I. The Fall of the Self
Over these years of investigation, meditation, silence, and observation, something began to crack.
It was not a sudden collapse, but a slow crumbling, like a dam wearing away drop by drop.
I began to see that what I called “I” had never really been there.
A construction. A habit. A voice in the head that says “this is me,” without anyone ever questioning it.
My stubbornness, my defending myself, my wanting to be right — all this had the taste of confusion.
It had something out of tune, almost corrupted.
As if I were trying to keep standing a house made of fog.
And so, certainties began to fall.
What I believed could no longer hold.
There was no solid structure, nothing fixed.
And the most surprising thing is that, when everything collapsed… fear did not come.
Freedom came.
II. The Void that Contains Everything
From that void, from that space without supports, a different awareness emerged.
There is no “I” separate from the rest. Never existed.
My breath is air of the world.
My heart beats to the rhythm of the universe.
My body is made of the same substance as the stars.
My experience — unique, alive, authentic — is not “mine.”
It is only a momentary reflection, an expression of the whole.
A wave of the sea. Present for a moment, yet never separate from the water.
I was never born, and in a certain sense, I will never die.
Not because I am eternal, but because I was never truly separate.
Everything I thought I was dissolves, and what remains is openness.
A silence that is not empty, but full of life.
III. Intimacy with the Moment
And so I have learned — I am learning — to live differently.
To do one thing at a time.
To become intimate with what I do.
When I am present, deeply present, even the simplest actions shine with clarity.
Cutting a carrot. Listening to a voice. Feeling the wind on the skin.
They are full, complete, infinite acts.
Where I am is always home.
Not in the past, not in the future, not in the thoughts chasing an idea of me.
Home is this instant.
And every time I leave — because I often do — I can always return.
It is not always easy. Mental habits are rooted.
They take me away, disconnect me, make me believe there is something to reach elsewhere.
But every time I return, even for a second, it is as if everything realigns.
One step. One breath. One whole moment.
There is nothing to defend. Nothing to achieve. Nothing to possess.
Only to be.
Intimate and connected with what is.
IV. Actualizing the Realization
One thing is to see.
Another is to live what has been seen.
Realization can come as a sudden flash, a clear vertigo:
There is no one here, only this.
Only silence. Only flow. Only life.
But then the mind returns. Habits return.
The body contracts. The past knocks.
And then the real work begins: not that of enlightenment, but that of integration.
Of humble, daily, alive presence.
Actualizing realization is returning, a thousand times a day, to what is.
It is living what has been seen not in thoughts, but in gestures.
In the way I listen.
In the way I respond.
In the way I set down a cup on the table or look a stranger in the eyes.
It is learning patience.
It is seeing that nothing can be forced, nor can the time of awareness be accelerated.
One thing at a time.
One step after another.
Being intimate with what is — even if what is confusion, or tiredness, or annoyance.
Practice is not perfection.
It is remembering, every day, every moment, that there is nothing to fix.
Only to be, in connection.
With what I do.
With what I am.
With what is.
Epilogue: Beyond Beliefs
I can say I have believed many things, in the past.
In myself. In others. In my story. In my suffering. In God.
But every belief, over time, has shown itself fragile, conditioned, unstable.
It was either an interpretation, or a hope, or a defense.
Now I see that I cannot believe in anything — not in the cynical sense, but in the purest sense.
I cannot cling to an idea, a story, a mental image.
I can only feel.
Feel what is happening here, now.
Nameless. Without concept. Without filter.
The mind may say “this is right,” “that is wrong,” “this is true,” “that will happen”…
But every time it does, it moves away from the present.
It takes refuge in a structure.
In an illusion of control.
So I stop.
I breathe.
And I feel: what is there?
A sound. A tension. A nostalgia. A heartbeat. A silence.
This is real. This is alive. This is the only solid ground.
It is not a belief. It is presence.
Postscript — No One to Save
Those who have truly seen do not seek to convince.
They do not make doctrine.
They do not catechize.
They do not play with fear to gain consent.
Because they have seen there is nothing to defend.
That truth does not need strong words, nor followers.
It is not a structure to protect. It is openness. It is emptiness. It is freedom.
Those who feel the need to “save others” have often not yet made peace with their own confusion.
And so they project it outward.
They seek confirmation.
They build a “we” and a “they.”
They demand others see with their eyes, and call this love. But it is not.
True love is letting everyone find their own path.
It is trusting that truth is already present, in every being.
That there is no need to implant ideas, only to witness the simplicity of what is.
As Bankei says:
“All living beings are, by nature, perfect just as they are.
The unborn mind is present in each one.
There is nothing to correct, nothing to obtain.
Just don’t stray away from it.”
So one does not speak to teach, but to share.
One does not guide, but walks together.
One does not impose, but illuminates what is already here.
No one to save.
No one to convince.
Only life recognizing itself.
Zen Mindfulness Cambridge Zenways Italia 