La Danse de Shiva et Bouddha

There are moments in life when everything seems to pause. The weight of choices, responsibilities, and consequences presses down on us until we feel paralyzed. Arjuna, the great warrior of the Mahabharata, stands on the battlefield of Kurukshetra, his bow in hand, his heart heavy. Before him are his kin, his teachers, those he loves and respects—now arrayed as enemies. How can he raise his weapon against them? How can he act when every option seems unbearable? It is in this moment of existential crisis that Krishna, his divine friend and guide, offers one of Hinduism’s most profound teachings: the art of acting without attachment to the results.

We live in a world where everything moves faster and faster, where distractions are everywhere, and where the mind is constantly torn between regrets of the past and worries about the future. In this whirlwind, mindfulness acts as an anchor, a refuge. It invites us to slow down, to observe, to feel, and above all, to fully live each moment. But mindfulness is not just a relaxation technique or a passing trend. It is a philosophy of life, an inner revolution that transforms our relationship with ourselves, others, and the world around us.

That morning, I walked barefoot across the cold floor of the living room, my toes sinking slightly into the rug as if it were forest moss. Cassie was already there, perched on the windowsill, her body leaning toward the outside, her eyes wide open. She wasn’t just "looking out"—she was out there. Her tortoiseshell fur, striped with golden light, seemed to vibrate with the rhythm of shifting shadows. She was still, but her attention was a rushing river: a pigeon landing on the pine branch, a sparrow pecking at invisible crumbs, a human hurrying past, consumed by some unseen urgency. She watched them all with the same sacred intensity.

For me, sophrology isn’t about rigid techniques or perfect execution. It’s a sacred pause, a moment to reconnect with myself, my breath, and—most importantly—with Cassie. My tortoiseshell cat, with her golden eyes and soothing purr, has become my unexpected partner in this practice. No rules, no special equipment, just the desire to be present, to breathe, and to let the magic unfold.

There are evenings when the words of sacred texts seem to float in the air, carried by a voice trembling with emotion. It is in these moments that Cassie, my tortoiseshell cat, gently approaches. She settles beside me, her eyes half-closed, as if listening to more than just syllables: a vibration, a prayer, a connection with the unseen. Hinduism, with its ancient writings, is not just a religion—it is an intimate conversation with the universe. And Cassie, with her soothing presence, becomes its silent witness.

Hey you, yes YOU—there with your half-finished coffee or tea, tired eyes, and a body silently resisting.

In a world where noise reigns—cities humming, screens buzzing, thoughts colliding—silence becomes a rarity, almost a revolution. Yet, for millennia, Buddhism has taught us that silence is not an absence, but a presence: the presence of the moment, of deep listening, of connection to self and world. But why is it so difficult to surrender to it, even for Cassie, my four-legged companion, whose purrs and soft footsteps often guide me into meditation?

It began as an experiment. Every evening, as I settled into my meditation cushion, Cassie—my tortoiseshell cat with a penchant for spiritual rituals—would pad softly into the room. She’d circle once, twice, then nestle into the crook of my lap, her purrs vibrating in time with my breath. At first, I thought she was just seeking warmth. But then I noticed something remarkable: Cassie wasn’t just present during my sophrology sessions—she was participating.

For as long as I can remember, I have walked the tightrope of solitude, like a hermit seeking refuge in silence. I believed I was protecting myself by staying apart, convinced that the world offered only thorns. But my animals—these masters of unconditional love—revealed a greater truth to me: solitude is just a stage, not a prison. It prepares us for openness, for encounter, for understanding.

Today, returning from the store with Cassie’s chicken sausage, I noticed something profound: she eats each bite as if it were precious, with a slowness and presence that mirrors the mindfulness of a Buddhist monk. Though her diet includes meat—unlike the vegetarian ideals often linked to Buddhism—Cassie embodies a universal wisdom: respect for nature and gratitude for what is given. Buddhist sacred texts, such as the Vinaya Pitaka, emphasize eating with moderation and awareness, recognizing food as a gift from the Earth and the labor of others. Buddha taught that food should be consumed with gratitude, without waste or greed. Cassie, unknowingly, honors this philosophy. She savors, she learns, she respects her meal—and with her gaze, she reminds me that every moment is precious.

