Мy inner landscape

 

This is not merely a record of the day, but a cartography of an invisible territory. I write slowly, for words today carry a specific, sweet weight—as if they are saturated with the rain that fell through my dreams all night. The world outside may be rushing, clocks ticking away their ruthless, linear logic, but here, in the space behind the breastbone, time has ceased to be a measure and has become a state of being.

Today, my inner landscape is a morning forest after rain. Gone is the dry, dusty anxiety of summer, and the icy rigidity of winter. Instead, I feel the dampness of fertile soil—the earth is alive, breathing, ready to birth, yet in no hurry to do so. The air holds that crystalline purity that comes only after a storm or after a long weep that has washed away the sediment of the ego. The silence is not empty; it is saturated, dense, present. There is a slightly misty feeling, but it does not frighten. In the psychoanalytic sense, this fog is the liminal space—the threshold between the conscious and the unconscious, the place where forms have not yet hardened into definitions. I feel that things are just beginning to clear, and paradoxically, it is precisely in this obscure visibility that I find my greatest security. The prevailing climate is "expectation without tension." This is a rare state of spirit where faith displaces control. I am not rushing anywhere. I am simply listening. I listen to the drops trickle down the leaves of my thoughts without trying to gather them into a river.

In this sacred timelessness, a question steals in: What wants to manifest through me this month? Not what I "must" do according to lists and social contracts, but what presses from the depths of the soul, seeking light. I feel a strong, almost electric impulse toward a deeper spirituality, not the kind read in books, but the kind experienced in the bone marrow. There are embryos of new creative ideas that have not yet taken shape—they are like shadows in my peripheral vision. Something pulls me unstoppably toward writing and music—toward that alchemy where the word meets the rhythm. Perhaps this is the longing of my inner child to be heard, or the voice of the Anima seeking expression. There is a desire to create something softer, more intimate, perhaps connected to inner healing. Intuition whispers in a voice that brooks no argument: "Do not be afraid to show yourself as you are in your gentlest form." This is the hardest act of courage—to drop the armor exactly where you are most vulnerable. To allow the world to see not the perfectionism, but the cracks through which the light enters.

But for the new to enter, the old must depart. What must I release to feel lighter? The answer comes immediately, like a heavy stone falling from the heart. It is time to let go of the feeling that I must be constantly productive to be "enough." This old program, this tyrannical inner critic that measures my worth in units of completed work, is merely "noise" in my mind. It is the neurosis of modernity, the illusion that if we stop doing, we cease being. I want to release that small but intrusive fear that if I slow down, life will overtake me. This is an existential anxiety that has nothing to do with reality. The truth I perceive today through the forest mist is quite the opposite—life is waiting for me. It has always been waiting. It is not a race I am losing, but an ocean I am swimming in. When I stop rushing, I actually synchronize my pulse with that of the Universe.

My body, this faithful companion and map of all my traumas and joys, speaks as well. Today it speaks through the shoulders—there is gathered responsibility there that is not mine, nor is it needed. This is the Atlas complex—the illusion that I am holding up the sky, when in fact, the sky holds itself. I feel the weight and consciously let it flow down, toward the earth. In contrast, the chest feels a slight expansion—like the door of an old temple opening creakily but unyieldingly. This is the opening to the heart chakra, to the ability to receive love, not just give it. The belly is calm—the center of my intuition and life force is at rest today. The message is short and clear: "Breathe deeper. Rest more consciously." Rest is not a reward for work done, but a prerequisite for life. The small act of care for today will be ritualistic—warm tea to heat the insides, and movement—a few slow stretches to honor the temple of my body.

In this process of self-observation, I also discover my hidden resource. It lies not in willpower, nor in intellect. My resource today is my inner softness. It is the ability to be gentle with myself, even when the world demands hardness. There is a vast, paradoxical strength in not fighting. In Taoism, this is the principle of "wu-wei"—action through non-action, floating with the current rather than against it. There is a readiness in the creative intuition that constantly whispers ideas, provided there is silence in which to hear them. I discover a deep resilience that I do not always notice, but it is here—beneath everything. It is like the roots of those trees in my inner forest—invisible, yet holding everything upright, even when storms rage. This resilience is not rigid like stone, but flexible like water.

And so, I reach the final synthesis, the essence of this day. If I had to reduce all this complexity to a single sentence, it would be: "Allow yourself to be space, not a task."

We too often turn ourselves into a to-do list, a project for improvement, a problem to be solved. We forget that our true nature is space—that infinite field of consciousness in which everything happens. To be space means to accept both the rain and the sun, the fog and the clarity, without attaching to any of them. Today I can perform one small but sacred action: to create something—even if it is just a few lines of text or a few notes—that comes directly from the heart. No revs. No plan. No pressure. Simply a pure creative act that seeks no approval but is an expression of gratitude for my existence. This is my prayer today. Not words to the sky, but an act of creation here on earth.

In this moment of quiet insight, I understand that spirituality is not an escape from reality, but the deepest entry into it. Psychoanalysis teaches me to look into the shadows, while spirit teaches me to see the light even there. And in this dance between shadow and light, between "I must" and "I am," I find my center. I am the forest after rain. I am the waiting. I am the silence. And that is entirely sufficient.

I feel like a vessel slowly filling—not with ambition, but with meaning. There is something deeply healing in admitting to yourself that you are tired of battles no one asked you to fight. Retreating into softness is an act of radical self-love. As I write these lines, I feel that every word is a step on a path overgrown with moss. There is no map for this path, and that is precisely its beauty. For if there were a map, it would be someone else's journey. But I am walking toward myself. Toward that part of me that knows the music before it is played and the words before they are written.

Perhaps this is the meaning of today—not to achieve something, but to remember who I am when I am not trying to be someone. To remember that I am part of the great rhythm, that my breathing is in sync with the tides. That my vulnerability is not a defect, but the only way to be truly touched by life. And so, I remain in this state of wakeful calm. The tea is cooling beside me, but the warmth is already inside. The outer world can wait. Here, within, something important is happening. Something is being born in the silence. And I will stay here to meet it—not as a master, but as a humble witness to my own mystery.