Faith Beyond Understanding: What We Don’t Know About What We Believe

The prompt from Poets and Storytellers United is "be inspired by the concept of “in between”.

Andamans

There’s a quiet truth we often overlook — that belief, at its core, is an acceptance that something exists or is true, even without proof.

We live in a world where logic reigns supreme. If something cannot be measured, tested, or explained, we tend to dismiss it. That’s why so many struggle with the idea of God — or maybe the idea of the devil. If it can’t be explained, how can it be real?

And yet, if we pause for a moment, we’ll see that much of what we rely on every single day works on faith — not full understanding.

We trust that the sun will rise tomorrow, that the seasons will change, that winter will pass. But even if we could sometimes figure out the how, do we really know why? We take comfort in patterns and call them “certainty,” but beneath it all, our knowledge is built on assumptions — on belief.

Our understanding of human-made things in life, even in the age of technology, remains astonishingly limited.
We listen to music from a flash drive, watch videos on our phones, and store memories in invisible clouds. Yet, if asked how these things actually work — how sound becomes a file or how data travels through the air — most of us would have no comprehensive idea.

And still, we believe they will work. We plug in the drive, press play, and trust that the melody will fill the room.

Perhaps faith isn’t so different.
Maybe belief in something beyond logic — Energy, Force, God, Destiny, The unseen — is not ignorance, but an acknowledgment of the vastness of what we don’t know.

In between knowledge, logic, stubbornness, there’s humility in accepting that our understanding has limits, and grace in trusting that something greater exists beyond them.

A Pledge and a Prayer

 

Have you ever woken up wondering how you’ll face the day, or whether you’re falling behind your own dreams? If so, you share something in common with a younger version of me — a time when I believed this feeling was natural.

One day, I realised it wasn’t. And since then, I’ve had to remind myself, again and again, that this heaviness is not a default state. It is the effect of life’s stresses, unfulfilled dreams, and surrounding expectations quietly clouding clarity.

The promise I now make to myself is simple:
I will not let that noise take over my life.

Life waits for nobody. It does not pause because I feel low, slow, or unsure. No matter how I feel, the day will still unfold — and I choose to make something meaningful out of it.

Here is my pledge — and perhaps, in its own quiet way, a prayer.

Each morning arrives as a vast canvas, inviting me to rise, to move, and to paint my own day. I must embrace this opportunity and do my best — not for applause, not for approval, but to tend to my own life.

I regret nothing.
The past is a path already walked. Every mistake was experience gained, every misstep a lesson earned. I extract the wisdom and continue onward.

My foremost aim is to safeguard my mind, my emotions, and my peace. Once this inner ground is steady, the mind is calm — able to navigate storms while others flail.

I strive to master my emotions, knowing that envy and fear shrink the heart. When I encounter someone greater, I observe, learn, and grow alongside them.

True peace begins when I mind my own path, stop seeking applause, and stop comparing my brushstrokes to others. Life is not a contest; it is a canvas.

Life will move regardless. But when I walk with intention — step by step — life quietly rewards me.

I keep moving.
I keep painting.
I keep walking.

My path is mine alone — and it is beautiful.
My path is mine alone — and I choose to walk it with care.

The 54th Post — Closing the Daily Chapter

 

I have been on a writing marathon for the past seven weeks — and today, on 30 November 2025, I’m closing this chapter with the 54th post of my series. It has been a ritual: sometimes demanding, often unexpected, but always real fun.

Over the previous 53 posts, I wrote about many things — curiosity, doubts, discoveries, ideas. I experimented with different styles: sometimes essay-like, sometimes personal, sometimes informative, sometimes conversational, and once I even tried a poem. I wandered between memories and questions, theories and observations, hopes and uncertainties, including a few thoughts on AI.

What I wrote:

Moments of wondering — small questions I had about life, culture, and the things I see and feel around me.

Thoughts on learning, on change, on growing.

Pieces of honesty — moments where I tried to share what I truly thought rather than what I “should” think.

A mix of genres — essays, musings, and snapshots of ideas. I pushed myself not to follow a fixed formula but to trust where my pen (or keyboard) led.

Once I shared an old Tagore song my daughter used to sing as a child, and once I tried my hands at a poem.

Some days the words came easily, like they had been waiting for me. On other days, I had to sit quietly and coax them out one by one.

What I learned — and how I changed:

The first lesson for me is that writing consistently taught me how to think more clearly. Even when I wasn’t sure what I wanted to say, the act of writing teased out hidden thoughts — ideas that were living inside me without my awareness.

I learned that motivation does not need external stimuli — I wrote whether or not anyone was reading, reacting, or appreciating the effort.

A big lesson was that you don’t need to write anything negative, hateful, or hurtful to keep going — even though social media often allows exactly that to thrive.

I also learned that discipline beats inspiration. Not every day was inspiring; some days I wrote simply because I promised myself I would. And often those pieces surprised me — with clarity, with emotion, with something I didn’t expect at the start.

And along the way, I connected with many like-minded bloggers — people I would never have met otherwise — you being one of them.

What this marathon means — and what are the take aways:

This series was a commitment: a way to prove to myself that I could keep going. A way to give shape to my inner questions, to trust my own voice, and to build a habit of creation and exploration.

If you read even one post and felt a spark — a thought, a question, a moment of recognition — then this marathon was worth it. And if you’re reading this now and thinking, “Maybe I could try that too,” then take this as a quiet invitation: start. Write something. It doesn’t have to be perfect. It may feel confusing. It may matter only to you. But keep going.

To you, dear reader — known or unknown — thank you for being here. I'm not going away; I’m simply closing this daily ritual. Keep thinking, keep questioning, keep writing your own story.

— End of the daily series, not the writing.

