How To Write Stories From Everyday Life (Part 1 — Idea Generation)

Everyone likes stories. Stories are how we communicate. But, the best stories are the stories that are close to home – stories from everyday life.

Storytelling is important not only for fiction writers but the non-fiction writers too. What makes non-fiction interesting to read is the stories.

One way to practice storytelling is to write short stories based on what happens around us. There is a story in practically everything. You need to develop a knack to pick them up.

Getting good at writing short stories can set you up for success in other writing ventures as well.

Even if your end goal is to write a novel, you should learn how to craft solid, captivating short stories.

If you think writing short stories is easier because they are short, you are mistaken.

Writing short stories is hard.

The truth is to tell a story in a limited number of words takes more skill than writing a full-length novel or a nonfiction book.

And writing short stories from your life is even harder. Mainly because you are too close to the incident. But stories from your life are more impactful and insightful. They relate better.

There is an art to writing amazing stories. I am going to write a three article series on how to write stories from everyday life.

Today’s article is the first one of the series where I will suggest how to pick ideas for stories.

There are three ways you can pick stories from around you.

Be on the lookout for something unusual.

Out-of-ordinary things are happening around us all the time.

A next-door neighbor whom you know like the kind and docile man turns out to be a crossdresser.

A couple you know as an ideal couple divorced after twenty years of marriage.

The well-dressed old lady at the end of the street is a shoplifter.

We see and hear about these things all the time, but instead of making a note of them, we dismiss them.

If you take a moment and start thinking about them, each one has the potential to become a story.

Take the crossdresser man, for instance. How did you find out he was a crossdresser? Was he embarrassed? How often would he have felt that embarrassment? What does his family think about him? How made him a crossdresser? What would his world be like? What he really wants in his ideal world? Of course, you don’t know the answer to all these questions, but that is exactly the place to develop your fiction writing skills.

A non-fiction writer will try to find the fact and write the story from the factual aspect; a fiction writer will fill the details from her imagination.

Another source to pick unusual events or things in the newspapers, TV, magazines, or even other fictional stories. Start collecting them as you come across them. For example, a young man jumping from the Sydney Harbour Bridge is a story. Two drunken young women arrested for revealing themselves also is a story.

Keep the cuttings in a folder, and let them rest there for a while. Then, when you take them out months later, you will be able to see them with fresh eyes and weave a story around them.

Add something unusual to every day happening.

Not all daily happenings are out of the ordinary. But they still can be turned into a story with a bit of imagination.

Three friends driving out of town to a winery for lunch is hardly an out-of-the-ordinary event. But with some imagination, you can add something unexpected to it.

They can meet an accident where just the driver survives, and the other two are killed. The driver holds herself responsible for their deaths because he knew it was his fault.

They can meet an extraordinary woman in the winery whom all three want to be friends with, so they toss a coin.

The winery could be closed due to renovation, but they decide to poke around and find a stock of bottles. Seeing no one around, they decide to steal a few boxes.

Imaginary stories have been used in non-fiction writing too. They can become hypothetical scenarios.

Write it as it is but give it an insight.

Some events are complete stories in themselves because they hold meaning in them. You don’t need to do much with them other than highlight that insight.

Have a look at the story below:

One afternoon, Martha Sweeny, was in a coin laundry outside her hometown of stonewall Texas, when half a dozen young motorcyclists suddenly roared up to the gas station next door.

They were all a boisterous, rough-looking lot, and one of them — younger than the other, no more than seventeen — was the loudest and roughest-acting of the bunch.

With several of his friends, the boy entered the laundry, and then something happened when he looked around this small, rural town laundry and, especially when he notices this older woman observing him.

In one of those revealing moments we’ve all lived through, Martha made eye contact with the boy and saw him hesitate.

Later after his friends had gassed up their cycles, he told them his starter was on the blink to go on without him. He said he’d catch up.

