Let Go of Becoming

   First, there’s a moment—unexpected and quiet—when your eyes open. A sudden stillness. A sense that beneath all the noise and movement, there’s something whole. Some find it in nature, in meditation, in prayer, or in the face of death. When it comes, it’s unmistakable. For that brief moment, the mind lets go, and you realize there’s more to this life than the stories we tell ourselves.

   Naturally, you want to stay there. You start to seek that state again—through stillness, study, prayer, or self-discipline. Many traditions call this purification. The effort to let go of the things that cloud perception—selfish thoughts, attachments, judgments, distractions. You try to make space, loosening the grip of the ego so something greater can emerge.

   In some ways, it helps. You become more aware. You observe before reacting. You make more room for tranquility. But as you keep going, you start to see that purification, too, becomes yet another layer of ego. Another identity to cling to. Another way of saying, “I must become better in order to be worthy of the light.”

   And the paradox appears: If everything comes from the same source—if this life is already held within something vast and intelligent—then why are we trying so hard to fix ourselves?

   If the sacred is here, if it underlies the profane, then the spiritual path can’t be to erase our humanity, but to see it clearly—accepting ourselves, living within it with greater honesty and care.

   This doesn’t mean we quit growing. It means understanding that growth isn’t always about removing what’s messy, but about recognizing what the mess is made of. Even the uncomfortable parts of ourselves—jealousy, fear, desire—aren’t obstacles to the path. They’re all part of the path.

   So yes, there’s a place for purification. There’s value in clearing the clutter of the mind, in calming the nervous system, in cultivating restraint. But the process has to give way to something deeper: A recognition that we’re not working our way toward being loved—we already are. We’re not running from our imperfections—we’re learning to meet them with the clarity and compassion they have overshadowed.

   Let the idea of spiritual “progress” soften. You can’t be totally pure—you can be totally real. You don’t need to rise above the world—you must learn to see the sacred in every part of it. Even in the things you once tried to escape. 

   Imperfection means the satisfaction of progress. Suffering gives meaning to joy. And death makes room for life.