The Better Blueprint

A Bonfire of Five Truths

The air is cooler now. The noise of the world, a little further away.
And in the forest of your own life, a fire crackles —
not to warm the body,
but to illuminate a different kind of knowing.

This is not a sermon. Not a system. Not even a path, really.

It’s a circle — five voices, five directions,
each offering something simple, honest, and utterly their own.

🪷 The Buddha

He doesn’t promise bliss.
He speaks of suffering, and how it softens when we stop clutching at what cannot stay. Liberation, he says, is in unclenching

🌾 Guru Nanak

He speaks of the sacred in the ordinary.
In daily bread. Honest work. Quiet song.
Let your life become the prayer. That’s enough.

💃 Rumi

He doesn’t guide.
He whirls, burning through mind and method.
Fall in. Let love melt you into what you've been chasing all along.

🪨 Jiddu Krishnamurti

He doesn’t offer peace.
He offers clarity, stripped bare.

Stop imitating. Watch thought move. And in the watching — be free.

🐺 Black Elk

He speaks of relation — with sky, stone, river, breath.

He reminds you:
The Divine is not elsewhere. It walks in hoofprint, speaks in wind,
and waits for you in the silence between birdsong and fire crackle.

Each one sits by the fire.
They don’t compete. They don’t debate.
They simply offer what they know —
and fall quiet again.

You don’t need to agree. You don’t need to choose.

Just sit. Breathe. Let something land.

Let the rest become quiet wood
—for a fire that waits patiently in you.

If this warmed something in you,
forward it to someone who’s been seeking.
Or quietly return to it when the world gets too loud.

See you by the fire,
Sarb

Moonlight is Enough

The world doesn’t always need more.

It’s a strange thing to say, in a time where more is the drumbeat of every morning. More noise, more doing, more becoming.

But there are nights—like last night—when the moon rises slow and full, and something inside you knows: more is not the answer.

You step outside, just for a moment. The kind of moment that doesn’t need announcing. The wind has stilled. The trees are bare, their branches sketched against the sky like the old etchings in your grandfather’s prayer book. There is no spectacle. No applause.

And yet…
Everything is quietly perfect.

The sheep are asleep but breathing gently, their breath fogging the air like soft secrets. The dog lifts its head to acknowledge you, then places it back down, unbothered. An owl blinks once and decides you mean no harm.

You don’t need to say a word. You don’t need to ask for anything.

Because for once, nothing is missing.

The lamp in your hand doesn’t light the whole world—it was never meant to. It just shows enough. A patch of grass. A familiar path. Your own feet. And in that simple act, it teaches you something: you were never meant to see it all. Just enough to keep walking.

We’re taught to shine. To hustle. To outdo.
But not everything that glows needs to be bright.

Some things, like moonlight, are content to simply exist.
And in their soft, steady presence, they remind us—we don’t always need to burn to be seen.

Sometimes, we are most whole when we are most still.
And sometimes, when all else quiets, we remember:

Moonlight is enough.

A Great Quote

“The human soul is hungry for beauty; we seek it everywhere — in landscape, music, art, clothes, furniture, gardening, companionship, love, religion, and in ourselves. When we experience the beautiful, there is a sense of homecoming. For a while, the superficial and functional becomes recontextualized. We can slip into a deeper rhythm where we slow down and become aware of the deeper layers of our lives.”
— John O’Donohue

Book Review: The Wisdom of Insecurity by Alan Watts

It’s rare to read something that doesn’t feel like it’s trying to fix you. Most books—even the spiritual ones—carry the quiet assumption that you are not yet enough. That if you just adjust something—your thoughts, your habits, your mindset—you’ll arrive at peace.

Alan Watts disagrees.

In The Wisdom of Insecurity, he offers no path, no step-by-step guidance, and no secret formula to freedom. Instead, he reveals the truth that most teachings avoid: our constant craving for security—be it spiritual, emotional, or intellectual—is precisely what keeps us anxious and unsatisfied. And the peace we long for is available only when we stop trying to capture it.

The book opens with a bold idea: that the present moment is the only thing we ever truly have, and yet it is the one thing we spend our lives avoiding. Watts argues that by trying to make life stable, we paradoxically make it feel more uncertain. Every attempt to hold on to permanence only reveals how fragile everything is. He writes: “The desire for security and the feeling of insecurity are the same thing.” Not similar. The same. That line alone stopped me mid-sentence. It didn’t offer comfort—it offered clarity.

The most powerful sections of the book are where Watts turns the spiritual search on its head. He writes with the calm confidence of someone who has wandered through both Eastern and Western traditions and returned with a single truth: You cannot be present if you're trying to be present. Awareness, he says, arises not from effort, but from the surrender of control. You cannot secure your spiritual future. You can only meet what’s here. And perhaps for the first time, Watts made me understand what “letting go” actually means. Not detachment. Not passivity. But trust without grasping.

One of the best parts of the book is its tone. It doesn’t scold or romanticize. It speaks like a friend sitting across from you at a café, saying things you’ve known deep down but haven’t had the courage to admit. It gently dissolves the stories you’ve told yourself—about needing to find a purpose, about trying to get it all “right,” about life being something to master rather than experience. His writing feels like it’s not just deconstructing thought—it’s unclenching something in your chest.

There are parts where the book meanders. Some readers may wish for more structure, more clear takeaways. And that’s fair. This isn’t a book you read with a highlighter. It’s a book you sit with, occasionally nodding, occasionally unsettled, and mostly silent. Those expecting a practical “how to live in the now” guide might find themselves frustrated. But I suspect Watts would smile at that. Because even the desire to get something from the book is another form of grasping—and he’s pointing to what happens when you finally stop doing that.

What makes The Wisdom of Insecurity so quietly powerful is that it doesn’t offer tools. It offers a mirror. And for once, it doesn’t ask you to change the reflection. It simply says: “Look. Stay. Let what is, be.”

This is not a book for your shelf. It’s a book to leave out, face-up. A reminder that maybe, the most radical thing you can do in a restless world is to trust this moment—however incomplete it feels—as enough.

About : Welcome to our fortnightly journey—a space for reflection, growth, and quiet discovery. Each edition brings two deep dives into personal transformation, a handpicked quote to stir the soul, and a review of a book that reshapes perspectives.