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Your own Self-Realization is the greatest service you can render the world. Ramana Maharshi.
Ramana Maharshi (30 December 1879 – 14 April 1950) was a Hindu sage and jivanmukta. He was born Venkataraman Iyer, but is most commonly known by the name Bhagavan Sri Ramana Maharshi.
He was born in what is now Tiruchuli, Tamil Nadu, India. In 1895, an attraction to the holy hill Arunachala and the 63 Nayanars was aroused in him, and in 1896, at the age of 16, he had a "death-experience" where he became aware of a "current" or "force" (avesam) which he recognised as his true "I" or "self", which he later identified with Ishvara. This resulted in a state that he later described as "the state of mind of Iswara or the jnani". Six weeks later he left his uncle's home in Madurai, and journeyed to the holy mountain Arunachala, Tiruvannamalai, where he took on the role of a sannyasin (though not formally initiated), and remained for the rest of his life.
He soon attracted devotees who regarded him as an avatar and came to him for darshan ("the sight of God"), and in later years an ashram grew up around him, where visitors received upadesa ("spiritual instruction") by sitting silently in his company and raising their concerns and questions. Since the 1930s his teachings have been popularised in the West, resulting in worldwide recognition as an enlightened being.
Ramana Maharshi approved to a number of paths and practices, but recommended self-enquiry as the principal means to remove ignorance and abide in Self-awareness, together with bhakti (devotion) or surrender to the Self. Source Wikipedia.
Sunrise
Taken at 05:20 AM - real time - 04:20 GMT
What happens when the work disappears?
Not with a struggle, not with a fight, but with a quiet shift—an algorithm, a decision, a world that no longer needs your labour.
And yet, here you are.
Not discarded, not forgotten, but freed.
No strings attached.
No obligations, no demands.
Just time.
Endless, unstructured, yours.
And so, the world changes.
Not in the grand halls of power, but in the backrooms of community centres, in the corners of shared workshops, in the hands of those who finally have the time to create.
The walls become canvases.
The clay takes shape—loving figures, delicate forms, the spin of a potter’s wheel.
Wood is carved, fabric is stitched, and something beautiful emerges from the effort.
This is not the end of purpose.
This is the beginning of possibility.
A life where the only question is:
What will you make with the time you’ve been given?
Poem: "The Unshackled Hours"
The clock no longer ticks for wages,
the hands no longer bend for bread.
The world has moved on,
and left you with this instead:
A brush, a chisel, a lump of clay,
a wall that begs for colour,
a wheel that spins with promise.
No master, no deadline, no must—
only the quiet hum of what if?
And so, the hands that once toiled
now shape, now paint, now dream.
The time that was stolen
is yours to reclaim.
The world may have turned,
but here, in this space,
the soul finally blooms.
Three Haikus
No boss, no deadline—
the clay spins on the wheel,
time bends to my touch.
Brush meets the blank wall,
colours bloom where labour faded—
freedom takes its form.
The chisel rests deep,
wood whispers its hidden shape—
work becomes pure joy.
Have a wonderful day...dear friends! :-)
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What happens when the work disappears?
Not with a struggle, not with a fight, but with a quiet shift—an algorithm, a decision, a world that no longer needs your labour.
And yet, here you are.
Not discarded, not forgotten, but freed.
No strings attached.
No obligations, no demands.
Just time.
Endless, unstructured, yours.
And so, the world changes.
Not in the grand halls of power, but in the backrooms of community centres, in the corners of shared workshops, in the hands of those who finally have the time to create.
The walls become canvases.
The clay takes shape—loving figures, delicate forms, the spin of a potter’s wheel.
Wood is carved, fabric is stitched, and something beautiful emerges from the effort.
This is not the end of purpose.
This is the beginning of possibility.
A life where the only question is:
What will you make with the time you’ve been given?
Poem: "The Unshackled Hours"
The clock no longer ticks for wages,
the hands no longer bend for bread.
The world has moved on,
and left you with this instead:
A brush, a chisel, a lump of clay,
a wall that begs for colour,
a wheel that spins with promise.
No master, no deadline, no must—
only the quiet hum of what if?
And so, the hands that once toiled
now shape, now paint, now dream.
The time that was stolen
is yours to reclaim.
The world may have turned,
but here, in this space,
the soul finally blooms.
Three Haikus
No boss, no deadline—
the clay spins on the wheel,
time bends to my touch.
Brush meets the blank wall,
colours bloom where labour faded—
freedom takes its form.
The chisel rests deep,
wood whispers its hidden shape—
work becomes pure joy.
What happens when the work disappears?
Not with a struggle, not with a fight, but with a quiet shift—an algorithm, a decision, a world that no longer needs your labour.
And yet, here you are.
Not discarded, not forgotten, but freed.
No strings attached.
No obligations, no demands.
Just time.
Endless, unstructured, yours.