After the others went roaring off, the boy brought some dirty clothes into the laundry. “His shoulders sagged as if he were terribly weary.

Dust and grease and sweat-stained his shirt and jeans. A beginning beard faintly shadowed his chin and lean cheeks. He turned, briefly, our eyes met again. Emotions flickered across his face. Doubt, longing, pain?”

Moments later he ran his clothes through the washer and dryer, then disappeared into the men’s room.

When he emerged ten minutes later, he was wearing clean pants and shirt and he had shaved his scraggly beard scrubbed his hands and face and even combed his hair.

He now grinned in Martha’s direction and jumping on his motorcycle, zoomed away.

Not following the others, but going back the way he’d come. Back towards home.

I read this story in a Reader’s Digest years ago (unfortunately, I didn’t note the writer’s details). Every time I read, it gives me a lump in the throat. And that is the point of the stories — to evoke emotions. 

The insight here is highlighted by a single line ‘He now grinned in Martha’s direction and jumping on his motorcycle, zoomed away.’ It gives you hope that a single moment can change the course of your life.

I have published some stories on Medium The Flight, Aunt Olivia, A Christmas Wish, The Blessed, and The Goddess based on observation of everyday happenings in life.

I wrote them six to seven years ago and haven’t done much with them since. I am trying to get back into fiction writing, and this is my way of revising what I learned about story writing years ago.

In the next article, I will explore how to develop stories once you have collected some ideas.

Photo by Silas Tolles on Unsplash

How To Look Death In the Eye And Live Intensely

Today I met two of my ex-students for coffee. Last year they did a Life Story Blogging course I was leading. They both wrote stories from their lives and put them up on blogs for their children and grandchildren to read.

When you put together three women and give them a cup of coffee each, there is no shortage of topics to talk about.

We talked non-stop, without catching our breaths, and still only scratched the surface of our lives. Maybe that is was why women, are so keen to write our life stories because we are custodians of stories.

Each of us has gone through so much, and much of it is ‘untalkable’ when we are going through it, it is no wonder that we take refuge in writing.

Although I got their permission to write this article based on our conversation; I won’t reveal their names and call them S and M instead.

When S started writing her life story, she churned out 1000 plus words every day for six months. She still has two decades of her life to write about. Having worked as a nurse, teacher, and at UNO in her younger days, she has a lot to write about. Besides, she has cycled through the world and later on walked more than twenty countries.

No doubt she has a lot to write about.

M was different. At first, she was hesitant and had less faith in her ability to tell her story. She needed a little help to start her blog. But once she started writing, we were all enthralled with her ability to tell a story. She is a natural storyteller.

With the curiosity of a child, she would listen to each one of us patiently, asking innocent questions. She then would come up with a scintillating story with a remarkable insight that would leave us gasping.

“You know my status has changed since we met last,” beamed M, radiating with an inner glow, “I am a great-grandmother now. My twenty-three years old grandson and his partner had a baby boy. They brought him over to show me. When I saw him, I gasped. He is the spitting image of his grandfather, my son Andrew.”

“Really!” Both S and I exclaimed together. We knew M had lost her son in a road accident at a very young age.

We saw baby photos and of beaming merely seventy-years old grandmother when I asked matter-of-factly, “How are you doing, M? Have you recovered from the operation earlier in the year. You look good, I must say.”

“Well, the news is not so good.”

I stopped in my tracks.

“I was telling S before you arrived. They have removed one lung, as you know. Now Cancer has gone to my other lung as well. And they have found metastasis in my left breast. They can’t tell me how long I have.”

I looked at her as if I am looking at a ghost. I feel so stupid as I am writing this. We are all going to die one day, but when we hear about writing on the wall for someone, we can’t believe it.

“They want to put me on chemo and radiation etc., but having gone through all that with my ovarian cancer, I don’t want to go through it.”

“Fair enough,” we said. In our sixties and seventies, every year we live is a year to enjoy life, not to put it through hell with the hope to extend it.

