Seeing through the world – and staying anyway

Dear Reader, esteemed companion on the Path, 

In this week’s Soul-Letter, I want to reflect on a theme that emerged from a funny comment I heard the other day: "There’s nothing you need to do, just get a bag of chips, lean back, and watch the show unfold."

There is a particular kind of pain that doesn't come from loss, trauma, or lack. It comes from seeing.

Not seeing more information, but seeing through things.

Many people imagine awakening as a continuous expansion of joy, clarity, and freedom. And yes, there is truth in that. But there is also a phase that rarely gets spoken about, almost as if it were inconvenient to the spiritual narrative.

It is the moment when the world you once enjoyed no longer meets you in the same way.

You sit down to watch a film that everyone praises, and within minutes something in you steps back. You notice how emotions are being engineered, how fear and desire are being steered, how predictable the story arc really is. What once swept you away now leaves you oddly untouched. Not bored, just awake. 

You find yourself at a gathering, surrounded by laughter and conversation, yet instead of being absorbed in it, you notice the subtle choreography underneath. The roles people play. The silent hunger for approval. The careful polishing of identity. The invisible contracts of "Who am I allowed to be here?"

And there can be a deep sadness in that.

Because you remember a time when a movie was simply a movie.

When conversation flowed without analysis.

When you could disappear into moments without witnessing yourself witnessing them.

Something has shifted, and it cannot be reversed.

This Soul-Letter is not about judgment. It is not about being "above" life or others. It is about honoring a very real grief that arises when innerstanding deepens and innocence falls away.

The gift of consciousness carries a cost. When unconsciousness dissolves, something precious goes with it; the ability to believe without seeing through, to participate without observing the strings.

"Man suffers only because he takes seriously what the gods made for fun.”

Awareness changes the texture of experience.

Just like watching a magic show as an adult. You may admire the skill, the elegance, the years of practice, but the spell itself is gone. You see the misdirection. You notice the sleight of hand. Wonder is replaced by comprehension. 

And this doesn't just happen with entertainment.

You may notice it when reading the news, sensing the narrative beneath the headline. When scrolling through social media, feeling the exhaustion of performance, the subtle despair masked as confidence.

When engaging in conversations that stay safely on the surface, while deeper truths hover unspoken in the room.

The veil has lifted.

And suddenly, you may find yourself standing in a world that still feels enchanted to others – while you see the machinery behind the enchantment.

This can create a loneliness that is difficult to name.

Not the loneliness of being alone, but the loneliness of being awake among the asleep.

You are still surrounded by people, yet something fundamental has shifted. They are immersed in the movie. You are watching the movie and the audience watching it. They are dancing. You are observing the dance, sensing the unspoken agreement to pretend that all of this is solid, permanent, and ultimately satisfying.

And perhaps the hardest part:

There is no easy way to share this.

If you speak about it, you risk sounding arrogant.

If you remain silent, you risk feeling invisible.

If you try to explain the ache, it may sound like sadness or depression, when in truth it is neither.

It is a phase of re-orientation.

A necessary disillusionment.

"The wound is the place where the Light enters you.”

What is rarely said is this: awareness initially takes away more than it gives.

It takes away naïve enjoyment.

It takes away automatic belonging.

It takes away the comfort of shared illusions.

But it does not do this to punish you.

It does this to invite you into a deeper intimacy with life.

At some point, the task is not to return to unconscious enjoyment, that door is closed. The invitation is to discover a different kind of joy. One that is quieter, less dramatic, but far more real. 

A joy that does not depend on illusion.

A joy that comes from presence rather than stimulation.

A joy that does not need things to be magical, because it sees the miracle in what is. This is where innerstanding matures. 

You begin to see that the loss of simple pleasures is not the end of delight, but the end of borrowed delight. What remains is the possibility of a deeper communion, with silence, with authenticity, with the raw intimacy of being alive without filters.

You may still watch movies.

You may still attend gatherings.

You may still participate in the world.

But now, something else walks with you.

A steadiness.

A clarity.

A quiet smile that doesn't need a reason.

And slowly – very slowly – you realize that what felt like exile was actually initiation. 

You were not cast out of the world.

You were invited to meet it without illusions.

With presence,

with honesty,

with a heart that no longer needs to pretend.

"May you be gentle with yourself in the spaces where joy has changed its shape. May you trust that what has fallen away made room for something truer. And may you discover a joy that does not shout, but hums softly beneath all things."

With quiet love and grounded presence,

Bear Saorin
The One Mind Sanctum

P.S. If this letter touched something tender in you, know that nothing has gone wrong. Awareness does not remove joy, it refines it, until what remains is real.