And so, the world changes.
Not in the grand halls of power, but in the backrooms of community centres, in the corners of shared workshops, in the hands of those who finally have the time to create.
The walls become canvases.
The clay takes shape—loving figures, delicate forms, the spin of a potter’s wheel.
Wood is carved, fabric is stitched, and something beautiful emerges from the effort.
This is not the end of purpose.
This is the beginning of possibility.
A life where the only question is:
What will you make with the time you’ve been given?
Poem: "The Unshackled Hours"
The clock no longer ticks for wages,
the hands no longer bend for bread.
The world has moved on,
and left you with this instead:
A brush, a chisel, a lump of clay,
a wall that begs for colour,
a wheel that spins with promise.
No master, no deadline, no must—
only the quiet hum of what if?
And so, the hands that once toiled
now shape, now paint, now dream.
The time that was stolen
is yours to reclaim.
The world may have turned,
but here, in this space,
the soul finally blooms.
Three Haikus
No boss, no deadline—
the clay spins on the wheel,
time bends to my touch.
Brush meets the blank wall,
colours bloom where labour faded—
freedom takes its form.
The chisel rests deep,
wood whispers its hidden shape—
work becomes pure joy.
What happens when the work disappears?
Not with a struggle, not with a fight, but with a quiet shift—an algorithm, a decision, a world that no longer needs your labour.
And yet, here you are.
Not discarded, not forgotten, but freed.
No strings attached.
No obligations, no demands.
Just time.
Endless, unstructured, yours.
And so, the world changes.
Not in the grand halls of power, but in the backrooms of community centres, in the corners of shared workshops, in the hands of those who finally have the time to create.
The walls become canvases.
The clay takes shape—loving figures, delicate forms, the spin of a potter’s wheel.
Wood is carved, fabric is stitched, and something beautiful emerges from the effort.
This is not the end of purpose.
This is the beginning of possibility.
A life where the only question is:
What will you make with the time you’ve been given?
Poem: "The Unshackled Hours"
The clock no longer ticks for wages,
the hands no longer bend for bread.
The world has moved on,
and left you with this instead:
A brush, a chisel, a lump of clay,
a wall that begs for colour,
a wheel that spins with promise.
No master, no deadline, no must—
only the quiet hum of what if?
And so, the hands that once toiled
now shape, now paint, now dream.
The time that was stolen
is yours to reclaim.
The world may have turned,
but here, in this space,
the soul finally blooms.
Three Haikus
No boss, no deadline—
the clay spins on the wheel,
time bends to my touch.
Brush meets the blank wall,
colours bloom where labour faded—
freedom takes its form.
The chisel rests deep,
wood whispers its hidden shape—
work becomes pure joy.
'A formal invitation to God in a practical sense is to vacate your heart.' - His Holiness Younus AlGohar
What happens when the work disappears?
Not with a struggle, not with a fight, but with a quiet shift—an algorithm, a decision, a world that no longer needs your labour.
And yet, here you are.
Not discarded, not forgotten, but freed.
No strings attached.
No obligations, no demands.
Just time.
Endless, unstructured, yours.
And so, the world changes.
Not in the grand halls of power, but in the backrooms of community centres, in the corners of shared workshops, in the hands of those who finally have the time to create.
The walls become canvases.
The clay takes shape—loving figures, delicate forms, the spin of a potter’s wheel.
Wood is carved, fabric is stitched, and something beautiful emerges from the effort.
This is not the end of purpose.
This is the beginning of possibility.
A life where the only question is:
What will you make with the time you’ve been given?
Poem: "The Unshackled Hours"
The clock no longer ticks for wages,
the hands no longer bend for bread.
The world has moved on,
and left you with this instead:
A brush, a chisel, a lump of clay,
a wall that begs for colour,
a wheel that spins with promise.
No master, no deadline, no must—
only the quiet hum of what if?
And so, the hands that once toiled
now shape, now paint, now dream.
The time that was stolen
is yours to reclaim.
The world may have turned,
but here, in this space,
the soul finally blooms.
Three Haikus
No boss, no deadline—
the clay spins on the wheel,
time bends to my touch.
Brush meets the blank wall,
colours bloom where labour faded—
freedom takes its form.
The chisel rests deep,
wood whispers its hidden shape—
work becomes pure joy.
What happens when the work disappears?
Not with a struggle, not with a fight, but with a quiet shift—an algorithm, a decision, a world that no longer needs your labour.
And yet, here you are.
Not discarded, not forgotten, but freed.
No strings attached.
No obligations, no demands.
Just time.
Endless, unstructured, yours.
And so, the world changes.
Not in the grand halls of power, but in the backrooms of community centres, in the corners of shared workshops, in the hands of those who finally have the time to create.
The walls become canvases.
The clay takes shape—loving figures, delicate forms, the spin of a potter’s wheel.