“But there is so much I want to do,” cried M. “I want to learn how to draw cartoons. I want to study anthropology. I want to finish writing my life stories. But I don’t have any time left.”

On the one hand, we agreed with her. But, on the other hand, when you know you have only a limited time left, how can you fit so much in that little time. But as soon as you give up, you are inviting death to come even sooner.

“Why don’t you make a list of all the things you want to do. Then pick one and do that.” I suggested.

“That is what my therapist suggested too. She said to pick one or two things. And I like how you are doing a thing for 100 days and then moving on to the next one. But I don’t know if I have 100 days.” M said.

She was so accepting of the inevitable that I wanted to get up and hug her.

“Why don’t you do it for 30 days instead. In fact, each month, pick up one thing from your list and do it for 30 days. Give it your full attention, enjoy it while you are doing it, and then move on to the next thing on the list.”

“That is such a great idea.” M beamed. “I don’t know how much I will be able to cover in a month.”

“A lot,” I said, “if you do a little bit every single day. If you want to study anthropology, study a few pages each day. Read some blogs. Make some notes. Write down your insights in a notebook. You might leave behind a diary full of your understanding and learnings from the study you did in a subject you always wanted to study. That will be more than people who had a degree in the subject would have done.”

“That makes a lot of sense,” said M. That is something I love so much about M. She always accepts things wholeheartedly.

“It takes me a week to write a story. I write it, then I edit it and edit it. I will only be able to write four stories in a month.”

“Maybe you should record your stories rather than type. There are so many free apps available that can transcribe. There is one that types as you speak.” I took out my mobile phone and demonstrated Otter.ai.

An hour later, I drove home, and while driving through the wide, sunny Canberra streets, I thought about the limited time I too have left on the beautiful planet earth and my ever-growing list of things I want to do.

I, too, will make a list of things I want to do and do them one at a time for 100 days each, giving them my full attention while I am doing them. And then I will let them go. There is no point in clinging to them because it will mean you won’t be able to give your full attention to the next one.

And I am going to make sure that list never ends. It is the desires that keep us alive. As long as we have a purpose and desires, life has meaning.

“You know what, my doctor is saying that my cancer is not spreading as fast as they were expecting. Maybe I will be able to cross quite a few things off my list.” I remembered M’s remark as we parted, promising each other to meet again soon.

Photo by Gradikaa Aggi on Unsplash

Filing is a Critical Skill That Most Writers Ignore

A little while ago, I wrote an article, 3 Habits Of A Freshman Writer, where I touched on the importance of having a proper system to file your work and research.

No writing book or article I ever read mentioned organizing your writing and notes, yet it is one of the most important habits for new writers.

I have spent months trying to find quotes/ notes/ stories that I scribbled somewhere and didn’t file them properly. Not only it a wasted time, but my writing is poorer for the lack of all that reference material that could have made it more impactful.

This week, Austin Kleon touched on Indexing, filing systems, and the art of finding what you have in his blog. He, too, has no system to file his work.

“I have no index for the notebooks (unless you count my logbook), and no way, really, of knowing what’s in them, a condition worsened by my terrible memory, and the fact that one of the reasons I like keeping a diary, as Henry Jones, Sr., said, is because I don’t have to remember what’s in it. I plan on starting an index in the coming weeks and updating it for each new notebook.” — Austin Kleon.

He wrote this more than ten years ago and didn’t follow through. Today when he is working on his fourth book, he is kicking himself for not doing what he knew he should do but didn’t.


Your system should consist of three things.

  • Ease and robustness. If the system is tedious or time-consuming, you will not do it. Now and then, you will slack, and things will fall out. You will need a system for both digital and paper-based documents. It should apply to everything. Even the writing that seems trivial at the moment will sound beautiful when read months or years later.
  • Retrievability. The system needs to be supported by a powerful search engine so that when you need anything, you know where to look for it and how to retrieve it with minimum effort.
  • Portability. This is to capture any idea you get at any time of the day. It should travel with you everywhere, even in the bathroom (especially in the bathroom to capture the ideas you will get in the shower).

