'NYC Fit Living'

Let me share an old tale, carried on the breath of time, whispered only among the quiet mystics and never written down— not because it was unimportant, but because it was too easily misunderstood. It is said that when God first created the world, creation happened effortlessly. The mountains stood as if recalling their origin. The oceans pulsed in perfect rhythm. The stars knew exactly where to shine, without instruction or hesitation. Then came the minerals— patient, uncomplaining, content to be stone. Then the plants—stretching toward the sun without question, rooted, yet free. Then the animals— moving by instinct, never doubting the path beneath their feet, never asking if they were enough. Finally, God created humans.   Almost immediately, problems started.  They asked. They begged.  They bargained. They pleaded for favors, signs, guarantees, and exceptions. They prayed loudly—and seldom listened. God, it is said, sighed. “ If I remain visible,” God thought,   “I...

Think of the finger pointing to the moon: the finger itself isn't the moon, just a pointer. The wise never focus on the finger—they smile and invite you to look past it to the glowing truth it points toward. What is being pointed at cannot be what is implied. The finger is part of the body. The body is part of the image. And the image drifts—quietly, mysteriously— on the vast, unmoving screen of Consciousness. This world you call real isn't happening out there. It is happening inside you. Not you, the name, the story, the biography— but you, the silent field where all stories emerge and fade. Listen closely now. The body of flesh and bone is not solid truth, but a living projection— a luminous overlay, superimposed like light on a screen. The mind, along with all its conditioning, habits, fears, and ambitions, is a masterful projector— casting memories forward, painting expectations backward, splicing past and future into a compelling drama called now. And there you are, sittin...

  Ah… pull up a chair by the old piano, dear friend. Let this one be played slowly, with space between the notes. Long before fame, when John was just a boy—small enough to sit with his feet barely touching the floor and eyes wide with wonder—a teacher asked him a question humanity has been asking ever since. “What do you want to be when you grow up?” A title. A future. A name. But the boy responded from somewhere deeper than ambition. “Happy.” The teacher smiled politely, like authority figures smile at innocence,  and said, “You don’t understand the question.” And the boy—already wiser than the room—replied without resistance. “That’s because you don’t understand life." That exchange wasn’t a clever retort. It was a bell rung too early for most ears to comprehend. Because from that day on, the world taught us to seek happiness indirectly. We were taught to chase it through careers, through partners, through applause, through vacations,  through selfies carefully taken a...

The great masters communicated through symbols because truth doesn't shout—it hints. They said, "Life presents a door." Broad. Majestic. Appearing unmovable. Before it stands a lock—complex, unyielding, convincing the mind that force is necessary. And then… there is the key. Small. Quiet. Nearly insulting in its simplicity. Someone once remarked that the door is bigger than the lock. The lock is larger than the key. And yet, the tiniest thing controls them all. This is the paradox of wisdom: The severity of the problem does not determine the effectiveness of the solution. The mind, overwhelmed by size and struggle, thinks the door must be pushed. The lock needs to be broken, and the hinges need to be argued. So it schemes, calculates, worries, and panics— creating ten problems in its attempt to solve one. But the masters smiled. They understood the lock exists only for the key. The lock doesn’t react to effort, emotion, or noise. It responds to fit. A problem, like a lock...

Consider this,  old friend. The ancient masters described the mind not as an adversary, but as a helpful servant that lost its sense of place. Thought, memory, and imagination—these serve as tools for navigating form. But when they sit on the throne, life turns into a routine disguised as choice. So the question arises, timeless and burning: What remains when the noisy mind is gone? Not emptiness. Not darkness. Not unconsciousness. What remains is what was always here before thought arrived. The Witness That Never Needed Words When thoughts quiet down, something doesn’t show up—it is revealed. The sages called it by many names: Tao Logos Buddhi Christ Consciousness Pure Awareness But all names fall short. It is the seeing without commentary. The knowing without effort. The intelligence that doesn't think about life—it flows as life. Can We Live Without the Programs of Mind? The masters did not abandon the mind. They disentangled from it. The mind still functions: to remember a name...

There is an old saying, passed down not through books but through lived experience: “ If you don’t pay attention to age, it won’t pay attention to you.” At first glance, it sounds quaint—perhaps even naïve. Yet when viewed through the wisdom of the great masters and the lens of modern science, this simple phrase begins to reveal something quietly profound. A great master once said: “Consciousness does not reside in the body; The body simply arises within consciousness.” The body, then, is not the source—but the image. Not the screen—but the movie playing upon it. Just as images flicker across a cinema screen without altering the screen itself, the form we call the body appears on the vast, silent screen of consciousness. It is shaped, colored, and animated by imagination, thought, belief, expectation, and suggestion. Modern science now reflects this ancient insight in its own language. Cells are constantly dying and being reborn. Skin renews itself in weeks. Blood in months. Bone in ye...

You are waking up, old friend. Not gently—not refreshed—but startled awake by the cold concrete of morning, by the noise of the street that never truly sleeps.  You wake up from one nightmare only to find yourself in another, blinking against a world that feels detached, hurried, and mind-bogglingly loud.  A box designed for a bedroom. A sidewalk extending to the horizon. The mind starts racing before the body can catch up. Let me ask you... How did you end up here, old friend? Maybe it was just bad luck—an unlucky twist of fate, or perhaps a single misstep that reverberated too loudly? Or a long chain of events quietly weaving itself over the years, tightening until one day you realize there's nowhere left to stand.  Maybe it was fear rehearsed too often, worry believed too deeply, or a story told so many times it became solidified as fact. Perhaps this is a knot of karma finally loosening itself, asking to be felt so it can be released. Smile, if you can, old friend—not...

Perhaps, there comes a moment in every life when the noisy mind no longer satisfies. At such a moment, a seeker approached the teacher… not because they were  broken or had failed, but because something within them would not rest. A quiet restlessness moved beneath their thoughts, urging them forward . “I wish to succeed.”  “I want to create something genuine in the world—something that lasts, something that truly matters.” The teacher smiled, not indulgently, but with recognition, as one who had heard this longing whispered across centuries—etched into stone, hummed into melodies, scribbled into margins by candlelight. Then,” he said, “you must first understand where ideas originate and what causes them to succeed. He motioned for the seeker to sit. “Let us float above the timeline,” the teacher continued softly, “and drift backward through the ages.” The room dissolved. They stood beside a candlelit desk where an inventor stared into empty space, unmoving, as if listeni...

Think about this, old friend. You are not being assembled from fragments of nothingness. You are not under construction. You are not late. You are being selected. Moment by moment, breath by breath, you are chosen from a vast library of possibilities that has always existed. The confident you wait patiently, calm, confident of your arrival. The successful version of you hangs quietly in the unseen closet of reality, tailored, pressed, and ready— just waiting for you to reach in and finally put it on. The radiant, calm you hums beneath the noise, a steady current beneath the surface turbulence, never absent—only unheard.  And what about the creative you? It has never stopped knocking. Not once. It waits at the door with paint on its hands and light in its eyes, p atiently trusting that someday you will open it and realize who’s been calling the entire time.  Nothing is missing here. Nothing has gone wrong. Nothing needs to be forced. You are not growing late in your life—you're...