Wood is carved, fabric is stitched, and something beautiful emerges from the effort.
This is not the end of purpose.
This is the beginning of possibility.
A life where the only question is:
What will you make with the time you’ve been given?
Poem: "The Unshackled Hours"
The clock no longer ticks for wages,
the hands no longer bend for bread.
The world has moved on,
and left you with this instead:
A brush, a chisel, a lump of clay,
a wall that begs for colour,
a wheel that spins with promise.
No master, no deadline, no must—
only the quiet hum of what if?
And so, the hands that once toiled
now shape, now paint, now dream.
The time that was stolen
is yours to reclaim.
The world may have turned,
but here, in this space,
the soul finally blooms.
Three Haikus
No boss, no deadline—
the clay spins on the wheel,
time bends to my touch.
Brush meets the blank wall,
colours bloom where labour faded—
freedom takes its form.
The chisel rests deep,
wood whispers its hidden shape—
work becomes pure joy.
What happens when the work disappears?
Not with a struggle, not with a fight, but with a quiet shift—an algorithm, a decision, a world that no longer needs your labour.
And yet, here you are.
Not discarded, not forgotten, but freed.
No strings attached.
No obligations, no demands.
Just time.
Endless, unstructured, yours.
And so, the world changes.
Not in the grand halls of power, but in the backrooms of community centres, in the corners of shared workshops, in the hands of those who finally have the time to create.
The walls become canvases.
The clay takes shape—loving figures, delicate forms, the spin of a potter’s wheel.
Wood is carved, fabric is stitched, and something beautiful emerges from the effort.
This is not the end of purpose.
This is the beginning of possibility.
A life where the only question is:
What will you make with the time you’ve been given?
Poem: "The Unshackled Hours"
The clock no longer ticks for wages,
the hands no longer bend for bread.
The world has moved on,
and left you with this instead:
A brush, a chisel, a lump of clay,
a wall that begs for colour,
a wheel that spins with promise.
No master, no deadline, no must—
only the quiet hum of what if?
And so, the hands that once toiled
now shape, now paint, now dream.
The time that was stolen
is yours to reclaim.
The world may have turned,
but here, in this space,
the soul finally blooms.
Three Haikus
No boss, no deadline—
the clay spins on the wheel,
time bends to my touch.
Brush meets the blank wall,
colours bloom where labour faded—
freedom takes its form.
The chisel rests deep,
wood whispers its hidden shape—
work becomes pure joy.
What happens when the work disappears?
Not with a struggle, not with a fight, but with a quiet shift—an algorithm, a decision, a world that no longer needs your labour.
And yet, here you are.
Not discarded, not forgotten, but freed.
No strings attached.
No obligations, no demands.
Just time.
Endless, unstructured, yours.
And so, the world changes.
Not in the grand halls of power, but in the backrooms of community centres, in the corners of shared workshops, in the hands of those who finally have the time to create.
The walls become canvases.
The clay takes shape—loving figures, delicate forms, the spin of a potter’s wheel.
Wood is carved, fabric is stitched, and something beautiful emerges from the effort.
This is not the end of purpose.
This is the beginning of possibility.
A life where the only question is:
What will you make with the time you’ve been given?
Poem: "The Unshackled Hours"
The clock no longer ticks for wages,
the hands no longer bend for bread.
The world has moved on,
and left you with this instead:
A brush, a chisel, a lump of clay,
a wall that begs for colour,
a wheel that spins with promise.
No master, no deadline, no must—
only the quiet hum of what if?
And so, the hands that once toiled
now shape, now paint, now dream.
The time that was stolen
is yours to reclaim.
The world may have turned,
but here, in this space,
the soul finally blooms.
Three Haikus
No boss, no deadline—
the clay spins on the wheel,
time bends to my touch.
Brush meets the blank wall,
colours bloom where labour faded—
freedom takes its form.
The chisel rests deep,
wood whispers its hidden shape—
work becomes pure joy.
'You will be the master of your own souls when they are enlightened.' - His Divine Eminence RA Gohar Shahi
This is the fourth lesson in His Holiness Younus AlGohar’s course on Self-Awareness, Level 2: Emotional Intelligence.
For better background information, read Self-Awareness, Level 1, in the Messiah Herald: For better background information, read Self-Awareness, Level 1, in the Messiah Herald: www.joomag.com/magazine/the-messiah-herald-issue-02-mar-2...
Read Self-Awareness, Level 2, Lesson 3 here: www.younusalgohar.org/articles/self-awareness-level-2-les...
An excerpt: ‘Learning to notice what you are paying attention to, and how to redirect your attention to things you want can change not only your current experience but also the life you create for yourself going forward.’
What happens when the work disappears?
Not with a struggle, not with a fight, but with a quiet shift—an algorithm, a decision, a world that no longer needs your labour.
And yet, here you are.
Not discarded, not forgotten, but freed.
No strings attached.