“A good idea is not of any use if you can’t find it.”
 — Logan Heftel

Some Unusual System to Organize Your Work

I am fascinated by the filing systems of other writers, and Austin Kleon’s article prompted me to share my system with you.

Although not foolproof, some of the ways I am using to organize my work are working well.

Highlighter

Julia Carmen, the writer of The Artist’s Way, suggested a handy and method to picking up the grain from the chaff.

Those of you who haven’t heard of Julia Carmen, she is the one who suggested that the writers should start their day with writing Morning Pages.

Morning Pages are three pages (approximately 750 words) stream of consciousness, writing about anything and everything that crosses your mind. Usually, morning pages are gibberish, things meant for your eyes only, but now and then, they will have some nuggets that you want to save.

The best way is to do that, according to Julia Carmen, is to pick a highlighter and color the bits you want to save. You can then type them up in Evernote or whatever notes software you are using. Keep each idea/story separate and give them an appropriate heading.

Now when you need it, all you need to do is a simple keyword search.

Email

Email is an unglorified and somewhat underused way of storing your work.

I usually email myself whatever research I did on the project I am working on. I keep it in a separate folder. Most email software has a pretty powerful keyword search, and since my email is always open, my research is literally at my fingertips.

Blogs

My blog has become my repository. I can retrieve any story or a quote that I have used in an article and published on my blog. All I need is a keyword.

File Explorer

I have thousands of articles, research snippets, and pdf that reside on my computer under appropriate files. Although criticized mercilessly, File Explorer is the oldest filing system in the digital world and is quite intuitive. It has a decent search facility, and I have usually been able to find the document as long as I have given it a good title.

Evernote

I am relatively new to Evernote and use only the free version. Yet, I am suitably impressed with it. The search is swift, and it can even recognize text in images as well. So if I take an image of a page from a book and save it in Evernote, it will read it as if it is reading a text document.

Index for Medium Articles

Recently I started indexing my Medium articles. I created a Main Index that lists all the categories I write under. Each category is a separate post and lists the article I have written so far. I update them twice a month. It is working like magic. Now I can access any of my articles with a couple of clicks.

Your Takeaway

It’s very easy to write every day and collect a lot of material through research, but it’s not easy to keep track of it all.

You have to develop a system so that you can access whatever you need with minimum effort.

You either create your own system or follow someone else that works for you.

— — — — — — — — — 

Photo by Maksym Kaharlytskyi on Unsplash

The Goddess (Fiction – Short Story)

Three years ago, we moved to Darwin with my husband’s job during the famous build-up season. He had been offered a project manager position with a housing development project for the indigenous community. Since our kids were young, we decided to use the opportunity of living in a small town with warm tropical weather. We were given a company house to live in for the tenure. Aakash joined the work straight away and left me with the responsibility of setting the house and finding the school for our kids.

We did not know anyone in Darwin and I was overjoyed when driving back from the local grocery store. A car followed me and pulled out in our driveway right behind mine. Out came Vasanthi, a tall, slender woman with a long black braid. Accompanying her was her daughter.

“I saw you at the supermarket and called you, but you didn’t see me. Are you new to Darwin?” asked Vasanthi.

Vasanthi lived on the same street. Her daughter Sonali was five years old, a year younger than our daughter Richa and a year older than our son Karan. She invited us for dinner that night and soon our families became inseparable. Her husband, Nilesh, was an accountant. A self-conscious man with distinct South Indian features. Nilesh developed an instant liking for Aakash. They had plenty to talk about from the beginning, even though it was evident that Nilesh was a quiet fellow.

