Awakening in this world demands significant effort and may be accompanied by suffering that transcends the physical realm. It entails an internal struggle to release old habits, attachments and illusions, to perceive a new path with clarity of Mind and Heart. Similar challenges arise when crafting a new narrative, as the eternal Soul endeavours to reach its destination amidst the fog of emotions and uncertainties.



When I was just four years old, I sat beneath an old walnut tree, completely unaware that the Path would soon call upon me. This journey would not only take me on a quest within myself but also lead me through different countries and turbulent experiences across our planet.



Sitting on the rag spread under the tree by my parents each day, I felt a sense of a very old man, within myself. Despite being just, a four-year-old boy, I felt limited in expressing myself fully. It was a strange phenomenon, like an old man trapped in a child's body.

As time passed, my inner experiences began to align, much like a skilled goldsmith meticulously arranging pearls on a necklace. Questions started to emerge in my mind, like clouds on the horizon, signalling something new and unknown. Though I couldn't do much, I observed the process with curiosity and an open mind, like any child would.



The time has come for the first school days, marking the beginning of formal education within a system that has been established for generations. However, many individuals partake in this system without fully understanding its purpose or the impact it has on the development of the soul. The focus of education often leans towards external achievements rather than nurturing the inner life.

In alignment with the norm, my parents eagerly escorted me to a nearby school for my first day of initiation into the world of academia.



The schoolyard was bustling with children, their laughter and joy filling the air. Proud parents chatted amongst themselves as they waited for their children to be called inside the building.

As I stood there, a sense of nostalgia washed over me. Despite the noise and chaos around me, I felt a deep inner peace. It was as if I was merely an observer, detached from the commotion, with no emotional connection to what was unfolding before me. It was a moment of clarity, a brief respite from the hustle and bustle of everyday life.

As I stood in the peaceful embrace of my feelings, shielded from the noise around me as if in a protective spacesuit, my gaze was captivated by a building in the neighbouring yard, separated from the school by a sturdy metal fence. It was a Christian Orthodox Church.

Growing up, my parents never took me to church as they had no interest in religion. The only time I set foot in a church was for my baptism, a tradition passed down from my ancestors. This ritual, steeped in ancient secrets, harkens back to a time when true priests roamed the earth. These priests lived in harmony with the Spirit, fully conscious in their physical bodies without the need for trance, ecstasy, or visions that would disconnect them from reality.

Almost imperceptibly, as silently as a butterfly in flight, I slipped away from the chaotic environment and made my way to the neighbouring yard, where a majestic church stood at its centre. This sacred place was dedicated to Saint Prince Lazar, a revered warrior and prince who met his end in a legendary battle during the 14th century. The name Lazar itself holds a powerful meaning - "God helped."

Reflecting on that moment in my life, I often pondered whether it was indeed a divine intervention that guided me out of the nightmare of the schoolyard and into the open doors of the church, which stood empty and inviting.

As I stepped into the courtyard of the temple, my eyes were drawn to the intricate details of the entrance, giving the building an otherworldly appearance. It felt as though the structure itself was a living being, observing me with a welcoming gaze. The wisdom of age within me felt a sense of homecoming after a long absence, while the innocence of childhood stood in awe, yearning for guidance towards the temple's entrance.

I lingered there for some time, surrounded by the quiet solitude of the temple grounds, with no sign of any other visitors or clergy. Then, like a whale surfacing for air, an inner impulse stirred within me, urging me towards the threshold of the temple, beckoning me to cross over into its sacred space.



The threshold that separates two worlds holds a deep significance. In the culture of my ancestors, it was believed that burying an ancestor under the threshold of a house would protect the future family and the lineage that followed. This act symbolized the division between the outer and inner worlds, much like the threshold of a temple that separates the profane from the sacred.

Crossing over a threshold was seen as a powerful and almost magical act. A sincere visitor would not simply jump over someone else's threshold, but would instead offer prayers, bows, and good intentions. By doing so, they would receive the blessings of the ancestors who watched over the family they intended to visit.

As I stood at the threshold of the temple, a sense of silence enveloped me. In that moment of unity with the old man within me, I bowed to the mystery that awaited me. The silence seemed to bless the threshold, calming my senses and allowing my mind to rest while my soul rejoiced.

The scent of incense wrapped around my heart, moving me in ways I couldn't quite explain. The colourful frescoes within the temple guided me towards the centre, where the colours merged into a dazzling white light that seemed to welcome me with open arms. It was in that moment that I realised I was taking the first step on the Path to myself.



A temple, a masterpiece in stone, a microcosm of the universe, a repository of wisdom that imparts its teachings through intricate proportions that, like a spider's web, reveal their beauty only in the sunlight. The tranquillity that emanates from the stone, a reminder of its origins as part of the mountain, often hidden from plain sight but felt by the inner eye and cherished by the human heart. It welcomes all, regardless of status or background, purifying the weary pilgrim, the sinner, the so-called saint, the king, and the beggar with its radiant aura.

Space within the temple's walls is a symbol of the Divine Mother, embracing each devotee with unwavering love and strength. She nurtures the weary traveller with her boundless love, reminding them of the forgotten sensation of being cherished, for only when one experiences love can they truly understand how to love in return.

The mesmerized child, unaware of the profound journey ahead, crosses the threshold into the stone sanctuary, enveloped by the sacred figures adorning the frescoes. Unaware I am embarking on the Path, filled with numerous hills and valleys, a solitary journey that will only reveal its true nature to me in due time. It is a road where Man must tread barefoot on sharp stones and navigate paths lined with thorns. Rare moments of respite are found, as homes remain shuttered and the pilgrim goes unnoticed, finding solace only in the embrace of the night and the shelter offered by wild animals.

Meanwhile, the wise old man residing within the child's body remains silent, bowing before the shrine and seeking solace in his mother's lap. In a hushed tone, Soul whispers, "In the darkness of this world, you are my guide, my light, my comfort, and my home."

In the eternal present, the child transforms into an old man, and the old man becomes a child. The witness is born, taking the first step on a journey of self-discovery and the Path through the desert to the holy mountain.

At that moment, my parents appeared at the door of the temple, pale with fear, and with shouts, they pulled me out.

The thorn, the first on my path, painful reminder of the trials to come.