No obligations, no demands.
Just time.
Endless, unstructured, yours.
And so, the world changes.
Not in the grand halls of power, but in the backrooms of community centres, in the corners of shared workshops, in the hands of those who finally have the time to create.
The walls become canvases.
The clay takes shape—loving figures, delicate forms, the spin of a potter’s wheel.
Wood is carved, fabric is stitched, and something beautiful emerges from the effort.
This is not the end of purpose.
This is the beginning of possibility.
A life where the only question is:
What will you make with the time you’ve been given?
Poem: "The Unshackled Hours"
The clock no longer ticks for wages,
the hands no longer bend for bread.
The world has moved on,
and left you with this instead:
A brush, a chisel, a lump of clay,
a wall that begs for colour,
a wheel that spins with promise.
No master, no deadline, no must—
only the quiet hum of what if?
And so, the hands that once toiled
now shape, now paint, now dream.
The time that was stolen
is yours to reclaim.
The world may have turned,
but here, in this space,
the soul finally blooms.
Three Haikus
No boss, no deadline—
the clay spins on the wheel,
time bends to my touch.
Brush meets the blank wall,
colours bloom where labour faded—
freedom takes its form.
The chisel rests deep,
wood whispers its hidden shape—
work becomes pure joy.
#selfrealisation is #Godrealisation. #HisHoliness #YounusAlGohar #GoharShahi #QuoteoftheDay #quote #picturequote #wisewords #wisdom #wisdomquote #God #Sufiquote #Sufism #Sufi #mystic #mysticism #buddhistquote #buddha #Spirituality #yoga #yogi #art #graphi
What happens when the work disappears?
Not with a struggle, not with a fight, but with a quiet shift—an algorithm, a decision, a world that no longer needs your labour.
And yet, here you are.
Not discarded, not forgotten, but freed.
No strings attached.
No obligations, no demands.
Just time.
Endless, unstructured, yours.
And so, the world changes.
Not in the grand halls of power, but in the backrooms of community centres, in the corners of shared workshops, in the hands of those who finally have the time to create.
The walls become canvases.
The clay takes shape—loving figures, delicate forms, the spin of a potter’s wheel.
Wood is carved, fabric is stitched, and something beautiful emerges from the effort.
This is not the end of purpose.
This is the beginning of possibility.
A life where the only question is:
What will you make with the time you’ve been given?
Poem: "The Unshackled Hours"
The clock no longer ticks for wages,
the hands no longer bend for bread.
The world has moved on,
and left you with this instead:
A brush, a chisel, a lump of clay,
a wall that begs for colour,
a wheel that spins with promise.
No master, no deadline, no must—
only the quiet hum of what if?
And so, the hands that once toiled
now shape, now paint, now dream.
The time that was stolen
is yours to reclaim.
The world may have turned,
but here, in this space,
the soul finally blooms.
Three Haikus
No boss, no deadline—
the clay spins on the wheel,
time bends to my touch.
Brush meets the blank wall,
colours bloom where labour faded—
freedom takes its form.
The chisel rests deep,
wood whispers its hidden shape—
work becomes pure joy.
This is the third lesson in His Holiness Younus AlGohar’s course on Self-Awareness, Level 2: Emotional Intelligence.
For better background information, read Self-Awareness, Level 1, in the Messiah Herald: For better background information, read Self-Awareness, Level 1, in the Messiah Herald: www.joomag.com/magazine/the-messiah-herald-issue-02-mar-2...
Read Self-Awareness, Level 2, Lesson 2 here: www.younusalgohar.org/articles/self-awareness-level-2-les...
An excerpt: You need to have a touchstone, with the help of which you can understand different emotions so that you cannot make a fool out of yourself.
'Self-realisation is God-realisation.' - #HisHoliness #YounusAlGohar #selfrealisation #selfrealization #Godrealisation #Godrealization #spiritualism #spirituality #Yoga #yogi #meditation #epiphany #sufi #sufiquote #sufism #quoteposter #quoteoftheday #pict
His Holiness Younus AlGohar answers a question from a viewer who asked, ‘Does the spiritual guide change the nature of the Carnal Self when he purifies it?’
Read the transcript here:
rariazgoharshahi.blogspot.co.uk/2016/10/askyounusalgohar-...
Watch the video here:
What happens when the work disappears?
Not with a struggle, not with a fight, but with a quiet shift—an algorithm, a decision, a world that no longer needs your labour.
And yet, here you are.
Not discarded, not forgotten, but freed.
No strings attached.
No obligations, no demands.
Just time.
Endless, unstructured, yours.
And so, the world changes.
Not in the grand halls of power, but in the backrooms of community centres, in the corners of shared workshops, in the hands of those who finally have the time to create.
The walls become canvases.
The clay takes shape—loving figures, delicate forms, the spin of a potter’s wheel.