He was very much in awe of his wife’s beauty. Vasanthi was the kind of person in whose presence everyone else dimmed. At five feet eight, she towered above all of us. Dove eyes, long hair reaching to her waist. Her curvaceous body was perfect for the sari. Like Nilesh, she had South Indian features except for the complexion. She was fairer than even north Indian women. She was the kind of woman about whom it is said men want to own her and women want to befriend her.

Vasanthi made friends easily. Half of the town knew her. For the next few months, she became my companion and guide. She showed me where to shop for ethnic vegetables, whom to call for house cleaning, and which playgroups were more tolerant of multicultural children. All this time telling me stories from her life.

“I was barely twenty years old when I got married. I was in the second year of college when my father passed away.”

“Would you like to resume your studies?” I inquired sympathetically.

“Oh, I am. I am finishing my classical dance degree soon.”

“Classical dance degree? Here in Darwin?” I asked incredulously.

“I go to India each year, for three months,” she added in a matter-of-fact tone.

Aakash and I started walking with kids in the soft evening breeze of Darwin beaches. On weekends we took them cycling around the park. When the build-up season came, we joined the crowds to see the lightning on the Nightcliff beach.

Soon my days got filled with the children’s outings and craft get-togethers. Three days a week swimming, two days decoupage, in-between scrapbooking and glass painting.

When school started, I met other mums and with stay with them to help the teachers in the classroom.

Even though we lived in the same street, I didn’t see Vasanthi that much. Whenever I went to her house unannounced, she won’t be home. Nilesh would inform me that she was out, either organizing some fundraising event or helping someone with a wedding or birthday celebration.

On most of these occasions, I would find Nilesh either doing dishes or vacuuming the house. Vasanthi hated the housework. She cooked whenever they were entertaining. For the rest of the days cooking was Nilesh’s responsibility.

It didn’t matter how busy Nilesh was at work. He would never skip taking their daughter to various classes her mother had enrolled her in.

***

When she was not home late at night he would read her book and put Sonali to sleep. Sonali was always dressed immaculately. Like her mother, she had expensive tastes. Like her father, she was quiet and lacked confidence. For her mother, she was a living doll whom she could dress as she pleased. Every time Vasanthi went to India she brought back dresses worth seeing.

Nilesh and I often met at the park at the end of the street where my kids loved to play. Whenever we got there, Sonali would also come with her father.

“She loves the swing. She has been coming here ever since she was a toddler.” Nilesh would sit patiently on the bench equipped with a water bottle and peanut butter sandwich.

“You must feel lucky to have such a lovely child and such a lovely wife. He blushed. After a bit of hesitation, he shared the story of their marriage. “When her parents brought her proposal to my mother, I couldn’t believe my luck. She could have married anyone. I mean, I used to watch her in the college, from a distance. Every boy wanted to be her friend. Wanted to marry her. Boys much more handsome than me. Much richer than me. I indeed am lucky.”

***

Each year, when Vasanthi went to India to continue with her classical dance degree, she would take Sonali with her. Nilesh would be by himself. We often invited him to have dinner with us. Aakash and Nilesh would watch footy over beer, while I would cook Indian meals while keeping an eye on kids playing in the backyard.

Occasionally, Aakash will offer to do BBQ to give me a break from cooking. Two men will go to the local shops to get fresh fish, marinate it in lemon, ginger, and garlic, wrap it up in aluminum foil and cook it on the charcoal grill. I would heat frozen chips in the oven, and we would eat outside along with garden-fresh salads and relishes.

This year we went to Bali for a holiday. When we came back, I reminded Aakash to ring Nilesh and invite him over for dinner. But he got busy, catching up with work and I with unpacking and bringing the house back in order.

It was almost the end of February. On a Saturday morning, Aakash was buried in the newspaper. I was thinking about what to cook when I realized we hadn’t had BBQ this year.

“Aakash, how about inviting Nilesh and Vasanthi for BBQ tonight. Vasanthi must be back from India. Kids can play together while we can catch up.”

