About The Practicing Mind

Bishal Lama

Since the nature of the practicing mind exists in every activity —

you’ll no doubt recognize your life in the words I’m about to share.

Because this isn’t just my story.

It’s yours.

It’s anyone who has ever tried to grow, to learn, to reach.

And somewhere along the path… got lost in their own momentum.

I wanted to experience the self-discovery that one attains by picking a goal and steadily working toward it — regardless of the frustration, the plateaus, and the setbacks.

That kind of growth only happens when you stay long enough in the process to let it shape you.

From choosing a goal, and then showing up for it —

Day after day.

Not for the applause.

Not for the outcome.

But for the process.

But here’s the trap:

Wanting to learn is only step one.

Inspiration is cheap.

Motivation is temporary.

Without understanding how practice actually works,

without seeing the mechanics of your own mind, you burn out.

You drift.

You fall short — not because the goal was wrong, but because your approach was flawed.

And so I asked the question:

Why bother with any of this?

Really.

Why does building a practicing mind even matter?

How does it help in the chaos of everyday life?

Where’s the return?

And the answer is: everywhere.

In The Karate Kid (2010), Jackie Chan said:

"Kung Fu is in everything we do. It is in how we put on the jacket, how we take off the jacket. It is in how we treat people. Everything is Kung Fu.”

The practicing mind likewise is everywhere and in everything we do.

This mindset isn’t just helpful — It’s foundational.

It’s the blank canvas on which your entire life is drawn.

Not only does it influence what you create, It determines whether you can even see what’s worth creating.

Self-discipline. Self-awareness.

Presence. Patience.

These aren’t luxury traits. They’re survival tools — in a world that wants your attention more than your well-being.

And here’s the truth that hits hard:

Only you can give yourself this gift.

No one is coming to do it for you.

But the world around us doesn’t make that easy.

We live in a culture wired for multitasking. Multitasking isn’t just encouraged — it’s expected. It’s how we survive. We teach it to ourselves. We teach it to our children.

We always have a screen open.

A second thought running.

A background tab in our mind.

Let me give you a real example. Whenever I cook using Ranveer Brar’s recipes — I enjoy them because of his storytelling — I find myself unconsciously playing old Bollywood songs while chopping vegetables. It’s become a rhythm. A familiar soundtrack to a task that could otherwise feel like a chore.

Once, while making paneer tikka masala, I also watched an entire podcast episode. Cooking. Listening. Thinking. Switching.

This is normal now. It’s expected.

Or think about the simple act of driving.

We start the car. Then we turn on music.

If someone’s in the seat next to us — we’re talking.

If we’re alone — we’re on a call.

We’re rarely just driving.

Our minds juggle multiple inputs constantly.

And even though it drains us, we’ve stopped questioning it.

Sometimes multitasking is necessary.

But the problem is, we’ve made it our default mode.

And when we try to reverse the pattern — to focus on just one task — our minds rebel.

The momentum is too strong.

We feel anxious. We can’t sit still.

But here’s the contrast:

The practicing mind is quiet.

It lives in the now.

It listens.

It obeys intention.

It follows direction.

It channels energy into a single task with precision.

And because of that, we feel calm. Clear. Present.

You’ve likely experienced it.

Maybe you’ve driven a familiar route — and later realized you don’t remember parts of the journey.

Or taken a metro ride and not noticed the people, the architecture, the small miracles happening around you. Not even the ticket you bought.

It’s like you teleported there.

Why?

Because your mind was somewhere else.

It was full of thoughts.

Unrelated. Uninvited.

And yet you followed them.

You weren’t watching your thoughts.

You were in them.

Like a movie playing inside your head —

you were just another character in the script.

The mind was full — but not focused.

Overflowing — but not aware.

And that’s the epidemic no one talks about:

A mind that can’t sit still… can’t move forward.

We’ve lost the ability to observe our thoughts without getting pulled into them.

Instead of using thought, we become thought.

Instead of directing the movie, we’re trapped inside the screen —

reacting to every scene like it’s real.

And if it weren’t so tragic, it would be funny.

We confuse technology with evolution.

Because we have 50MP cameras in our pockets,

we think we’re smarter than those who came before us.

But they?

They were aware.

They weren’t drowning in data.

They understood inner silence.

They had less distraction — and more direction.

And us?

We have more tools… and less peace.

The more tech we build, the more essential it becomes to build awareness alongside it. Because at the end of the day, if you can’t control your attention, you can’t control your choices. And if you can’t control your choices, you can’t control your outcomes.

Awareness must come first.

From there, everything else becomes possible.

We all think we’re living in a world no one before us has seen. New tools. New toys. New distractions.

We say, “We have technology now — life should be easier.” But it isn’t.

The screens got smarter, but our minds got messier.

Easier? No.

Louder? Yes.

The truth is, simplicity is what we traded for speed. And in doing so, we lost touch with something deeper — the ability to hear ourselves think.

Back then — back when people didn’t have apps to tell them how to breathe —

they simply breathed.