Wood is carved, fabric is stitched, and something beautiful emerges from the effort.
This is not the end of purpose.
This is the beginning of possibility.
A life where the only question is:
What will you make with the time you’ve been given?
Poem: "The Unshackled Hours"
The clock no longer ticks for wages,
the hands no longer bend for bread.
The world has moved on,
and left you with this instead:
A brush, a chisel, a lump of clay,
a wall that begs for colour,
a wheel that spins with promise.
No master, no deadline, no must—
only the quiet hum of what if?
And so, the hands that once toiled
now shape, now paint, now dream.
The time that was stolen
is yours to reclaim.
The world may have turned,
but here, in this space,
the soul finally blooms.
Three Haikus
No boss, no deadline—
the clay spins on the wheel,
time bends to my touch.
Brush meets the blank wall,
colours bloom where labour faded—
freedom takes its form.
The chisel rests deep,
wood whispers its hidden shape—
work becomes pure joy.
What happens when the work disappears?
Not with a struggle, not with a fight, but with a quiet shift—an algorithm, a decision, a world that no longer needs your labour.
And yet, here you are.
Not discarded, not forgotten, but freed.
No strings attached.
No obligations, no demands.
Just time.
Endless, unstructured, yours.
And so, the world changes.
Not in the grand halls of power, but in the backrooms of community centres, in the corners of shared workshops, in the hands of those who finally have the time to create.
The walls become canvases.
The clay takes shape—loving figures, delicate forms, the spin of a potter’s wheel.
Wood is carved, fabric is stitched, and something beautiful emerges from the effort.
This is not the end of purpose.
This is the beginning of possibility.
A life where the only question is:
What will you make with the time you’ve been given?
Poem: "The Unshackled Hours"
The clock no longer ticks for wages,
the hands no longer bend for bread.
The world has moved on,
and left you with this instead:
A brush, a chisel, a lump of clay,
a wall that begs for colour,
a wheel that spins with promise.
No master, no deadline, no must—
only the quiet hum of what if?
And so, the hands that once toiled
now shape, now paint, now dream.
The time that was stolen
is yours to reclaim.
The world may have turned,
but here, in this space,
the soul finally blooms.
Three Haikus
No boss, no deadline—
the clay spins on the wheel,
time bends to my touch.
Brush meets the blank wall,
colours bloom where labour faded—
freedom takes its form.
The chisel rests deep,
wood whispers its hidden shape—
work becomes pure joy.
What happens when the work disappears?
Not with a struggle, not with a fight, but with a quiet shift—an algorithm, a decision, a world that no longer needs your labour.
And yet, here you are.
Not discarded, not forgotten, but freed.
No strings attached.
No obligations, no demands.
Just time.
Endless, unstructured, yours.
And so, the world changes.
Not in the grand halls of power, but in the backrooms of community centres, in the corners of shared workshops, in the hands of those who finally have the time to create.
The walls become canvases.
The clay takes shape—loving figures, delicate forms, the spin of a potter’s wheel.
Wood is carved, fabric is stitched, and something beautiful emerges from the effort.
This is not the end of purpose.
This is the beginning of possibility.
A life where the only question is:
What will you make with the time you’ve been given?
Poem: "The Unshackled Hours"
The clock no longer ticks for wages,
the hands no longer bend for bread.
The world has moved on,
and left you with this instead:
A brush, a chisel, a lump of clay,
a wall that begs for colour,
a wheel that spins with promise.
No master, no deadline, no must—
only the quiet hum of what if?
And so, the hands that once toiled
now shape, now paint, now dream.
The time that was stolen
is yours to reclaim.
The world may have turned,
but here, in this space,
the soul finally blooms.
Three Haikus
No boss, no deadline—
the clay spins on the wheel,
time bends to my touch.
Brush meets the blank wall,
colours bloom where labour faded—
freedom takes its form.
The chisel rests deep,
wood whispers its hidden shape—
work becomes pure joy.
In this video, Pujya Deepakbhai explains that no person or evidence can bind us, but we are bound by our wrong beliefs. Our blunders and mistakes are the cause of our bondage. In Gnan Vidhi (Self Realization ceremony), our blunders are removed but the mistakes are still there, so we have to clear all the mistakes. We are getting flawless vision, so we have to find out our own mistakes in worldly interactions. If we see our faults and remove them then we get liberation within. Dadashri says that "fault is of the sufferer" and this powerful key helps us to adjust with people and circumstances. When someone insult, cheats us or if someone gets into depression, then this knowledge will be very helpful to maintain inner peace and stability. By seeing people's faults our conflicts will increase and by seeing our own faults the conflicts will decrease. We have to see world as faultless. Flawless vision is biggest positive result of Self Realization.
This is the second lesson in HH Younus AlGohar's course on Self-Awareness Level 2. In this lesson His Holiness explains the importance of emotional intelligence and how to become emotionally aware; how to reflect on positive criticism, how to handle setbacks and master the art of problem-solving.