“That reminds me.” Aakash looked up from the paper, “I saw Nilesh at the shops the other day. He looked… disheveled.” He paused before continuing, “When I shook hand with him, he looked the other way. He had a brooding expression on his face. As if he was trying to avoid me.”

“Did you ask him to come for dinner?”

“No,” Aakash got buried in the newspaper again, “It didn’t feel right.”

“Maybe you should ring him, just to find out if he is OK.”

“I guess I should,” Aakash mumbled from his paper. I got busy mopping the floors and cooking. The suitcases from the holiday were still needed to be put away. I got Aakash to put them on the top shelf of the wardrobe.

A couple of days later, Aakash mentioned that he rang Nilesh a couple of times, but there was no response.

Weekends passed and so did the weekdays. Children’s school was going to start on Monday and after the Saturday morning cleaning regime, we took kids shopping for school supplies.

A few hours later, we headed towards the car park with a trolley full of bags from Big W and K-Mart promising kids dinner at Kentucky Fried Chicken.

Rather than eating at the crowded shopping center, we drove to the one by the lake. At the car park of the fast-food restaurant, Aakash spotted Nilesh’s car. Like us, he might have also brought his family to the fast-food joint to mark the end of the holiday.

I got excited at the prospect of catching up with Vasanthi after her trip from India. We always had a lot to discuss when she came back from India, starting from the well-being of the family members to the latest fashion and shopping spree she would have had.

We didn’t find Nilesh inside the restaurant. We ordered the food and waited in line for our food to be ready. There was still no sign of Nilesh. We picked up our tray and sat down near the window overlooking the lake when Aakash spotted Nilesh. He was sitting on a bench in the park overlooking the lake. He was alone. Kids ate their meal while Aakash went to say hello to him. I watched from the window. Aakash was right. I had never seen Nilesh so disarrayed. Hunched at the shoulders, he had the posture of an older man.

Aakash tapped him on the shoulder from behind and offered his hand, which he shook, sitting down. I watched Aakash sitting next to him and put his arm around his shoulder. They talked for a while, or rather, Aakash talked and Nilesh nodded.

“Mum, she is eating my chips,” Karan whined.

Richa made a face mimicked Karan.

Children’s bickering brought my attention back to the room. I separated their chips. A sickening feeling arose from the bottom of my stomach. Something was not right. When I looked up Aakash was back. I raised an eyebrow and he nodded. ‘He will come tonight.’

At home, I prepared a simple meal while Aakash helps the kids prepare their school bags. We decided to feed the kids early so that they could sleep early. By half-past eight, both of them were in bed with their neatly ironed school uniform hanging from the wardrobe handle.

The doorbell rang faintly and only once. Aakash opened the door and brought Nilesh in. I greeted him. He nodded. Aakash handed him a glass of whisky when he slumped in the lounge. Both men sat down and I went to the kitchen to heat the food.

His hair was long and badly needed a cut. His face was unshaved at least for a week. It seemed like he had been sleeping in the same clothes he was wearing now.

He stayed silent and so was Aakash. The only sound in the room was of me putting the food on the table. I wanted to announce that the dinner is ready when I caught Aakash’s eye. He indicated I come and sit with them.

I sat on the lounge in front and waited. As if it was the cue Nilesh was waiting for. He hadn’t touched his drink. Rolling the glass between his hands, he leaned forward and said in a faint voice, ‘I did everything. Everything I could.’

We both remained silent.

‘Even when I couldn’t, I did whatever I could. But I should have known. She was too good for me. I didn’t deserve her. She was meant to have a better life. A life I could never give her.’

I couldn’t stop myself and asked, “What happened, Nilesh?”

“She is gone. She is gone,’ he looked straight at me with his red eyes, ‘apparently, he was waiting for her since high school. Never married because of her. And now he is a millionaire in America. Owns a hotel chain there.”

Aakash put his glass on the side table and reached forward to place his hand on Nilesh’s back.

