meditate on this

My grandmother whispered Kannadasan's verses while kneading dough, words flowing like prayer. Years later, across oceans in a foreign kitchen, I found myself repeating them—searching for stillness amid struggle. The social rewards meant nothing then: likes, shares, validation. What mattered was that meditation anchored me, connected me to something deeper than achievement. My daughter asked why I close my eyes at dawn. I showed her Kannadasan's poetry, explained how our Tamil ancestors built wisdom into song. Now we meditate together, her small hand in mine, continuing what generations began.