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We move through our days like travelers in a crowded marketplace—people crossing paths, events colliding, expectations rubbing against reality. Friction is unavoidable. And when it happens, our first reaction is almost automatic: we look outward.
Who caused this? What went wrong? Why did this happen to me?
By assigning blame, we try to make sense of the turbulence inside us through something outside of us.
Yet much of our exhaustion comes from trying to do the impossible: avoiding collision altogether. We plan carefully, manage relationships, anticipate risks—hoping for a smooth, disturbance-free life. But life itself is movement. Uncertainty is not an error in the system; it is the system.
An ancient insight offers a different way of seeing.
It compares the human mind to a vessel.
When something strikes the vessel, whatever it contains will inevitably shake—and may spill over. The real question, then, is no longer “Why did this happen?” but rather “What was already inside me?”
This shift is fundamental. It redirects attention away from judgment and toward awareness.
External events are conditions, not verdicts. They are neutral by nature—neither good nor bad. They simply knock. The echo that follows is shaped entirely by what we have been carrying within.
If our inner vessel has long been filled with resentment, fear, envy, or unresolved anger, then when life jolts us, those are the substances that spill out.
We complain about others’ harsh words, unaware that they merely touched wounds already inflamed.
We rage at injustice, not noticing that the fire burns on fuel we ourselves have stored.
These inner residues are not created overnight. They accumulate through countless small moments: indulged thoughts, repeated emotional reactions, stories we tell ourselves again and again. Slowly, they settle—like sediment at the bottom of a glass.
When life is calm, the water appears clear. But when shaken, the sediment rises instantly, clouding everything.
This is what an old teaching meant when it said:
“What you experience is not random. You taste the results of what you have been cultivating.”
Life does not punish or reward. It reflects.
What This Looks Like in Daily Life
Imagine a colleague criticizes your work in a meeting.
If your inner vessel is filled with insecurity, the spill is defensiveness or anger.
If it is filled with self-worth and clarity, the spill may be curiosity—or calm disagreement.
Or consider a partner who forgets something important.
If the vessel carries old abandonment fears, the reaction is disproportionate pain.
If it carries trust and emotional steadiness, the moment passes without escalation.
The event is the same. The outcome is not.
Inner work is not about mastering the art of avoidance. It is about transforming what we carry.
When anger arises, notice it—clearly, without judgment—like watching a dark cloud pass through the sky. Do not feed it. Do not become it. Do not call it “me.”
Just observe.
When jealousy appears, look beneath it. Often you will find fear or a sense of lack. Meet it with understanding rather than more stories.
This is not suppression. Suppression only pushes the sediment down harder, guaranteeing a more violent eruption later.
Transformation is different. It changes the quality of the water itself.
An old wisdom summarized this simply:
“You cannot stop the waves, but you can learn how to surf.”
Through consistent awareness, the raw materials of emotion—fear, anger, craving—are slowly refined. Like an alchemist working patiently at a furnace, attention burns away what is coarse, leaving clarity and softness behind.
At the same time, we actively pour in clean water.
Kindness.
Understanding.
Patience.
The willingness to see others as human rather than adversaries.
In conversations, we listen instead of preparing our defense.
In conflict, we pause instead of reacting.
In difficulty, we ask not “Who is wrong?” but “What is this teaching me?”
When the Vessel Is Clear
Life does not stop colliding with you.
People still misunderstand you.
Plans still fall apart.
Loss still happens.
But when your inner vessel is filled with steadiness rather than poison, what spills out is different.
Instead of aggression, there is firmness without hostility.
Instead of bitterness, there is discernment.
Instead of collapse, there is presence.
And something unexpected happens: your calm begins to soften the very situation that once would have consumed you.
So perhaps the most useful question is not:
“Why does life keep hitting me?”
But rather:
“When it does—what do I pour into the world?”
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