‘She took Sonali with her too.’ And he broke down crying. His body shook with the violent sobs which came from deep within where it hurt the most.

© Neera Mahajan, November 2015

Photo by Saksham Gangwar on Unsplash

How to Create From the Higher State of Consciousness

I have been writing on Medium for about ten months now. 

Once I exhausted my initial ideas I got interested to know how to create deeper and more engaging content.

I am particularly impressed with the work of Zat Rana, who has written articles that are amongst the most read on Medium. 

As I started pondering the question, as if by some serendipity, I was led to four levels of consciousness, a concept explained by Vishan Lakhiani in the book “The Code of Extraordinary Mind.”

Illustration by the author

Last week I wrote an article where I explained that at Level 1 your goals come from the culturescape. At Level 2 and 3, they come from within us but at Level 4 they come from a higher source — the Inspiration. 

Call it God, or Universe, or Supreme Being, or Higher Power, but Inspiration become our unlimited source of creation when we realize we are much more than just a body but a part of the “whole.” 

When we feel connected to every living being and become a part of the universe, Inspiration starts whispering to us. 

It talks in the form of intuition.

When you get an idea of a book in the shower, or a theory in the bathtub or a complete melody in a dream, it is not you, it is the inspiration talking to you.

You need to make sure you’re tuned in when Inspiration whispers because if you are not, it will go to someone else.

And if it finds you listening and up to the challenge, it will give you the intention (courage to act) and it will remove all the roadblocks.

That is the state you want to be as creators. 

I have covered these concepts in my previous two articles, Everything Changes When You Start Working From The Fourth Level of Consciousness and How To Make Sure You Listen To Inspiration When It Whispers.

Today I want to take them to another level.


The concept of Being.

Eckhart Tolle, talks about a concept called “Being” in his book The Power of Now.

There is an eternal, ever-present One Life beyond the myriad of forms of life that are subject to birth and death. Many people use the word God to describe it; I often call it Being. — Eckhart Tolle

Being explains nothing, nor does the word God. But according to Eckhart Being has an advantage, it’s an open concept.

It is open because it does not reduce the infinite to a finite entity. God has been given several forms already. Each religion has given it some symbol, shape, or image. In many mythologies, God looks like humans.

But it is impossible to form a mental image of Being. Becasue “Being” is not a noun but a verb. 

So what is Being?

According to Eckhart, Being is your very presence. It is your true nature. Your own deepest self. 

It is accessible to you all the time. 

It is accessible to you now as a feeling of your own presence. Which is only a small step from the word “being” to the experience of Being.

It is a bit hard concept to understand. If you try to understand it with your logical mind you may not be able to. If you try to give it a form you will not be able to. Because Being can’t be seen it can only be felt.

That too when your mind is still and your intention is fully in the present.

Being is not only deep within but also beyond. It is in every form as its innermost invisible and indestructible essence.

Being is also the pathway to gain enlightenment. Enlightenment is not some superhuman accomplishment, it is simply your natural state in oneness with Being.

To regain awareness of BEING and abide in that state of feeling-realization, is enlightenment. — Eckhart Tolle

So Being is a state of connectedness with something big. Something that is essentially you and yet it is much greater than you. 

It is you your true nature beyond the name and form.

There is a connection between the concept of “Being” and the concept of “Four Levels of Consciousness.”

At the fourth level of consciousness when we feel connected to every living being and become a part of the universe, Inspiration starts whispering to us.

So when we are in the state of “Being”, we are connected to the Inspiration. 

Eckhart says it this way.

When your consciousness 

is directed outwards, mind and world arise. 

When it is directed inwards, 

it realizes its own Source

and returns home into the Unmanifested.

Eckhart goes on to explain that in this state of inner connectedness, you are much more alert, more awake, fully present. As you go more deep in this state of pure consciousness, you feel your own presence with such intensity and such joy that all thinking, all emotions, your physical body as well as the whole external world become relatively insignificant in comparison.

