Picture this: you’re standing in the middle of nowhere, just wide-open land stretching out forever. There’s mountains in the distance, a big ol’ sky above, and the ground under your feet. Birds are flapping around up high. Ants are doing their thing on the dirt. There’s some grass and bushes sprinkled around. It’s raw, it’s real, it’s just… there. So, you decide to build a house. You slap up four walls, fence off a chunk of this endless land, and call it yours. Inside, you add more walls—rooms, spaces, your own little world. Boom, it feels like your spot now, separate from all that wild stuff outside.
But here’s the thing about “owning” something—you get attached. Those birds? Their chirping starts to bug you. The ants? Suddenly they’re invaders creeping into your space. You shoo them out. Then, you lock the doors. Finally, you turn your house into a fortress to keep the outside world at bay.
Then one night, a massive thunderstorm rolls through. It’s loud, it’s scary, and it’s shaking your house like it’s made of toothpicks. You start freaking out, thinking, “What if this storm wrecks everything? My house, my space, my whole vibe—gone!” In that panic, you start imagining some big, powerful force that can save you. You call it God, give it a name, maybe even a face. You start tossing out prayers or offerings, like you’re paying for some cosmic insurance to keep your house standing.
Along comes someone else, claiming they’ve got the inside scoop on this God thing. They’re like, “Nah, you’re doing it wrong. I’m tighter with the Big Guy, so listen to me.” You are desperate to keep your house safe. You start trying to impress this person. You hope they’ll put in a good word for you.
But then another storm hits—bigger, badder. Your walls come crashing down, your rooms are toast, and you’re back standing in that same wide-open land. The birds are still flying, the ants are still marching, the grass is still swaying. It’s like nothing changed, but you feel different. Part of you recalls this entire cycle. It feels like déjà vu when you try to hold onto something that was never really yours.
And that’s when you start wondering: Was that space ever mine? Were those walls just a trick I played on myself? This is where things get kinda wild, because this whole setup is like a big metaphor for who we are.
Your House Is Your Body, the Land Is Your Mind
Think of the house as your body, the thing you’re walking around in every day. You build up this idea of “me”—your personality, your likes, your fears, your story. It’s like putting up walls to carve out a little “you” from the giant, endless consciousness that’s all around. Those walls are your skin, your thoughts, your beliefs, all the stuff that makes you feel like a separate person. Inside, you’ve got rooms—your job, your relationships, your dreams, all neatly organized.
The birds and ants? Those are the random thoughts, feelings, or distractions that pop up. They’re only annoying when you’re super attached to keeping your “house” just the way you like it. In the big picture, those thoughts and feelings are just part of the flow. They are like birds in the sky or ants on the ground.
The thunderstorm? That’s life’s way of reminding you nothing lasts forever—change, loss, even death. It shakes up your house, your body, your whole sense of “me.” Scared of losing it all, you turn to something bigger, like God, hoping it’ll keep you safe. You pray, you do rituals, whatever feels right. Then someone comes along saying they’ve got a direct line to that higher power. You follow them, thinking they’ve got the key to keeping your house standing.
But when the storm finally wipes it all out, you’re back in that wide-open land—that big, limitless consciousness. Your body is gone, your “me” fade, but that awareness, that land? It’s still there. It was never yours to own because, guess what? It’s what you are.
The Loop We Keep Living
This whole story is like a loop we’ve been running for ages. We build our houses—our bodies, our identities, our communities, our beliefs—trying to grab a piece of something infinite. We stress about keeping it safe. We pray to powers we hope will protect us. We listen to people who claim they’ve got the answers. But storms always come, and they always take down what we built.
That little memory you feel in the story? That’s your gut telling you this loop doesn’t have to keep going. You start asking: Was it ever mine? Is this “me” I’m so attached to even real? Is that big, endless consciousness something I’m just floating in, or is it actually me?
That’s when things start to shift. You realize the house isn’t a cage—it’s just a temporary setup, a way to experience this wild, infinite land. Your body, your “me,” your walls—they’re tools for living, not for owning. The birds, the ants, the storms? They’re not against you—they’re part of the same big picture you’re in.
Living Free and Easy
Living without clinging to the walls means chilling out in the big, open land without trying to fence it off. It’s about seeing your house—your body, your life—as this cool, temporary thing that’s awesome while it lasts. Let the birds chirp, let the ants march, let the storms roll through. They’re all part of you, like your thoughts and feelings.
You don’t have to ditch the house. Build it, love it, make it yours. Just don’t grip it so tight. When the storm comes, let it do its thing. When the walls fall, no big deal. You’re not just the house—you’re the land, the sky, the mountains, the whole dang scene.
And when you get that, you don’t need a God to save you. You don’t need some guru to show you the way. It’s just you and this big, beautiful, endless vibe—and you’re already right at home.
Nalla Madras 