They sat with their thoughts.

Faced them.

Fought them.

Learned from them.

They had fewer options but greater awareness.

And that awareness often led to action — clear, firm, and focused.

Today, we think our struggles are uniquely ours.

The anxiety, the comparison, the never-ending loop of “what next?”

But they’re not new.

These struggles are timeless — just dressed in newer clothes.

In the Bhagavad Gita, Shri Krishna rides with Arjuna.

Not just as a friend, or a charioteer, but as a stand-in for something we often silence — the inner voice. The calm in the storm. The still hand that holds the reins.

Arjuna is us.

Brimming with potential.

Paralyzed by fear.

Caught between knowing what’s right… and doing it.

The horses? That’s our senses —

racing toward every shiny thing they see.

The reins? That’s our intellect —

often slack, unsure, letting impulse lead.

But Shri Krishna… Shri Krishna is the part of you that knows.

That whispers, “Hold steady. Keep going.”

When wisdom holds the reins,

even war becomes a path.

Even fear becomes fuel.

Discipline isn’t force. It’s alignment.

Of self. Of senses. Of soul.

And real power?

It’s not the chariot.

It’s who’s holding the reins.

So here’s the real question:

Are you in control of your thoughts?

Or are you being pulled by them?

If you’re not aware of your thoughts, you’re not in control of yourself.

And if you’re not in control of yourself,

then every accomplishment is built on a shaky foundation.

You can’t master what you’re unaware of.

Awareness must come first.

Everything else flows from it.

This brings us to a bigger exploration:

1. How did we become riders with no reins?

2. What cultural habits or unspoken teachings reinforce this state of disconnection?

3. Why do we glorify productivity over presence? Why do we mistake performance for purpose?

4. What if the “personality” you’ve built is actually just armor?

5. Protection crafted from childhood conditioning, not self-understanding?

6. What would you build if you weren’t trying so hard to be someone?

7. What would emerge if you didn’t feel the pressure to prove?

8. How do we teach curiosity without fear, ambition without burnout, and discipline without guilt?

These are the questions I began asking myself.

And I hope to offer you some answers in this blog and the upcoming blogs on the practicing mind.

I began noticing a shift in my early twenties.

Like most people, I had lots of interests— each one chased with bursts of enthusiasm, and then slowly abandoned.

I’d commit to a new activity—say, running.

I’d join a group, buy the gear, dive in.

For a while, I’d stay consistent.

But eventually, the motivation would taper. It always does.

The excuses would arrive:

"I’ll go tomorrow."

“I am not having enough sleep.”

“I can’t sleep on time because my Father’s watching TV.”

"I’ll double up next week."

“Rain.”

“More Rain.”

“Storm.”

But I wouldn’t follow through.

And worse: I became comfortable with not following through.

Which led to a quiet erosion of trust in myself.

Each cycle ended in the same place:

A search for the next thing to fill the void.

Let me tell you a truth that void will never be filled.

But here's what changed me:

I realized the pattern.

I observed it.

I began to track the process instead of judging the result.

And that changed everything.

The biggest asset wasn’t talent.

It was awareness.

That’s when I started noticing:

Everything in life is learned through practice.

Walking.

Talking.

Running.

Writing.

Speaking.

Saving money.

Using a credit card.

Even teaching your younger brother without sounding arrogant.

It’s all repetition.

Done with attention.

The best practice is invisible.

There’s no inner tension. No anxious Deadline. No rush to reach a goal.

No showoff. No meaningless hunting.

The more you engage with practice, the more it becomes a source of calm, not chaos.

In a world driven by outcomes, process is rebellion.

Let me give you a personal example:

In my karate classes, I obsessed over a move they called the “butterfly kick.”

I had no phone back then.

Just a 30-minute walk to class — free from noise, free from pressure.

That walk became my thinking space.

My preparation space.

My reset.

I practiced that kick hundreds of times — always with my right leg.

One day, my senior asked me to do it higher — and with the left leg.

I hesitated.

But I tried.

And surprisingly, it worked.

The form was good.

The technique was clean.

Because my mind had practiced.

Even when I didn’t realize it.

And that’s the power of the practicing mind.

It remembers and adapts.

It works — if you stay with it.

That’s why I share the monotony of practice.

Because buried inside repetition is something sacred:

Freedom.

The freedom to think clearly.

To focus deeply.

To act with intention.

When I worked in silence, I was forced to reflect.

When I kicked and did do well. Nobody was applauding.

When I kicked and didn’t do well. Nobody was pleading too.

In both the cases, there was silence to observe what I am doing wrong.

To notice what was working. What wasn’t. And that was enough.

That was everything.

So as you read this, ask yourself:

What would change if you returned to the process?

What would unlock if you let go of rushing the outcome?

Repetition isn’t boring.

It’s how we refine identity.

When you master practice, you master life.

And that is the beginning of the practicing mind.

Stay Tuned for more in-depth articles on the Practicing mind.

Want more articles like this mailed directly?