Norm · 2024-03-29
That quiet affirmation seemed to hum through the rainforest air even more than usual that Christmas in 2023. I was home alone after a day spent with friends, and the sky turned a bruised purple over the hills as a set of violent storms hit the area. The power died with a snap, a sudden silence that would stretch on until January 2, 2024, leaving me disconnected from the world’s endless stream of data. Losing power was nothing new, only one main line running through a 30km valley, often it returns within six or eight hours as the companies scramble to restore flow, but this time, the outage felt like an invitation rather than just an inconvenience. Living in the southern hemisphere, the warm rainforest air kept the chill at bay, so I wasn’t in danger of freezing, and my life simply shifted to the rhythm of what was immediately available.
My stove is gas, powered by a local propane tank that hissed to life as easily as ever, and gravity does the work of bringing water flowing into the house from the reservoir, a reminder that nature provides what we need if we know where to look. There’s a strange simplicity to drinking warm water or tea, and my diet altered itself to whatever could be prepared without the luxury of cold storage, stripping away the non-essential until the meal was just fuel for the mind. In this pause, I found myself looking at the shelves where books have accumulated, a collection of titles waiting for the day I’d get to them, though I’ll admit my hobby isn’t quite reading—it’s collecting books that I’d like to read, or perhaps more accurately, like to have read. I opened one that had been nagging at the edge of my attention, a copy of Meditations by Marcus Aurelius, prompted by a friend who pointed out that my attitude to life, even in the face of disruption, was decidedly stoic.
This time, working with a different translation found its mark, and as the words settled, they resonated with a clarity I hadn’t felt before, whispering that the external storm was less important than the internal order we maintain. I kept a simple notebook close at hand, the scratch of pen on paper filling the quiet room as I wrote down interesting phrases, not just from Aurelius but from the other volumes I pulled from the shelf, using writing to recall other quotes I knew but couldn’t quite place. What struck me most deeply, however, was the realization of what Marcus Aurelius was truly doing in those pages: he was meditating in writing, talking to himself, disciplining his mind by forcing the wandering thoughts onto paper. That image of a Roman emperor sitting alone, using ink to calm the chaos, felt profoundly powerful, bridging the gap between ancient philosophy and the humble act of note-taking that I found myself mimicking.
I was reminded of a burst of reading a few years prior, a sequence of three books that transformed how I viewed the act of writing itself, starting with The Power of Writing it Down, which explored how expressive writing can heal both mental and physical health. Writing to Learn offered a different angle, showing how writing things out well helps us understand our thoughts better, while Accidental Genius exposed me to the liberating idea of free-writing, writing fast and loose just for yourself, allowing the conscious mind to step aside so the deeper wells can bubble up. Together, these works made writing feel accessible, suggesting it was okay to write loosely, because even that messy output helped examine a problem and clarify the fog, convincing me that the act of creation was less about the product and more about the process of thinking. I wrote an essay almost immediately after digesting those ideas, titled “Writing to Think,” trying to re-frame some of the concepts for my own understanding. It helped shift my approach to seeing writing as an exercise in thought rather than just a record of it, a practice that I carried forward into that Christmas isolation.
Returning to the present-ish of that outage, I continued to fill my notebook and then transcribe the gems into a text file, taking the practice a step further by creating a rotating series of backgrounds for the computer I do work on. Each screen displayed a different quote that would catch my eye throughout the day, a subtle nudge that kept the mind agile and open to the possibility of change even when I was just checking my email. It’s a small ritual, but like the rain dripping continuously on the leaves, it wears away the hard edges of routine and softens the path for insight, letting ideas permeate the subconscious.
A month has passed since those storms, and I’ve settled into a daily practice where I consider one of the quotes on my screen alongside a fresh stanza from Meditations and a page from either The Daily Stoic or The Daily Laws. I type out the phrases that resonate, then write my own thoughts on what they mean and how disparate ideas might tie together, a meditation on ideas expressed in writing that allows me to slow down and observe how my mind constructs meaning. The sources for this daily ritual have expanded to include ten different books, ranging from Stoic thinking and Natural Awareness Meditation to a survey of Eastern Philosophy currently focused on Buddhism, Zen, and the Bushido samurai mindset. It’s not just the classics; I look at a modern American pimp and rapper for their wisdom on flow and perception, alongside a billionaire investor who treats capital like a living entity, and the timeless Taoism that suggests the best way is often no way at all.
I don’t agree with all of the ideas or thoughts each day at all, but the diversity of thought is rewarding, like listening to a chorus of voices singing different melodies that somehow resolve into harmony. Seeing across the days as some of the same wisdom and philosophy appears through several of the different sources is where the magic happens; a concept from a samurai might echo in the words of a rapper, and a Taoist paradox might mirror an investor’s strategy, suggesting that beneath the surface noise, there are only a few fundamental truths we keep circling. Writing or typing out my thoughts on a page or two for each of these readings has been deeply rewarding, an exercise in articulation that forces the vague to become concrete and the abstract to take shape.
I can feel the transformation of the idea into internalized knowledge, a shift that happens as I restate and write about the concept, watching it grow quickly from an external fact to an internal truth. When that understanding starts to alter the way I live my life, showing up in my daily routines, impacting the way I organize my house, my work, and the spaces between, it is becoming an internalized wisdom. We often think of wisdom as something we find at the end of a long path, but perhaps it’s more like a seed that sprouts quietly, altering the landscape from within, and we are learning to read the soil beneath our feet. That internalized wisdom will be showing up here more often, inviting you to see how these fragments come together, not just in future reflections, but also in a gradual transformation of the Yomonsni practice and philosophy itself. As I continue to write and re-write, to read and re-read, there is a natural deepening occurring, a sense that we are all discovering the same truths in our own time, and that the path of wisdom is never finished, only renewed with every stroke of the pen.
Coaching with Norm · Gold Coast, Australia
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