As a teenager, I experienced something that, unbeknownst to me, would mark the beginning of my meditative journey. One day, for no particular reason, I decided to do nothing. No music, no book, no goal. Just sitting, letting time pass, and observing. At the time, I didn’t know this practice had a name: meditation. I had heard about Buddhism in school, in a book that mentioned monks in saffron robes and teachings on suffering and liberation. But no one had ever taught me how to meditate, or even what it truly meant.

In the Hindu pantheon, Ganesha—also known as Ganesh, Vinayaka, or Pillaiyar—embodies far more than a mere deity: He is the universal consciousness that dissolves obstacles, the guardian of thresholds, the one who illuminates the path of wisdom and prosperity. Recognizable by his elephant head, a symbol of strength and insight, and his plump body, an evocation of abundance and gentleness, He is the beloved son of Shiva and Parvati, born of a sacred story where maternal love and divine power intertwine. For me, Ganesha is not just a revered figure; He is a living presence, a guide who, through His vibrant mantras, has transformed trials into opportunities and doubts into certainties. And in this spiritual dance, Cassie, my tortoiseshell companion with her curious eyes, has become an unexpected partner, sensitive to the sacred vibrations that emanate from His chants.

There was a time when I believed sleep should be an instant, almost mechanical act: close your eyes, switch off your thoughts, and sink into unconsciousness. But sleep, like life, cannot be commanded. It is received. And sometimes, it eludes us. Sleepless nights—those long hours when the body is exhausted but the mind remains wide awake—have become for me open doors to another form of rest: meditation.

Last night, sleep refused to come—not just for me, but for Cassie, my Maine Coon with golden eyes and silky fur. Instead of fighting the insomnia, we let ourselves slip into deep meditation, a space where the boundaries between waking and dreaming, reality and spirit, dissolved. What could have been a struggle became a journey—an exploration of altered states of consciousness, guided by the implicit teachings of Buddhism and Hinduism, and the silent presence of Cassie.

As a teenager, school was a living hell. I saw it all—the cruelty, the malice, the colors of hatred painted so thickly they tried to convince me I was nothing. But I never believed them. Their meanness was just a reflection of their own pain, their jealousy, their lost souls. Broken kids, drowning in their own misery, trying to drag others down with them. I learned early to disconnect from their world, to build a shield so their poison couldn’t touch me.

From my earliest years, the moon was more than just a celestial body—it was a confidante, a silent goddess watching over my nights. I spent hours gazing at it, whispering my secrets, offering rituals of white magic inspired by a deep intuition that the world was far vaster than what our eyes could see. Animals—Xena, my red-furred dog, and Phoebie, my black cat with golden eyes—were my companions in this quest. They taught me to listen to the wind, to sense energies, and to believe in the unseen. With them, I discovered that magic was not fiction but a tangible force, a wisdom flowing through the veins of the Earth and the breath of living beings.

"To all the children who built temples without knowing it."

Today, I want to share the different ways meditation weaves itself into my daily life—not just as a practice, but as a conversation with the world, with myself, and with Cassie, my feline companion. Each meditation is a doorway: to gratitude, love, presence, or connection with nature. Some are quiet, some are spoken aloud, but all are sacred pauses in the rhythm of life.

In Hindu tradition, Parvati is far more than just a goddess. She is Shakti, the divine feminine energy that animates the universe. She is the wife of Shiva, the mother of Ganesha, and the warrior Durga, who battles the forces of evil. Parvati embodies the balance between gentleness and strength, love and power, patience and determination. She teaches us that the sacred is not only found in grand rituals but also in simple moments, silent presences, and the bonds we share with those around us.

In the quiet of shared meditation, between Cassie’s soothing purr and the loving memories of Phoebie and Xena, a universal truth reveals itself: animals are masters of wisdom. Buddha himself, seated under the Bodhi tree, often emphasized the importance of observing and connecting with all living beings. Animals, through their simplicity and authenticity, embody spiritual lessons that even the greatest sages seek to understand.

That morning, nothing hinted at the intensity of what awaited me. I decided to sit for an hour of silent meditation with Cassie. No music, no guidance, not even a mantra to accompany me. Just the two of us, the silence, and the unknown. I placed my hand on her fur, settled into the lotus position, and closed my eyes. I didn’t yet know that this hour would become a journey—a dive into layers of consciousness I had never explored before.