Yet it is not a selfish but a selfless state. It takes you beyond what you previously thought of as “your self.”

That presence is essentially you and at the same time inconceivably grater than you.

So Being is the higher state of consciousness and you can reach this state by simply incorporating a practice of focusing your attention into the Now.

By feeling your very presence. 

By connecting to your true nature. 

By connecting to your own deepest self.

By connecting to the universe. 

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I am going to stop here. I will be writing more on the topic. Stay tuned.

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If You Want To Change Your Life, Make Your Bed

Last weekend, as usual, my husband brought a pile of books from the library. Our household is an avid user of the public library.

Amongst those, one book with an interesting title caught my eye. The title was:

MAKE YOUR BED

A tiny book of mere 130 pages was written by Admiral William H. McRaven, a former Navy SEAL.

How come an admiral was writing a book on making a bed? 

It is a job of a mother. A habit I have tried to install in my kids. 

The introduction to the book turned out equally interesting. 


On May 17, 2014, Admiral William H. McRaven addressed the graduating class of the University of Texas at Austin on their commencement day.

Taking the inspiration from the university’s slogan, “What starts here changes the world,” he shared ten principles he learned during Navy Seal training that helped him overcome challenges not only in his training and long Navy career but also throughout his life.

And the first one of those was — make your bed.

Start Your Day with a Task Completed

Admiral’s argument is to start your day with a task completed as soon as you wake up. 

You may not think making a bed a task, but it is. Try leaving it unmade for a few days and you will see the untidiness it portrays. And it becomes much of a chore if you don’t do it first thing in the morning.

If you make your bed as soon as you get up, a sense of fastidiousness takes over and you already feel on top of the day. 

Admiral McRaven tells the story of when he joined the basic SEAL training in his younger days. SEAL training is the hardest military training in the world. For six months, the recruits are constantly harassed by professionally trained warriors who seek to find the weak of mind and body and eliminate them from ever becoming a Navy SEAL.

But the training also seeks to find those who can lead in an environment of constant stress, chaos, failure and hardship. 

Each morning, Admiral McRaven’s instructors, who were all Vietnam veterans, would show up in the barracks and the first thing they would inspect was recruits’ beds. 

The corners needed to be square, the covers tight, the pillow centered just under the headboard, and the extra blanket folded neatly at the foot of the rack. 

It is a simple task, mundane at best. 

But why do it to such a perfection?

It might seem ridiculous, particularly in the light of the fact that they were aspiring warriors wanting to be trained in battle tactics, but there is wisdom in this simple act.

Incidentally, it is the first requirement of nursing training as well, an equally arduous profession. 

If you make your bed every morning, you will have accomplished the first task of the day. It will give you a small sense of pride and it will encourage you to do another task and another and another. By the end of the day that one task completed will have turned into many tasks completed. Making your bed will also reinforce the fact that the little things in life matter. If you can’t do the little things right you will never do the big things right.

— Admiral William H. McRaven

In December 2003, U.S. forces captured Saddam Hussein. He was held in confinement, during which he was kept in a small room. He also slept in an Army cot but with the luxury of sheets and a blanket. 

Once a day, Admiral McRaven would visit Saddam to ensure the soldiers were properly caring for him. 

He couldn’t help notice, with some sense of amusement, that Saddam didn’t make his bed. The covers were always crumpled, at the foot of his cot and he rarely seemed inclined to straighten them.


Admiral McRaven’s address to graduating class of the University of Texas went viral. For years he had been stopped on the street by people telling him their own stories, how they didn’t back down from the sharks, how they didn’t quit, how making their bed every morning helped them through tough times.

If by chance you have a miserable day, you will come home to a bed that is made — that you made — and made bed gives you encouragement that tomorrow will be better.

So, if you want to change the world, start by making your bed.

Here is Admiral’s whole speech if you want to hear about the other lessons he learned in the basic SEAL training.

Image by Jill Wellington from Pixabay