In stillness, the body becomes a riverbed, and deep beneath its surface flows a hidden current. This current, warm and luminous, feeds the roots of every action, every thought. Ordinarily, the river is clouded—its waters murky with habits, reflexes, and the endless grasping at the world’s fleeting treasures. The surface churns, agitated by winds of desire and fear, obscuring the deeper flow.

But through quiet observation, the winds die down. The waters clear. What was once obscured is now seen in its fullness: a radiant stream of bliss, welling up from the core. It has always been there, quietly sustaining life, but now it is no longer mediated by the restless eddies of automatic thought.

As the river settles, its flow reshapes the landscape within. Old paths carved by unexamined patterns begin to soften and fade. The grasping branches that once strained toward external light now bend inward, nourished directly by the current. In this quiet unfolding, the self finds rest—not in retreat, but in perfect replenishment. From this rest comes a new vitality, a rejuvenation that does not strain or seek but simply flows.

Here, one realizes the river’s true nature: not a divided force, but a seamless, unbroken stream.