Philosophical Reflections: 12 Texts on the Path.

1. The art of stopping

I once saw a musician playing the violin in the middle of a bustling square. People hurried past, oblivious to him, and he continued to draw his bow across the strings. But the most astonishing thing about his playing wasn't the notes, but the pauses between them—so deep that it seemed as if the music itself was being born in those moments of silence.

We've forgotten how to stop. We run, we hurry, we fill every second with action, word, thought. We fear the void, as if something terrible lurks within it. Yet it is precisely in the pause that truth resides.

Stopping isn't inaction. It's a space where the hustle and bustle settles like dust after a storm, and what was hidden becomes visible. In silence, the right decisions are born, because they come not from a mind occupied with a thousand things, but from that depth where we haven't yet forgotten how to listen to ourselves.

There's beauty in the ability to stop mid-sentence, mid-step. It's not finishing, not finishing, not reaching—but simply freezing and allowing the world to be. A pause isn't a void. It's the breath between inhalation and exhalation, in which life itself lives. 2. Time as an ally, not an enemy.

An old shoemaker whose shoes I once repaired told me something strange: "Time is in no hurry. We are in a hurry."

We fight time as if it were an enemy stealing our days. We complain that it's too short, that it flies too fast, that we can't keep up. But time is always the same—even, calm, indifferent to our panic. We create the illusion of haste, filling every hour with tasks that often have no meaning.

To cooperate with time means to stop forcing it. To accept that every task has its own ripening time, like a fruit on a tree. You can't force an apple to ripen faster by tugging at its branch. It will ripen when its time comes.

The beauty of time is that it's always on your side, as long as you don't make it your enemy. It heals wounds, reveals meaning, and puts everything in its place. But for this to happen, one thing is needed: trust. Trust that there will be enough time. That you'll make it. That life won't overtake you if you simply keep going. 3. Gentleness as a form of resistance

As a child, I watched my grandfather work with wood. He had strong hands, but a gentle touch. "Wood doesn't like violence," he said. "The more gently you move the chisel, the more obedient it becomes."

The world teaches us firmness. Be tougher, stronger, more unyielding—or you will be broken. But there is another strength, rarely spoken of—the strength of gentleness. Not weakness, not compliance, but a gentleness that knows its own worth and needs no proof.

Gentleness is maturity. It's the ability to not break yourself or others in an attempt to stand your ground. It's the ability to flow like water, skirting obstacles while sharpening the stone with patience and persistence. Gentleness doesn't give up—it simply chooses a different path.

There's a special beauty in a person who remains gentle in a harsh world. There's no aggression, but there's dignity. There are no grandiose words, but there are powerful actions. They don't fight reality, but they don't become its victim either. They simply live, preserving that humanity within themselves that is so easily lost. 4. Choices without self-violence

A woman was selling apples at the market. I asked, "Which ones are best?" She replied, "The ones you can reach for."

So often we choose not what we want, but what we have to. Not what we like, but what's right. Not what our heart desires, but what others expect of us. And every such choice is a small act of violence against ourselves, a tiny wound that, over time, turns into a scar.

True choice comes from deep within, not from the head. It doesn't need to be rationalized or justified to others. It simply is, like breathing. You know it by the