A few days ago, on my balcony, I witnessed a scene that seemed straight out of a fairy tale. Cassie, my golden-furred cat with the calm of a sage, was sitting face-to-face with a pigeon. They gazed at each other, motionless, like old friends reunited. Then, incredibly, their heads leaned toward each other. A kiss. No claws, no aggressive pecking—just silent tenderness that took my breath away.

Quelque part dans l'immensité du ciel, brille une étoile que les anciens nomment Shiva-Nakshatra . On dit qu'elle resplendit d'une lumière violette et orangée, telle une flamme sacrée suspendue entre les mondes. Cette étoile est bien plus qu'un simple astre : elle est un œil ouvert, une présence vivante, un souffle divin qui tisse entre rêves et réalités. Pour moi, elle est bien plus qu'un point lumineux dans la nuit. Elle est le symbole d'une danse éternelle – la danse de Shiva, le destructeur et le créateur, le danseur cosmique qui dissout l'illusion et révèle la vérité nue.

Phoebie never needed words to remind us of the importance of slowing down. In a world where everything speeds up, where screens flicker and thoughts race, she was an anchor. She would settle beside me, her gaze calm, her tail gently flicking, wordlessly telling me: "Take your time. Breathe. Let the world wait."

There are nights that shift without warning. Nights when the silence grows heavy, when the air itself seems to hold its breath. That night, Cassie and I felt the shift before words could name it.

After an intense meditation with Cassie, those moments when inner silence merges with the vibrant energy of mantras, sleep can become a gateway to the unseen. These aren’t ordinary dreams. They feel like fragments of a sacred language, messages sent by Shiva himself, where every symbol, every sensation, carries meaning far beyond our waking reality.

The Red Button

Cassie is not just a passive observer of the world—she is its silent student, its patient artist, turning every fleeting moment into a lesson. Perched on the balcony, her reddish fur ruffled by the wind, she surrenders herself to the changing seasons: the dance of birds in winter, the gentle fall of snowflakes, the burst of spring as it awakens the trees. For her, every instant is a living canvas, every movement a melody waiting to be understood.

Silent meditation is often seen as a simple pause, a moment of "doing nothing." Yet, sitting in lotus position, my hands resting on Cassie, my motionless body hides an inner storm, a secret alchemy. Two hours of "doing nothing"? No. Two hours of feeling everything, transforming everything.

Il y a des années, dans la lueur bleue de mon écran Linux , j'ai découvert que la magie ne se résumait pas aux bougies, aux cristaux ou aux murmures au clair de lune. Elle englobait aussi la création, la compréhension et l'étrange alchimie qui opère lorsqu'on concrétise une idée, que ce soit par un sort ou un script.

Some evenings, the stress I’ve quietly carried for days spills over me like an oil slick. The hours pile up, and suddenly, everything feels too heavy—my thoughts tangle, my body tenses, my mind races. In those exact moments, Cassie, silent and loyal, curls up against me. She doesn’t speak, but her presence is an invitation: Stay. Breathe. I’m here.

The forest belonged to no one at night—except to those who dared to listen. That full moon evening, I was barely fifteen, my heart pounding as I prepared for our ritual. Candles flickered on our makeshift altar—a mossy tree stump—while incense curled toward the sky like a silent prayer. But above all, there was her: Xena. Her collar jingled softly as I fastened it, her golden eyes fixed on me, filled with a wisdom beyond her years. "Let’s go, my warrior," I whispered, stroking her reddish coat, which caught the moonlight like a suit of copper. She knew. She always knew.

One noon, as the world around me rushed in its frantic pace, I decided to stop. Not just to eat, but to taste. For the first time, I focused on each bite, each texture, each flavor, as if I were discovering food for the first time. And that’s when everything changed: by eating mindfully, I realized I knew almost nothing about the foods I had been consuming for years. The tastes, the nuances, the emotions they carried—all of it had escaped me, swallowed up by the autopilot of routine.

