However, before he passed, he shared a timeless secret with me—a practice that would shape my life in ways I could never have imagined. He didn't teach me meditation in the traditional sense, with incense and crossed legs. Instead, he showed me how to meditate by gazing at a lone light on the ceiling.
When I was very young, I had night terrors that would wake me in the middle of the night. I'm sure it was terribly frustrating to calm a child from that. But my father had the way.
I never understood how he came to the practice. But over the years, I've come to understand that my father's unique approach to meditation was, in fact, a profound lesson in mindfulness and presence.
In a nearly pitch black room, he would tell me to find a speck of light, not unlike a star. Then focus.
He would say, "Just watch the light, like you're watching a story unfold. Be the observer, not the thinker."
In those moments, I learned to be still. I learned to let go of the worries that cluttered my mind and simply be in the present. It was my father's way of showing me the power of meditation, even before I knew what that word meant.
As I grew older, I explored various forms of meditation, but I always returned to the simple practice my father had introduced me to. I realized that, in essence, meditation is about finding your own "light on the ceiling" and using it as a focal point for mindfulness.
Now, as an adult, I continue to meditate by gazing at the light on my own bedroom ceiling, just as my father did. It's a way to connect with him, even though he's no longer with us. I find myself often stargazing and it keeps his memory alive and teaches me that, in the midst of life's chaos, there is always a guiding light to return to.
My father's gift of meditation was more than a simple technique; it was a legacy of presence and peace. I carry his wisdom with me in every moment, and as I lay in the darkness, gazing at the soft, comforting glow on my ceiling, I am reminded of the man who illuminated my life.