The Lighthouse
An Inner Frontier Project essay.
I'm sitting here, on this January afternoon in 2025, and my mind goes back in time to a memory that seems as clear as if it were yesterday.
It's an autumn afternoon in the late 1990s, and I suddenly find myself back on that farm, a place that seemed to exist outside of ordinary time, a refuge from the world outside, where I was staying.
The smell in the air is a mixture of the coffee crop spread out on the patio to dry and, ironically, wet earth, remnants of the previous night's rain. I'm lying on my back on the grass, propped up on my elbows, looking at everything around me. The texture of the grass under my hands, the moisture that still remains in it, all this brings me a feeling of connection with the earth that I haven't experienced for a long time, I've always lived in the city and in flats...
Not far away, I hear laughter, mixed with the gentle sound of the wind, which was constant that day. The joy of the farm children is contagious, and for a moment, all worries seem to dissipate. I look at them, playing, running free around a century-old fig tree, with an energy that only parents know is inexhaustible, but still in perfect harmony with the nature around us. Children, for a long time, just observe and absorb what the world presents, without judgement. Our problems begin later, when we find ourselves separated from the whole, competing for a finish line that doesn't exist.
The autumn sun covers everything with a golden light, my favourite to photograph, creating a play of shadows on the ground between the leaves of the trees. The shadows dance with the breeze, creating mesmerising patterns like a kaleidoscope and capturing my attention.
As I write this scene, I think of ‘Perfect Days’, a recent film by Wim Wenders, where the protagonist loves to observe komorebi, a Japanese word that defines the way light and shadow filter through the leaves of trees.
A gentle breeze touches my skin while the sun warms me gently, without exaggeration. It felt like someone had prepared this perfect moment just for me.
In front of me, a forest with huge trees that seem to be watching me silently, just like the passage of time. No hurry. The ‘standing people’ as the North American natives define these impressive beings. Their sturdy trunks and branches reaching for the sky make me seem small, but somehow part of something much bigger. I feel integrated into all this life around me, as if nature and I were in the same rhythm, a rhythm completely dissociated from the hands of the clock - I still use analogue - and the commitments of life.
The leaves of the trees move with the wind, producing a characteristic sound that relaxes me, while a squirrel runs along a branch, stops for a moment, looks at me with a certain air of curiosity and continues its journey. All this reminds me of the simplicity and beauty of life that we often ignore because of our daily rush, in the now assimilated ‘hurry’; a word that causes me some discomfort, especially since I decided to move away from the big centres a few years ago...
But inside, things aren't so calm. My relationship with my now ex-wife, who is also on this trip, is not going well at all. I feel torn between countless doubts and a growing desire to change, very different from the peace I see around me. It's a striking contrast - the external serenity and the internal turbulence. Unresolved issues between us, as tangible as the clouds hovering just above me. In the immense blue sky, these clouds pass by slowly, changing shape as if they were actors changing costumes on stage. As I look at them, I have a profound realisation, something that only later, many years later, I will understand as one of the most important moments of my life.
The clouds become a living metaphor for the thoughts and emotions that pass through my mind - ephemeral, constantly changing, but always against the unchanging backdrop of that blue autumn sky.
In that instant, I feel deeply connected to everything around me. I no longer see myself as separate, but as part of this forest - I'm the tree, the bush, the blade of grass and even the woodpecker tapping on the trunk of a nearby tree. It's a strange yet familiar sensation, as if I'm remembering something I always knew but had forgotten.
This feeling of togetherness, however brief, marks the beginning of my journey to better understand reality. It's my first step out of the illusion that we are separate from everything, showing how all things are connected. It's as if a curtain has been lightly and briefly lifted to reveal a deeper and more interconnected reality that I had never imagined, a glimpse of something very significant.
At that moment, I feel as if the whole universe is breathing with me, in a single movement of which I am a part. Every inhale and exhale seems synchronised with the movement of the leaves on the trees, with the flight of the birds, with the flow of the stream I hear from afar. It's a feeling of belonging so profound that it almost takes my breath away.
Even though it was brief, very brief indeed, a fraction of a second, this experience continues to illuminate my path, always reminding me of the beauty of being truly present and connected. In the years that followed, in moments of anguish or loneliness, I would return to that memory as a beacon, a reminder of the fundamental unity that exists behind all apparent separation.
Nowadays, when I talk about Consciousness* in lectures, many of them even to the organisational, leadership and results world, I use the image of clouds and the sky to explain non-duality. The clouds that pass quickly and change shape become a symbol of the thoughts that appear and disappear in the vast and definitive sky of Consciousness, which observes everything calmly, without judgement. This metaphor, born of that moment on the farm, becomes a powerful tool to help others understand this deep (?) truth.
As I explore this idea more over the years, I begin to see how it applies to all aspects of life. The ups and downs of emotions, successes and failures, joys and sorrows - especially fleeting and inconsistent thoughts - all these are like clouds passing through the unchanging sky of consciousness. This realisation brings a deep peace, a silence, an acceptance of the flow of life that previously seemed impossible to me.
Now, sitting here in 2025, writing this text, I realise that that autumn afternoon was much more than a simple escape from routine. It was a doorway to a deeper understanding, a glimpse of a truth that continues to shape how I see the world and myself. Although I couldn't have imagined it at the time, that experience of unity planted a seed that would grow and bear fruit in the years that followed. It led me to explore meditative practices, to study Eastern and Western philosophies and to constantly seek a deeper understanding of the nature of reality and Consciousness.
This search wasn't always easy. There were moments of doubt, periods when the illusion of separation seemed more real than ever (this still happens, but less often).
My relationship eventually came to an end, bringing its own dose of pain and questioning. But even in the most difficult times, that memory of the farm remained a silent reminder of a deeper truth.
As I deepened my studies and practices over the years, I began to understand that that moment of clarity on the farm was not something to be sought or recreated, but rather a glimpse of the reality that is always there, waiting to be recognised. I learnt that the practice wasn't about seeking and achieving higher states of Consciousness, but about removing the veils and layers (usually linked to the ego and constant thoughts) that prevent us from seeing what is already there.
*Consciousness with a capital C, as opposed to ‘being conscious’ - this is how I'll refer to the term when I'm talking about conscious or awakened presence.
