Who I Am: A Meditation on Body, Mind, and Becoming
A Cheeseburger Buddha Reflection
My body.
My mind.
My spirit.
My soul.
And the question: Who am I, really?
As I grow older, I find that most conversations around me tend to orbit the topic of health—diabetes, blood pressure, aches and pains. It’s as if the body becomes center stage the moment the hair turns grey. I do my best not to get pulled into the numbers game—sugar levels, cholesterol counts, systolic versus diastolic readings. I honestly don't know what my own numbers are, and I don't particularly care to. What I do care about is awareness. A conscious, balanced awareness of my body as it works in rhythm with my mind and spirit.
If I can maintain this balance—mind, body, spirit—I consider myself in good health. The occasional aches? Just signs of wear and tear, well-earned from years of use, misuse, and sheer survival.
I Love Myself, Flaws and All
I say this with neither arrogance nor apology:
I love myself.
Not in the narcissistic sense, but in the quiet, grateful recognition that I’ve walked a long road—made countless mistakes, faced inner demons, fallen hard and risen harder. By most standards, I probably shouldn’t still be here. And if there were a law against stumbling through life, I’d be serving a life sentence for being exactly who I am—or who I thought I was.
My clinical records—both mental and physical—won’t win any medals. But I’d argue they’re more than average, if only because I’ve put myself through the fire time and again. I’ve tasted the mud of mangrove swamps and the champagne of Business Class on Emirates Air, from Malaysia to Rome via Dubai—at practically no cost to me but the cost of a life well-traveled.
Yes, I’ve been places.
And yes, I am proud of it.
Proud not for the destinations, but for the road itself—its long curves, dead ends, detours, and miracles. Proud of the slow, stubborn becoming of the man I am today.
(And yes, had my son not revoked the privilege, I’d have flown First Class by now. But that’s another story.)
The Power of Suggestion, The Magic of Mind
Just yesterday, over dinner at McDonald's with my daughter, I told her something I deeply believe:
As a teenager, I envisioned what my children might look like. I visualized them with intention, as if planting seeds into the fabric of time. And I believe—at least in the physical sense—that those seeds bore fruit.
Never underestimate the power of suggestion.
The mind is not just a thinking machine. It is a creative force.
If trained with clarity and intent, the mind can manifest realities. Its only true enemy is the uninvited guest: the negative thought. Most people still dismiss this as new-age babble or spiritual “mumbo jumbo,” but to me, human consciousness remains the final frontier—powerful, unexplored, and tragically underutilized.
True transformation begins when consciousness is directed. But this is no magic trick. Conscious manifestation requires time, patience, and, most of all, unlearning—deconstructing the conditioned layers we’ve accepted as “truth.” Belief systems passed down like heirlooms, never questioned, rarely understood.
When Thought Becomes Alchemy
Once I plant an idea in my mind—really plant it—something begins to stir. From the atomic to the environmental level, a restructuring begins. My body, my brain, my surroundings—they all respond to the signal. But the process is fragile. It can be hijacked by distractions, derailed by fear, sabotaged by doubt.
And so I remain vigilant.
I guard my thoughts—not with paranoia, but with presence.
Because falling into unconsciousness is far more dangerous than it seems.
This is why we meditate.
This is why we walk in silence, ride bicycles, cook quietly, or write in solitude. These practices aren’t just hobbies. They are anchors. They prevent us from drifting into the unconscious currents of the world.
Without that anchor, we become just another brick in the wall—soulless, shapeless, silent.
Which, of course, is perfectly fine for some. Most people are content with the cycle:
Eat. Sleep. Shit. Sit. Watch the grass grow.
No questions asked. No answers required.
And Yet, I Ask…
Who am I, really?
What is this “me” that loves, aches, dreams, fails, gets up, and keeps walking?
I am not perfect.
I am not broken.
I am becoming.
And for that, I am thankful.
—Cheeseburger Buddha
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