Spring had wrapped the house in a golden light, soft as a caress. That morning, everything seemed suspended in a bubble of serenity, as if time itself had slowed down to gift Cassie and me a day outside the world. Birds sang through the slightly open window, and a gentle breeze made the curtains dance. For us, this was no ordinary day: it was a pause, a sacred moment where every gesture, every glance, every purr became a celebration of our bond.

Assise en lotus, les genoux ancrés au sol, les mains posées en mudra sur mes genoux, je deviens un pont. Pas un pont ordinaire, mais un pont entre le visible et l'invisible , entre la peur et la guérison. Le lotus, fleur née dans la boue et s'épanouissant dans la lumière, est la promesse que même dans l'obscurité, la pureté peut émerger.

That day, the vet showed us the images without hesitation: tumors everywhere. Not one, not two, but a multitude of black spots that had invaded her tiny body. "It’s widespread," he said, his gaze weary. We stayed there beside her, stroking her ears in silence, feeling her breath grow slower, shallower. "We can ease her pain, but…" He didn’t finish his sentence. He didn’t need to.

One morning, as light filtered through my bedroom curtains, I finally understood. Not with words, not with a sudden revelation, but with that quiet certainty that settles in after years of wandering in the dark. I understood why fear paralyzed me in my projects, why depression and anxiety had turned into chronic illnesses, and most of all, why I had spent so long ignoring their message. Before Cassie, I lived with my suffering like an unwanted roommate: I tolerated it, ignored it, sometimes cursed it, but I never truly understood it. I didn’t know it was there to guide me, like a broken compass waiting to be repaired.

All stories start with a cat. Especially when that cat is named Cassie and knows all your secrets.

There are mornings when everything aligns. You don’t need much: a pulsing Russian playlist, a cat leaping like a maniac, and the audacity to let go completely. No alcohol, no drugs—just the raw energy of the moment. Back when I was learning Russian, I discovered that happiness could be a wild dance in my living room, an unlikely duo between a man, a cat, and melodies that hit you like an electric shock.

Today, I want to share something very personal with you: how I manage the emotions that sometimes overwhelm us. Anger, joy, sadness, anxiety, excitement... each of these emotions can invade us and make us lose control. But thanks to Cassie, my cat, I have learned to manage them and see life more clearly.

In a world where compassion often manifests through simple gestures, there are beings—human or animal—who embody this virtue with natural grace. Among them, Phoebie, an extraordinary cat, marked our lives with her luminous presence and deep intelligence. I’ve already told you about her talent for meditation, but her generous soul also expressed itself through an unexpected passion: tending to her orchids. For her, these delicate flowers were not mere plants, but living beings to cherish, listen to, and protect.

Cape Verde is a land of contrasts, where the fire of the desert meets the gentleness of the ocean, where material poverty coexists with unsuspected spiritual wealth. The people, despite hardships, radiate a simple joy and generous hospitality. Their colorful houses, their songs, their dances—everything seems to celebrate life, even in its rawest simplicity.

Hey everyone,

Shiva. Just the name evokes a wave of peace, power, and mystery within me. To many, Shiva is the Hindu god of destruction and transformation, but to me, he is so much more: he is the very rhythm of life, the eternal dance between creation and dissolution, the silent presence that cradles my meditations and inspires my writing. Today, I want to share with you his story, his symbolism, and above all, the deep love I hold for this deity who walks beside me every day—like a friend, a guide, and sometimes even a mirror.

Everything started with a synchronicity, one of those moments when the universe seems to whisper in our ear. While browsing YouTube aimlessly, a mantra chant dedicated to Shiva caught my attention. From the first notes, I felt His presence — a powerful and enveloping energy, as if the divine had chosen this moment to reveal itself. It wasn’t just passive listening, but an invitation, a door opening onto a sacred dimension that I sensed but did not yet fully grasp.

Hello everyone,

There are evenings when the body becomes a battleground, when every breath seems to amplify the suffering. That night, a raging toothache had plunged me into a waking hell. Medication, powerless, only skimmed the surface of my pain, like waves against a rock. Exhausted after a long day of study, I finally lay down, hoping for rest. But sleep refused to come, chased away by throbbing pain that seemed to pulse in time with my heartbeat. It was in this state of extreme vulnerability that I rediscovered, once again, the transformative power of meditation—and the silent magic of Cassie, my four-legged companion.