Life is now, all the rest is smoke.
An Inner Frontier Project essay.
In my talks, I share perspectives that may sound controversial to some, but which find support in various fields of human knowledge. When I use information, studies and scientific and neurological discoveries, I do so not to validate absolute truths, but to create bridges with those who need rational anchors to consider possibilities beyond the known.
I always talk about the power of the imagination and invite people to use our ‘sixth sense’ to visualise the moment we arrive in the world: a completely new being, a blank canvas, absorbing everything around it with a raw intensity, without filters, without labels, without a name to call its own. It's as if it were just a living, pulsating consciousness, breathing in the here and now. Nothing is separate, nothing is judged. Everything simply is. This state of pure presence is almost like the ocean before you know it has waves.
But inevitably, the waves come.
Around the age of two, or a little more, something changes irreversibly. You begin to realise that you exist as something distinct, different from your surroundings. It's the ‘I’ being born, the ego taking shape. You learn that you have a name, a history, a body that belongs to you. Suddenly, the fluidity of that ocean is interrupted, and you begin to identify with the waves, as if the world around you is gently, but insistently, almost mechanically, labelling you: ‘This is you. This is not you.’ Language, that incredible tool we use to connect, here also begins to separate us. Good and bad. Right and wrong. Me and the other.
This ‘I’, which we call ego, is not a villain as some spiritual or self-help ‘gurus’ want to convince us. It is born as a protective mechanism, a compass that tries to navigate life. But over time, what is initially useful becomes a cage. You start to believe that you are just that: a body, a mind, a story, your story. The ego protects you, but it also imprisons you. That inner voice, that dialogue we all have with ourselves, whispering fears of loss, comparisons, inadequacies, creates conflicts that seem impossible to resolve and, perhaps most cruelly of all, convinces us that we are alone.
What if it had been different from the start? What if we were taught that the ego is just a tool, a kind of costume we wear to live in the world, but that deep down it's not who we really are? What if we were shown that, behind the divisions, there is an unalterable unity? An essence that hasn't been touched by words or stories? It would be like living without forgetting that we are the ocean, even when the waves are rough.
This kind of realisation sometimes comes like a flash of lightning, a sudden glimpse that tears away that imperceptible veil of separation. At other times, it's a slow process, like someone peeling away the layers of an onion, one by one. The point here is not to learn more, but to unlearn. It's letting go. Letting go of what we've been told we should be, so that we can remember who we've always been.
Practices such as mindfulness and meditation have been like lanterns on this path. They don't magically eliminate thoughts or problems, but they offer something more precious: a new way of looking at them. Suddenly, you realise that your thoughts are just that, thoughts. They're not absolute truths, they're not orders you have to follow. They come, they stay for a while and they go, like clouds in the sky. Just like emotions.
And a curious thing happens when we start just observing instead of reacting: our relationship with others changes. It's as if we can see beyond the masks we all wear. We realise that each person is doing the best they can, just like the rest of us, fighting our own internal battles. This brings unexpected compassion. Not that condescending compassion, but one born from a deep place that recognises the other as a reflection of oneself.
And time? Ah, time. Before, it seemed like a tyrant, always pulling us back to the past, usually ruminating or mulling over regrets or pushing us into the future, in a time shift that steals almost half of our lives (see here). But little by little, we discover that the only real, tangible and concrete place, at least for our senses, is now. Not the now as a beautiful concept that you read about in books or listen to in the abundant videos and podcasts available in the spiritual supermarket, but the now as a visceral experience.
It's here, in this moment, that life happens. The rest is just smoke.
Of course, the journey isn't linear. There are days when we feel more aware, more free. And others when it seems that nothing has changed, when the old patterns come back like insistent ghosts, like the force of gravity that brings us back to the world of the mind, of the ego. But even in this there is beauty. Because every time you realise your unconsciousness, you're already one step closer to freedom, by returning to that place of silence, of self-observation.
It's like waking up from a dream inside another dream, until one day, perhaps, you'll be fully awake. Or you'll realise everything that was already there and that we didn't see because of the chained thoughts that kidnap us and the stories we tell ourselves all the time.
There is no ‘end’ to this journey. There is no place where we finally arrive and say: ‘There, now I've understood everything.’
What exists is the process, the journey. Every second is an invitation to be present, to explore the mystery of existence with renewed curiosity. Sometimes this means meditating in silence. At other times, it means laughing with friends, dancing for no reason or simply sitting in the garden and contemplating that flower that wasn't there yesterday.
We are already where we need to be: here, now, in this very moment.
The journey of understanding our real identity isn't really about becoming someone new, it's about remembering who we've always been. And in remembering, we find something deeply liberating:
We have always been the ocean.
The waves, after all, were just a dance, a temporary manifestation of Awakened Consciousness, of Presence.