have also written that such reflection is not always necessary—that it is in fact part of my normal, natural way of life. I do not practice the presence of God in any deliberate, artificial sense. For me, this kind of attentiveness is not a technique to be mastered; it is simply the way I live. I neither wait for messages from nature nor do I chase them. They emerge in the rhythm of daily life. In that sense, even writing or thinking deeply about these things is just part of what comes to me, like breathing or walking.
That is where the contradiction becomes meaningful. The tension is not between truth and falsehood, but between different life contexts. My way of seeing—solitary, contemplative, inward—is not a universal framework that I wish to project onto others. It is not even one I consciously chose; it formed over time. So, while I write of seeing messages in nature or practicing God’s presence, I’m not saying this is what everyone should do. In fact, each person already lives within their own inherited framework, often without consciously building it.
That is why I must issue a gentle warning, particularly for those caught up in the modern trend of “junk individuation” or mystical self-listening. When people hear messages like “read signs from the universe” or “listen to your soul,” they may feel compelled to discard their inherited frameworks and replace them with a fragile, self-manufactured spirituality. This can be dangerous—psychologically and socially—especially if it leads to isolation or spiritual pride.
In that sense, even my reflections, if misunderstood, can become misleading. That is why I write this: not to retract what I’ve said before, but to clarify the context in which it holds meaning. My reflections are neither prescriptions nor formulas. They are simply a record of one person’s journey in solitude—and a reminder that even contradictions, when placed in their right context, can reveal a deeper harmony.
NB: This reflection is my response to this video that I listened to yesterday night. See: https://youtu.be/gM-dGSR1et4?si=uWTHSvNNqJ0smC1h
Ashram, July 30, 2025
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