1. Brahman: The Light of a Winter Morning
« All that is, is Brahman. » — Chandogya Upanishad
The pale December light slides over Cassie’s tortoiseshell fur like a gentle caress on a sleeping world. Outside, the branches of the sycamore crack under the frost, as if the earth itself whispers: « Neti Neti »—« Not this, not that. » But here, near the radiator, Cassie breathes, and this simple motion dissolves all boundaries. I place my hand near her, and the softness of her fur contrasts with the cold seeping through the window. Brahman is not Cassie, nor I, nor the bare sycamore. Brahman is what allows us to exist, to breathe, to meet in this moment. Without knowing, Cassie reminds me of this every time she stretches—without trying to be, she simply is. Like Nandi, Shiva’s bull, she embodies silent strength and devotion. She needs no words—her mere presence is a sermon.
2. Atman: The Lamp, the Flame, and the Wild Mantra
« Atman is Brahman. » — Chandogya Upanishad
Yesterday, as I lit the lamp for Lakshmi, I watched Cassie draw near, captivated by the flame’s dance. She doesn’t know this light symbolizes the knowledge that dissolves ignorance. Yet she sits there, half-asleep, and becomes the light itself—pure presence, without expectation. When my hand rests on her belly, our breaths merge in the cold air of the room. « Tat Tvam Asi »—« You are That. »
Her purr fills the silence, a primal vibration resonating like a wild Om. Perhaps this is why the sages say the divine hides in the simplest sounds—the wind, the chimes, or the breath of a sleeping cat.
Cassie is not a goddess. She is a cat, with her claws, her whims, and her naps by the fire. But in her way of being—without expectation, without judgment—she shows me what the sages call Tat Tvam Asi. Not because she is divine, but because the divine reveals itself in the ordinary, when we stop searching.
3. Avidya: The Frozen Mirror and the Unanswered Question
« Who are you? » — The mirror’s question
Cassie pounced on her reflection in the frosted window this morning. « Enemy! » her claws seemed to say. Then she paused, perplexed, as if the glass reflected a blurry riddle. « Who are you? » How many times have I asked myself the same question, clinging to my roles, my fears, my « I should be »? Hinduism calls this avidya—the ignorance that makes us forget we are not our labels. Cassie, though, simply turned away after a blink. She doesn’t need to answer. She lives the answer, curled against the warmth of the blanket, while the winter moon casts shifting shadows on the wall.
4. Samsara: The Claws, the Couch, and Karma Yoga
« Act, but do not attach yourself to the fruits of your action. » — Bhagavad Gita (2.47)
« Why does she do this?! » I groaned, seeing the marks her claws left on the fabric. « She knows it’s forbidden! » Then I laughed. Cassie « knows » nothing. She scratches, curls up on my forgotten sweater, demands food on time, and repeats. « Act, but do not attach yourself to the fruits of your action, » the Bhagavad Gita murmurs. Cassie, though, scratches the couch without guilt, sleeps without remorse, and unknowingly teaches me karma yoga: doing what must be done, then letting go. I pick up the wool fuzz with a smile—my own practice of non-attachment.
One day, I tried to meditate, repeating « Om Namah Shivaya » with closed eyes, wrapped in a blanket. Beside me, Cassie licked her paw, indifferent to my efforts. When I opened my eyes, she looked at me as if to say: « Why complicate things? » Her paw, her tongue, the frost on the window—it was all already Om.
5. Moksha: Sirius, the Snow, and the Peace of the Present
« Shanti, Shanti, Shanti. » — The peace that remains
Tonight, Sirius shone cold and clear, like a diamond in the winter sky. Snow fell silently, covering the world in a fleeting blanket. « Everything is impermanent, » the Vedas whisper. Cassie, snuggled against me under the blanket, gazed at the star through the window. Perhaps she sensed, like the ancient sages, that this light is not « out there, » but here—in her eyes, in mine, in the space that unites and warms us.
I murmured to her: « Cassie, you are Brahman. » She yawned, turned over to sleep, and her purr filled the silence. A better lesson in non-duality than all my readings.
6. To Close: An Invitation to Observe Winter Within
This text could have been titled « Lessons from Hinduism. » But Cassie prefers stories without titles. So here is mine: one morning, waking up stiff with cold, I thought for a moment I had whiskers. Then I understood—I had no whiskers. I was the whiskers, the icy air brushing against them, and the hushed silence of winter between us.
And you? What is your « Cassie »—that living mirror reminding you, without words, that truth is not to be sought, but lived? Perhaps it’s the song of a bird in the frost, the steam rising from your tea, or simply the breath of a loved one, curled up beside you.
A Practice for Today: Sit by a window, beside an animal, or even with a steaming cup of tea. Watch the snow fall, or the shadows dance on the wall. Breathe. And ask yourself: « Where is the boundary between me and this? » Perhaps, like me, you’ll discover it never existed.
« Truth is one. The wise call it by many names. » — Rig Veda
(I often call it Cassie.)
Shanti Om ✧
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