The Umbrella Relationship

 

It is said that the first thing a blind man does after regaining vision is to throw away the stick — he no longer needs what once guided and protected him. This may not be a common occurrence, but it reflects something we ourselves often experience: what I call the “umbrella relationship.”

Life is a bit strange — shall I say, even selfish at times. People often forget those who stood beside them during difficult moments. As soon as the rain stops, the umbrella starts to feel like a burden. Just a while ago, we were willing to give anything to have one.

Now, the stick and the umbrella are both non-living things — objects without awareness or emotion.

But when real beings like you or me experience similar treatment, it hurts. Deeply.

If we look at this metaphorically, we see this pattern in the way some children treat their parents. For years, parents have been the umbrella, shielding their children from the world’s challenges. But once the children become capable, some begin to see these very parents as a burden — an inconvenience.

And yet, the irony of life is that these same children later become the umbrella for their children — hoping, perhaps, that the next generation will treat them differently.

The same happens with the “ladder relationship”: some people will use you as a ladder to climb out of their struggles… and once they stand on solid ground, they no longer remember who lifted them up.

So what lesson does all this hold for us?

We must accept this one more fact of life: people will lean on you for support, protection, and survival, and some will forget your presence once the storm has passed.
Maybe you did the same once — I hope not.

But knowing this, we can choose better.
We must refuse to accept this as a norm and continue with this pattern. We can manage our expectations from others and, more importantly, act consciously. We can defeat the urge to ignore or abandon someone who stood beside us during our own time of need.

Anger and You

“Anger is the punishment we give ourselves for someone else’s actions.”

I came across this line in an article, and the author went on to describe how drained they felt once the anger finally cooled down. I wondered how universal this experience is — and how few of us understand what’s actually happening inside us. It made me rethink my own relationship with anger.

Anger is a natural signal that something important feels threatened or disrespected. It rises fast, hits hard, and often leaves us exhausted. That’s because, for a moment, the older “reptile” part of the brain — our survival system — takes over. Clear thinking, empathy, and perspective momentarily step aside.

I once couldn’t handle my anger during my high school, and that kept us apart for a decade.

When anger is left to simmer, it turns inward — draining our energy, tightening the body, and often hurting us more than the original trigger.

But it doesn’t have to be this way.
If we can stay just a little aware in the heat of the moment, the emotion passes without doing further damage. Even a small shift in awareness can soften the entire moment. A few simple concepts like the following can be helpful:

• Pause and breathe. A slow breath interrupts the rush and gives the mind a few seconds to return online.

• Notice your patterns. Certain tones, expectations, or situations trigger us again and again. Awareness softens the impact.

• Reframe the story. A small shift in interpretation can lower the emotional temperature almost instantly.

Managing anger isn’t about suppressing feelings — it’s about protecting our energy, our clarity, and our relationships. It’s choosing where our attention goes instead of letting emotions steer the entire day.

Start small.
A single pause.
A single breath.

A single belief: I can choose my response.

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The Second Chance We Want

 

Sitting alone, contemplating how life has and is treating me, I remembered an old story. A person facing what we often call a “midlife crisis” went to a monk. He complained about all the decisions he felt he had failed to take, about how miserable his life had become. He wished he could wake up at 22 and start all over.

The perspective the monk offered made a huge impact on me.

He said:

"If you’re 41 and feeling sad that you can’t wake up as a 22-year-old again, try this instead."

Close your eyes. Take a few deep breaths. Feel your lungs expand, feel the air entering your nose. Now, imagine — just for a few moments — that you are 85.

Feel the weight of those years — the slower body, the absence of people you once loved, the conversations you never had, the apologies you never made, the love you didn’t express enough. Let the regrets rise: the chances you didn’t take, the relationships you let fade, the moments you were too distracted to notice.

Sit with that version of yourself for a while — you will soon feel the 85-year-old you wishing for one more ordinary day at 41.

And then, in this little thought experiment, you go to sleep with all those feelings.

Then you wake up… you are 41 again.
Not older.
Not drained.
Not running out of time.

You suddenly, miraculously, have the next 44 years back in your hands- maybe little less, or little more.

So you ask yourself:

• What would I do differently?

• What would matter more?

• Whom would I call?

• What would I finally stop postponing?

The monk’s point was simple:

You may never be 22 again, but you can absolutely be someone your 85-year-old self would be grateful for.

We keep longing for a second chance — without realizing we already have one.

It just begins at 41, not at 22.

The Strength Lies in Accepting

 

Time is unforgiving. Life doesn’t let us rewind a moment, step back into an old version of ourselves, or undo the accident we never saw coming. It doesn’t offer a second attempt at the same crossroads — no matter how much remorse we carry or how deeply we wish we could fix what we once did wrong.

What it does offer — quietly, consistently — is the chance to learn. To reshape. To live each day a little better than the last.

I once heard an older musician speak about losing hearing in one ear early in his career. He said something I’ve never forgotten:
“I spent five years trying to get back to who I was before the accident. I wasted that time trying to heal the unhealable.”

For half a decade, he wasn’t fighting the condition — he was fighting the past, fighting the idea of the life he believed he was supposed to have. Only when he finally accepted that this particular loss was permanent did something shift. Acceptance didn’t restore his hearing, but it restored his direction.

He reworked his technique, retrained his sense of balance, and found a new creative rhythm that didn’t betray what he had lost but built upon what he still had. And from that place, a different kind of joy emerged.

There is a quiet strength in acknowledging a changed reality. Acceptance isn’t defeat. It isn’t surrender. It is simply recognising life’s randomness and moving with it instead of against it.

The ability to integrate the wound and still move through life — not perfectly, not painlessly, but purposefully — is its own form of victory.

In the end, the true virtue is this:
stop trying to return to the person you once were,
and start becoming the person you are meant to be next.

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