sleepy

My grandmother dozed through the evening discourse, her head tilting toward Swami Paramarthananda's voice on the speakers. I almost laughed, then noticed her serene expression. Later, she whispered that sleep during spiritual teachings meant her mind finally rested from worry. No guilt necessary, she insisted. The swami himself taught that surrender takes many forms. Growing up between two worlds, I'd chased validation constantly. But watching her peaceful face that night, something shifted. True reward wasn't external applause—it was this quiet peace, this belonging that transcended oceans and generations. We sat together in comfortable silence, two generations bridging continents through shared breath and heritage.