The Stream of Being
This essay is a contemplative journey into the timeless questions of existence, ancestry, and the nature of consciousness. It explores how one’s life is not a solitary flame but a continuation of countless flickers that came before. Drawing from personal introspection, cultural observations, and natural cycles, it reflects on the fragile yet eternal nature of life. The boundaries between self and universe blur, revealing a deeper unity of being. Through this search, the writer does not seek definitive answers, but an understanding that births peace in the presence of mystery. Where appropriate, a light infusion of scientific insight helps align personal reflection with modern understanding.
I find myself entering a quiet but urgent phase of learning, tracing the deep-rooted questions that have stirred in my mind since I first began to think. Over time, through books and reflection, I have come to articulate some of them with clarity, yet many remain beyond comprehension. They linger—neither surfacing completely nor fading away. Still, an unshakable anguish passes through this body-mind, seeking answers to questions I cannot yet form. I don’t even know how to ask about my own existence.
Perhaps birth has a purpose.
Perhaps I am simply a speck of dust in the infinite flow of inheritance,
present here only because an unbroken thread, stretched across the vastness of
time, has brought me forth. My forefathers, against all odds—wars, diseases,
hunger, accidents, infertility, or sheer chance—survived. I exist because they
did not perish. This lineage, uninterrupted, brought me to this place and
moment in the incessant unfolding of time. I am grateful and fortunate to
witness this era of being.
Evolutionary biology tells us
that I am not simply born of two parents but of an unbroken succession of
adaptive survivors. My very DNA, particularly the mitochondrial line, carries
markers passed from mother to child across millennia. I am a living archive of
resilience, a vessel of silent, coded history.
Yet what am I but an assembly of
scattered parts? I am formed from the elements of this Earth, drawn together in
a particular arrangement, just as others before me were. In me, a continual
exchange takes place—of thoughts, cells, breath, impulses, and ancestry. Inputs
from countless sources are shaping me, and I, too, release my own into the
world. I am everything, and everything is me. The connection is not
metaphorical—it is molecular, spiritual, and indivisible. Systems biology
reminds us that no organism is isolated; life is exchange. Thermodynamically, I
am an open system—shedding and absorbing atoms, heat, and thought. Matter
cycles through me like wind through trees.
This body is my home, the cave
where consciousness resides. I must preserve it well so that the soul within
finds safety. I must nourish both the body and the mind, knowing they are one
and the same. My very existence rests on this harmony. Neuroscience, too,
teaches that consciousness is not confined to the brain—it is embodied. Thought
emerges from networks of nerve, skin, muscle, and breath. What I feel, how I
move, even how I remember—all these give shape to the mind.
Across time, humans have tried to
preserve what they feared to lose—Egyptians embalming bodies with balms and
jewels, and Himalayan Tibetan Buddhists preparing mummified monks with care and
reverence. These are not foolish rituals; they are expressions of longing. I do
not share these beliefs, but I understand their impulse to hold on to presence
even after life has passed. We grieve our kin and leaders, preserve their
memories in stories and shrines, though we know our own moments are numbered.
Sometimes I wonder: what about
those who left no trace? Those who died without descendants, lost to wars,
plagues, or anonymity—do they vanish entirely? Or do they echo in other
forms—unnoticed, yet never truly gone? A mindful person begins to see that nothing
is isolated. Even this ink that flows onto paper carries within it the essence
of something once living. The paper, the air, the hand that writes—they are not
separate. Aliveness surrounds us, but not always in conscious form.
My father has been gone these
twelve years, but he still lives in me—through my voice, temperament, body,
gestures, and genetic fabric. My mother, too, is present in the curl of my
hair, the tilt of a smile, the impulses I do not understand. I am their continuation,
just as someone after me may carry pieces of me forward. Epigenetics suggests
that even lived experiences, traumas, and fears may be imprinted biologically,
subtly passed onward. We are not just descendants; we are transmitters.
Nature, too, has its law. It
cannot carry all life at once. So it creates trials—only the fit survive. This
is not cruelty but balance. The deer must run from the lion, and the lion must
run for its food. If either fails, both perish. Ecology shows us this law of
energy and balance, where each creature contributes to the stability of the
whole. There is no charity, only participation. Still, we must carry the spirit
of kindness and do what we can—for that, too, is part of our inheritance.
Whether I remain here or not, my
existence has already expanded far beyond this moment. I was. I am. I will
be—until the last flicker of everything. The question of perpetuity answers
itself not with logic, but with presence. Let there be no ceremonious anxiety
over birth, living, or death.
And if I dissolve back into dust,
let me do so with grace, knowing that I was, that I am, and that I always
will be in one form or another.
“You are not a drop in the ocean.
You are the entire ocean in a drop.”
— Rumi
Pawan Kumar,
2nd July, 2025, Wednesday, 11:39 P.M., Berhampur (Odisha)
From my Diary 22nd November 2024, Friday, 10:16 AM,
Berhampur (Odisha)
Absolute.....!
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