Read the article here: www.theawaitedone.com/articles/2017/04/15/self-awareness-...
Day 27
Mooji signing a copy of his book for a friend :)
NB lighting conditions were quite poor and with no external flashes, did what I could with a high ISO :p
At Maluni's request, Mooji's website is www.Mooji.org. We also have a facebook group called Mooji Sangha and and a group here on flickr called Mooji Love
Om Shanti :)
An excerpt: Self-realisation is not possible without a Universal Spiritual Guide. All you know right now is what you can see in a mirror. That’s all you know about yourself. What is inside you is hidden from you and only God has the keys.
www.theawaitedone.com/articles/2015/05/16/self-realisatio...
What happens when the work disappears?
Not with a struggle, not with a fight, but with a quiet shift—an algorithm, a decision, a world that no longer needs your labour.
And yet, here you are.
Not discarded, not forgotten, but freed.
No strings attached.
No obligations, no demands.
Just time.
Endless, unstructured, yours.
And so, the world changes.
Not in the grand halls of power, but in the backrooms of community centres, in the corners of shared workshops, in the hands of those who finally have the time to create.
The walls become canvases.
The clay takes shape—loving figures, delicate forms, the spin of a potter’s wheel.
Wood is carved, fabric is stitched, and something beautiful emerges from the effort.
This is not the end of purpose.
This is the beginning of possibility.
A life where the only question is:
What will you make with the time you’ve been given?
Poem: "The Unshackled Hours"
The clock no longer ticks for wages,
the hands no longer bend for bread.
The world has moved on,
and left you with this instead:
A brush, a chisel, a lump of clay,
a wall that begs for colour,
a wheel that spins with promise.
No master, no deadline, no must—
only the quiet hum of what if?
And so, the hands that once toiled
now shape, now paint, now dream.
The time that was stolen
is yours to reclaim.
The world may have turned,
but here, in this space,
the soul finally blooms.
Three Haikus
No boss, no deadline—
the clay spins on the wheel,
time bends to my touch.
Brush meets the blank wall,
colours bloom where labour faded—
freedom takes its form.
The chisel rests deep,
wood whispers its hidden shape—
work becomes pure joy.
An excerpt:
Self-love will turn you into an animal. Divine love will make you a wonderful person.
Read the article here: medium.com/@YounusAlGohar/the-dangers-of-self-love-a80822...
This video introduces us about Akram vignan and current living Gnani Purush Pujya Deepakbhai. It says that Pujya Deepakbhai is absolutely beyond fear, He has found himself, He is beyond all vision and opinions, He is not concerned about how the world judges Him or thinks about Him. The interviewer asks that when one being is liberated another one comes into incarnation. How often liberation happens? Pujya Deepakbhai says that in the scriptures it is mentioned that at a time, minimum one and maximum 108 Souls can go for salvation. It is difficult to get salvation but Param Pujya Dadabhagwan has found out a spiritual science that where is the starting point of charging new karma once stopped then automatically after discharge of past karma gets finished, the Soul gets ultimate liberation. Every human being requires a form in order to reach the formless, this is the summary of all the religions. When one looks very critically at various religious symbols there is no difference to reach the formless. Some people refuse to believe that God has form and when He comes in form, to remind that which is the highest amongst Men, such human beings are very very rare. He says that ultimate goal of human life is to achieve liberation which is possible after Self Realization that is knowing ‘Who am I’ and for realization an Enlightened person is needed. If you do not get the opportunity for Self Realization then use your mind, body and speech, intellect and ego to help others. If you give happiness, then you get happiness. If we want permanent happiness we must achieve self realization.
What happens when the work disappears?
Not with a struggle, not with a fight, but with a quiet shift—an algorithm, a decision, a world that no longer needs your labour.
And yet, here you are.
Not discarded, not forgotten, but freed.
No strings attached.
No obligations, no demands.
Just time.
Endless, unstructured, yours.
And so, the world changes.
Not in the grand halls of power, but in the backrooms of community centres, in the corners of shared workshops, in the hands of those who finally have the time to create.
The walls become canvases.
The clay takes shape—loving figures, delicate forms, the spin of a potter’s wheel.
Wood is carved, fabric is stitched, and something beautiful emerges from the effort.
This is not the end of purpose.
This is the beginning of possibility.
A life where the only question is:
What will you make with the time you’ve been given?
Poem: "The Unshackled Hours"
The clock no longer ticks for wages,
the hands no longer bend for bread.
The world has moved on,
and left you with this instead:
A brush, a chisel, a lump of clay,
a wall that begs for colour,
a wheel that spins with promise.
No master, no deadline, no must—
only the quiet hum of what if?
And so, the hands that once toiled
now shape, now paint, now dream.
The time that was stolen
is yours to reclaim.
