Good morning, dear readers, I hope you are all doing very well. In Akashine I have decided to create two different sections, one dedicated exclusively to tuning forks for those who wish to deepen their understanding of vibrational tools and sound healing, while I continue sharing my general reflections in a separate space, allowing each of you to choose what resonates most deeply with your current path, although, as Leonardo da Vinci reminded us, everything is ultimately interconnected and nothing truly stands apart. One of my favorite moments of the day is the moment in which I sit down to write these words, because after many years in which writing gently slipped away from my life, choosing to begin this project brought me back to it, revealing that writing has once again become a soft and intimate way to reconnect with myself, a space where memory, intuition, and presence meet in silence. In a world so saturated with speed and noise, returning to this quiet practice feels almost like an act of devotion—one that allows me to remember who I am beneath all the layers that life sometimes asks us to wear.
The weight of the world and the noise of information
I spent years asking myself how someone could be truly happy while watching the news every day and witnessing an endless stream of tragedies, and it took me a long time to understand that the miracle lies precisely in that contradiction, because when we expose our mind constantly to narratives of fear, conflict, and division, something inside us begins to echo that same vibration even when we convince ourselves we are not being affected, since paying attention to what we give our attention to is one of the most essential foundations of any path of transformation. I am not advocating for ignorance nor suggesting that we turn our backs on the world, because my intention is only to share my personal experience, and mine was one of constant saturation: I would read the newspaper every morning at university, continue with the evening news, and spend years absorbing images and stories that slowly shaped the emotional texture of my inner life, and far from encouraging me to contribute positively to the world, this habit only deepened a quiet sense of disconnection and division, as if my heart were losing its natural ability to trust in the goodness that still exists. Eventually the question arose with disarming simplicity: what can I do in a world that seems so determined to show only what is broken? And the only answer that truly shifted something inside me was this one: change my vision, reclaim my inner space, and choose consciously where I place my awareness, because awareness is not passive—it creates, shapes, and transforms.
Jung, the inner center, and the shadow of overexposure
Carl Jung spoke about the essential need to return to the center of ourselves, to that quiet inner point where consciousness reconnects with its source rather than being captured by external noise, because when our psyche becomes fragmented by overstimulation, emotional overload, and the velocity of modern life, we lose the ability to know what truly belongs to us and what we have unconsciously absorbed. Jung explained that when information arrives faster than our symbolic and intuitive capacities can process, the shadow reacts—not because the information is inherently negative but because the psyche becomes overwhelmed, losing the ability to digest experience meaningfully. In such states we become reactive instead of reflective, anxious instead of present, and numb instead of awake. Neuroscience echoes this truth by showing that chronic exposure to alarming content repeatedly activates the amygdala, reinforcing neural pathways linked to fear, hypervigilance, and emotional exhaustion while weakening the prefrontal regions responsible for clarity, intuition, reflection, and the quiet awareness that allows us to feel truly alive. A mind flooded with noise cannot hear its own truth, and this is why returning to our center is not a luxury but an essential act of self-preservation and awakening. In the wisdom of Rumi, “the quieter you become, the more you are able to hear,” a reminder that silence is not emptiness but a doorway through which deeper truths reveal themselves. And Hafez, with his luminous tenderness, whispered that “the world is a reed flute that the divine breath moves through,” suggesting that beneath all the chaos there is still a hidden music guiding us back toward ourselves if only we learn to listen.
Attention as a living network
Every action we take and every thought we sustain extends into a vast network of influences far greater than we can perceive, and although we live in a culture trained to seek immediacy, quick solutions, and rapid rewards, the most profound transformations require patience, inner spaciousness, and a gentle trust in rhythms that our rational mind cannot fully comprehend. I too once believed that everything had to be controlled, supervised, measured, and perfectly aligned, but slowly I began to understand that forces much larger than my decisions were weaving something entirely different for me, and if my journey through this world must unfold in a certain way, then I surrender to that movement, because following only my rational mind may have given me order and stability, but it also took away my sense of mystery, intuition, connection, and wonder. Rumi reminds us that “what you seek is seeking you,” a simple yet profound truth that urges us to stop forcing life and start allowing it. And Hafez, in his infinite softness, wrote that “the small man builds cages for everyone he knows, but the wise man builds bridges,” calling us to remember that presence, compassion, and inner spaciousness ripple outward in ways we may never fully see. To place our attention consciously is to build those bridges—not only for others but within our own consciousness where fragmentation becomes wholeness again.
The path back to meaning
My experience taught me that changing my vision did not change the realities of the world, yet it changed the way I met them, and that internal shift altered everything, because when we stop feeding our mind with a diet of fear, noise, and urgency, we create space for clarity, compassion, grounded awareness, and the quiet realization that beneath all the turbulence life continues flowing with a hidden intelligence that gently calls us home. Returning to our center is, in essence, a return to our consciousness, and consciousness flourishes when it is nourished with intention, protected by discernment, and guided by an inner love that emerges naturally when we stop abandoning ourselves to noise. In Akashine we explore not only the visible paths but also the invisible ones—the ones that transform us from within, the ones that remind us that the heart is a compass, and that even in the darkest moments, something luminous is still guiding us. If these reflections help you breathe more softly today, then this space continues fulfilling its purpose, offering a small refuge in a world that moves too fast and asks too much of the soul.
Faith
Faith is not something that arrives when life is calm, and it is not a light that descends only when we finally feel ready; faith often appears in the very moment when everything seems to collapse, when fear surrounds us so tightly that each step feels like a risk, and yet we take it. I walked through that threshold without knowing where I was heading, carrying a trembling heart and an overwhelming uncertainty, and although nothing around me suggested that things would be okay, I felt a subtle pull, a quiet inner whisper encouraging me to continue. That whisper had no name at the time, and I had no words for it, but it was that small movement forward in the dark that later revealed itself as the beginning of my faith, a faith that did not grow from assurance but from vulnerability, from the raw courage of choosing life despite the absence of guarantees. Life taught me that faith is not about believing blindly but about discovering the invisible architecture that supports us once we dare to move; every step I took—hesitant, imperfect, unresolved—opened doors that reason alone could not have anticipated, and through that journey I began to understand what Rumi meant when he said that “as you start to walk on the way, the way appears,” a reminder that the path is not something we find but something that unfolds as we walk it. Hafez once wrote that “fear is the cheapest room in the house,” and those words resonated deeply with me because I had lived in that room for far too long, believing that safety was found in controlling outcomes or in clinging to the familiar, until I realized that true security comes from expanding into the unknown rather than shrinking from it. When I finally allowed myself to leave that cramped inner space, I discovered that the world—both within and around me—was far more compassionate than I had imagined, and that the universe responds differently when we stop negotiating with our fears and instead begin to trust the quiet movements of the soul. Faith, as I now understand it, is not a belief but an experience, a subtle awakening that emerges only after we have walked through the fire and found ourselves still standing, changed but whole, humbled yet luminous, aware that something larger than our own will has been guiding us all along. My journey taught me that faith is not the absence of doubt but the willingness to move with it, to breathe through the fear and still say yes to life, trusting that the path reveals itself to those who dare to walk it; and in that trust, something extraordinary happens—we begin to feel supported by forces we cannot see, guided by a wisdom that transcends logic, and held by a universe that responds to the quiet courage of our hearts.