Simplicity and the Gentle Art of Contentment
It was during a recent visit to an old friend’s home that the idea of “enough” quietly took root in me again.
He lives in a modest two-bedroom house tucked away in the foothills—no grandeur, no show. The living room had no television, just a bookshelf filled with weathered spines, and a single teakwood armchair beside the window where morning light spilled in like a silent blessing.
We sat together on the verandah, sipping warm water with tulsi leaves. The air was still, the silence unbroken except by birdsong and the occasional rustle of leaves. He spoke gently about his days—tending to his garden, reading, mentoring a few young minds who came by once in a while. No rush. No race. Just rhythm.
As I listened, something in me softened. There was no striving in his presence. No undercurrent of proving. Just being.
Later, as I drove back into the thrum of city life, I found myself strangely unsettled—not by envy, but by contrast. How often had I confused abundance with excess? How often had I filled my calendar, my space, even my mind, with more than I needed?
We live in a world where “just one more” is the currency of success. One more device, one more degree, one more vacation, and maybe then we’ll feel full. But fullness isn’t always found in accumulation—it’s often hidden in subtraction.
So here’s something to sit with today:
What if “enough” isn’t a boundary, but a doorway? A return to what actually nourishes you. A quiet rebellion against the pressure to chase what you don’t need.
There is a kind of elegance in simplicity.
Not the kind that seeks applause, but the kind that brings peace.
The kind you feel when you no longer have to carry the weight of more.
Letters for the Inner Journey by Pushkar
Whisper back, if the letter spoke to you.