The world may have turned,
but here, in this space,
the soul finally blooms.
Three Haikus
No boss, no deadline—
the clay spins on the wheel,
time bends to my touch.
Brush meets the blank wall,
colours bloom where labour faded—
freedom takes its form.
The chisel rests deep,
wood whispers its hidden shape—
work becomes pure joy.
What happens when the work disappears?
Not with a struggle, not with a fight, but with a quiet shift—an algorithm, a decision, a world that no longer needs your labour.
And yet, here you are.
Not discarded, not forgotten, but freed.
No strings attached.
No obligations, no demands.
Just time.
Endless, unstructured, yours.
And so, the world changes.
Not in the grand halls of power, but in the backrooms of community centres, in the corners of shared workshops, in the hands of those who finally have the time to create.
The walls become canvases.
The clay takes shape—loving figures, delicate forms, the spin of a potter’s wheel.
Wood is carved, fabric is stitched, and something beautiful emerges from the effort.
This is not the end of purpose.
This is the beginning of possibility.
A life where the only question is:
What will you make with the time you’ve been given?
Poem: "The Unshackled Hours"
The clock no longer ticks for wages,
the hands no longer bend for bread.
The world has moved on,
and left you with this instead:
A brush, a chisel, a lump of clay,
a wall that begs for colour,
a wheel that spins with promise.
No master, no deadline, no must—
only the quiet hum of what if?
And so, the hands that once toiled
now shape, now paint, now dream.
The time that was stolen
is yours to reclaim.
The world may have turned,
but here, in this space,
the soul finally blooms.
Three Haikus
No boss, no deadline—
the clay spins on the wheel,
time bends to my touch.
Brush meets the blank wall,
colours bloom where labour faded—
freedom takes its form.
The chisel rests deep,
wood whispers its hidden shape—
work becomes pure joy.
What happens when the work disappears?
Not with a struggle, not with a fight, but with a quiet shift—an algorithm, a decision, a world that no longer needs your labour.
And yet, here you are.
Not discarded, not forgotten, but freed.
No strings attached.
No obligations, no demands.
Just time.
Endless, unstructured, yours.
And so, the world changes.
Not in the grand halls of power, but in the backrooms of community centres, in the corners of shared workshops, in the hands of those who finally have the time to create.
The walls become canvases.
The clay takes shape—loving figures, delicate forms, the spin of a potter’s wheel.
Wood is carved, fabric is stitched, and something beautiful emerges from the effort.
This is not the end of purpose.
This is the beginning of possibility.
A life where the only question is:
What will you make with the time you’ve been given?
Poem: "The Unshackled Hours"
The clock no longer ticks for wages,
the hands no longer bend for bread.
The world has moved on,
and left you with this instead:
A brush, a chisel, a lump of clay,
a wall that begs for colour,
a wheel that spins with promise.
No master, no deadline, no must—
only the quiet hum of what if?
And so, the hands that once toiled
now shape, now paint, now dream.
The time that was stolen
is yours to reclaim.
The world may have turned,
but here, in this space,
the soul finally blooms.
Three Haikus
No boss, no deadline—
the clay spins on the wheel,
time bends to my touch.
Brush meets the blank wall,
colours bloom where labour faded—
freedom takes its form.
The chisel rests deep,
wood whispers its hidden shape—
work becomes pure joy.
What happens when the work disappears?
Not with a struggle, not with a fight, but with a quiet shift—an algorithm, a decision, a world that no longer needs your labour.
And yet, here you are.
Not discarded, not forgotten, but freed.
No strings attached.
No obligations, no demands.
Just time.
Endless, unstructured, yours.
And so, the world changes.
Not in the grand halls of power, but in the backrooms of community centres, in the corners of shared workshops, in the hands of those who finally have the time to create.
The walls become canvases.
The clay takes shape—loving figures, delicate forms, the spin of a potter’s wheel.
Wood is carved, fabric is stitched, and something beautiful emerges from the effort.
This is not the end of purpose.
This is the beginning of possibility.
A life where the only question is:
What will you make with the time you’ve been given?
Poem: "The Unshackled Hours"
The clock no longer ticks for wages,
the hands no longer bend for bread.
The world has moved on,
and left you with this instead:
A brush, a chisel, a lump of clay,
a wall that begs for colour,
a wheel that spins with promise.
No master, no deadline, no must—
only the quiet hum of what if?
And so, the hands that once toiled
now shape, now paint, now dream.
The time that was stolen
is yours to reclaim.
The world may have turned,
but here, in this space,
the soul finally blooms.
Three Haikus
No boss, no deadline—
the clay spins on the wheel,
time bends to my touch.
Brush meets the blank wall,
colours bloom where labour faded—
freedom takes its form.
The chisel rests deep,
wood whispers its hidden shape—
work becomes pure joy.
What happens when the work disappears?
Not with a struggle, not with a fight, but with a quiet shift—an algorithm, a decision, a world that no longer needs your labour.
And yet, here you are.
Not discarded, not forgotten, but freed.
No strings attached.
No obligations, no demands.
Just time.
Endless, unstructured, yours.
And so, the world changes.
Not in the grand halls of power, but in the backrooms of community centres, in the corners of shared workshops, in the hands of those who finally have the time to create.
The walls become canvases.
The clay takes shape—loving figures, delicate forms, the spin of a potter’s wheel.
Wood is carved, fabric is stitched, and something beautiful emerges from the effort.
This is not the end of purpose.
This is the beginning of possibility.
A life where the only question is:
What will you make with the time you’ve been given?
Poem: "The Unshackled Hours"
The clock no longer ticks for wages,
the hands no longer bend for bread.
The world has moved on,
and left you with this instead:
A brush, a chisel, a lump of clay,
a wall that begs for colour,
a wheel that spins with promise.
No master, no deadline, no must—
only the quiet hum of what if?
And so, the hands that once toiled
now shape, now paint, now dream.
The time that was stolen
is yours to reclaim.
The world may have turned,
but here, in this space,
the soul finally blooms.
Three Haikus
No boss, no deadline—
the clay spins on the wheel,
time bends to my touch.
Brush meets the blank wall,
colours bloom where labour faded—
freedom takes its form.
The chisel rests deep,
wood whispers its hidden shape—
work becomes pure joy.
An excerpt: "No matter what happens, no matter how far you come from God, you still feel that you are with God. The divine pull is always pulling you back to God. God is really softly spoken and romantic. Whenever I see a religious person who has no romance in the way he talks to his wife and children, I instantly recognise that such a person can never love God. God is full of romance."
Read the article here: medium.com/@YounusAlGohar/the-person-of-god-e81b4fc62cbe#...
Truth exposes Deceit by removing his beautiful mask and revealing his grim face underneath. Truth silences Deceit by reaching into his mouth and ripping out his double tongue.
This is what integrity does to fraudulence in a standoff.
Take the time to make an all-in or all-out decision with honesty because it's a character defining choice and dibble dabbling on either side will only cause more deceitful confusion inside your mind - remember your subconscious doesn't distinguish between truth and lies.
Lying creates an untrustworthy psyche, prone to getting lost in their own maze. This is an especially relevant point if you are on a journey of self-realisation, as you're going to have many crippling moments where your beliefs, self and reality crumble through your fingers like sand.
It's moments like these where you're really going to need the ability to trust yourself.
I played FGR today.. but the picture i took i wasn't that happy with.. i may upload later for you to see.. not sure.
For now i figured i owed you guys a smile :) so here's pretty honest hannah shot.. (there was amazing light coming in from my living room window - though i did have to lay on the floor to catch it on my face :P)
being me is good right now..
so i thought i would give you a few hannahisms...
* i am pretty much nocturnal.. i don't sleep till nearly 4am most nights.
* i am addicted to the sunshine, i don't tan well, so it isn't for that.. it's the way it makes me feel.. *alive*
* i have a background in art, and love to paint nudes.. only i don't use paintbrushes.. i paint with my fingertips and thumbs.. very messy process but you can really get the shapes better..
* i pretty much hate shoes and socks.. if it was socially acceptable i would go barefoot all of the time..
i reckon thats enough facts for today :)
more tomorrow :)
peace out
What happens when the work disappears?
Not with a struggle, not with a fight, but with a quiet shift—an algorithm, a decision, a world that no longer needs your labour.
And yet, here you are.
Not discarded, not forgotten, but freed.
No strings attached.
No obligations, no demands.
Just time.
Endless, unstructured, yours.
And so, the world changes.
Not in the grand halls of power, but in the backrooms of community centres, in the corners of shared workshops, in the hands of those who finally have the time to create.
The walls become canvases.
The clay takes shape—loving figures, delicate forms, the spin of a potter’s wheel.
Wood is carved, fabric is stitched, and something beautiful emerges from the effort.
This is not the end of purpose.
This is the beginning of possibility.
A life where the only question is:
What will you make with the time you’ve been given?
Poem: "The Unshackled Hours"
The clock no longer ticks for wages,
the hands no longer bend for bread.
The world has moved on,
and left you with this instead:
A brush, a chisel, a lump of clay,
a wall that begs for colour,
a wheel that spins with promise.
No master, no deadline, no must—
only the quiet hum of what if?
And so, the hands that once toiled
now shape, now paint, now dream.
The time that was stolen
is yours to reclaim.
The world may have turned,
but here, in this space,
the soul finally blooms.
Three Haikus
No boss, no deadline—
the clay spins on the wheel,
time bends to my touch.
Brush meets the blank wall,
colours bloom where labour faded—
freedom takes its form.
The chisel rests deep,
wood whispers its hidden shape—
work becomes pure joy.