Giorgione — The three philosophers (c. 1505–1509) — **Giorgione —** **The three philosophers** **(c. 1505–1509)**

Article disponible en français
The Eternal Present · Spiritual awakening · 22 min
To explore the concrete paths of inner transformation.

Series: Towards spiritual sovereignty | Stage 6 — Inner stability
Previous article: Humility full of gratitude

In this article:
The trunk that stands firm
The shock of lucidity
The sanctuary at the heart of the tumult
From the ‘i’ of the ego to the ‘I’ of the essence
No need for a monastery: ordinary life as a workshop
The patient art of working upon oneself as a masterpiece
The virtuous circle of equanimity
One foundation, a thousand faces
A few markers for the path

The trunk that stands firm

At the close of the first five stages of this journey, something has gradually risen within us like an inner tree that has slowly found each of its dimensions. Love was first recognised as that infinite energy which sustains the universe and can move through us if we consent to open a passage for it — like a living sap that irrigates the most secret fibres of our being. Discipline then gave it form, its bed and its banks, transforming a generous but diffuse impulse into a directed and fruitful force, capable of acting rightly amid the rough circumstances of daily life. From their slow convergence was born radiant Compassion, that living fruit of inner transmutation, that warmth of one who, having traversed one’s own labyrinth, can now hold another’s hand. Constancy, the fourth quality of the soul, rooted all this in duration, refusing to let that fine edifice collapse at the first gust of wind, and Humility full of gratitude came to lay the nurturing soil, that obscure and discreet depth without which no root can sink far enough to hold in the storm.

But to a tree thus consolidated — roots and sap, form and fruit — there is still lacking what makes its visible unity: the trunk, that central axis which gathers everything together, which channels the life of the root towards the crown and which, alone, allows one to say of this tree that it stands upright. This sixth quality of the soul is inner Stability: that living and motionless point at the very centre of oneself, which does not simply add itself to the preceding qualities but gathers them into a living coherence, conferring upon them a common hearth and a centre of gravity.

The shock of lucidity

Sometimes an unexpected event comes to overturn our existence: a separation, a redundancy, an illness that compels us to stop. It may also be, more simply, the chance encounter with a spiritual teaching or with a being more advanced than ourselves on the path of fulfilment. By dismantling our habits and even our identity, such an event becomes the occasion for a decisive awakening: our personality has been built, in large part, by mimicry. We have acquired it under the influence of our upbringing, our social milieu and the ambient culture, and not through lucid and deliberate maturation. A vertiginous question then opens: if everything I believe to be myself has been shaped from without, who am I truly? From this question, if we have the courage not to flee it, may be born the desire to reach a genuine inner freedom — a freedom that restores in us contact with the most authentic part of ourselves, that singular essence with which we came into the world and which has only ever waited to be recognised.

Through patient self-observation, we gradually learn to know ourselves better. We identify how our functioning took shape — first in childhood, then during the years of learning that led us to take one orientation or another in our life. Little by little, we extricate ourselves from the entanglement of our inner movements and the rigidity of our reactive automatisms. A truly awakened presence to ourselves and to the world then begins to develop. The more this presence is strengthened — through the constancy of effort freely given and the humble sincerity that allows us to foil the many traps of self-delusion — the more that most intimate part we seek to reach reveals itself. This is our deep, essential being, the depositary of the spiritual potentials and singular talents that are ours. The multitude of small selves that were stirring in our inner theatre then begins to quieten. They organise themselves around that part of ourselves which wages the spiritual combat towards self-realisation. A space of stability begins to crystallise, and becomes little by little a reliable refuge where silence and peace may at last settle.

The sanctuary at the heart of the tumult

All around us is the cacophony of modernity — its technological din, the roar of vehicles, the ebb and flow of urban agitation that pours into the avenues at certain hours like a tide. Behind every door, the clamour of quips and proclamations that have invaded what the previous generation called “the set”, and which now colonise even those small screens we carry with us everywhere. And yet, despite all this racket in which our consciousness founders as in a bottomless abyss, there is, at our very depths, a sanctuary of joy, peace and stability. To reach it requires a twofold effort: first, to foil the posturing of our inner characters, as fickle as the draughts that inflame them; and then, obstinately, to realign our bearing towards our will to truly be. Only then, somewhere at our most intimate depth, do we reach that place of encounter with the truest part of ourselves, which is waiting to be inhabited…

For we often forget this. We desert ourselves through weakness or hesitation, through a taste for ease and comfort, through surrender to conformism and fear of what others may say. And yet, despite all this, the small secret voice is still there, waiting to teach us. It speaks to us of our sublime destiny, our true nature. It whispers that we are made for goodness and love, for happiness and sharing. He who each day consents, without faltering, to pay the price of nourishing his inner fire — renouncing the factitious and the useless, embracing the cause of the light — he who has traversed all the valleys to launch himself into the ascent of the mountain: such a one at last gains ever readier access to this essential inner refuge. There he discovers a nourishment that is both sweet and strong, which gradually penetrates even into his body and ceaselessly rekindles his hope of seeing the dawn of splendour rise over the world.

From the ‘i’ of the ego to the ‘I’ of the essence

This inner space of stability, like a motionless yet living point, is the place from which we can truly say “I”. There we renew our bond with what, within us, pre-exists all outward influences. This singular essence makes of each person a unique being: a particular compound of spiritual potentials and living forces, endowed with a consciousness irreducible to any other. Each time we succeed in observing ourselves while continuing to act, we draw closer to this place. This presence to ourselves extracts us from the flux of outer events and inner movements which, ordinarily, carry us away like a cork in a mountain torrent. And each time, this “I” awakens a little more and grows stronger.

This is no longer a matter of our greedy and fearful ego — that ego which gathers the most powerful small selves of the personality, those that have imposed themselves over the years because they were the most efficient and the most agile in securing our material survival and our place in human relations. What is at stake now is the “I” of our true spiritual identity. This “I” lays claim to its sovereignty over our life. It wishes to benefit from the able concurrence of the positive aspects of the personality, in order to fulfil itself and realise its singular work upon this earth. It is this “I” which, by becoming conscious and active once more, will clear the path that leads to this inner refuge. With each effort of presence, it gradually draws out of the shadow all the obstacles with which we have encumbered the way — arising from our fears, our lies, our resentments and our selfishness. For to reach this place of peace and to be able to abide there in lasting peace is also to transcend the illusions and self-fixations that our ego produces. Only then does it become possible to open oneself wholly to the reign of love and joy, and to hope to enter the palace of the king of the universe, of which this modest space is still but an antechamber.

Caravaggio — The calling of Saint Matthew (1599–1600) — **Caravaggio —** **The calling of Saint Matthew** **(1599–1600)**

No need for a monastery: ordinary life as a workshop

To extricate oneself from the ambient agitation and keep one’s bearing towards what is essential; to calm the inner turbulence in order to preserve serenity; to unmask our self-deceptions that deprive us of access to our real being — none of this is a path reserved for those who can withdraw into the tranquil atmosphere of a monastery and devote their lives to meditation or prayer. The outer conditions of our life-path have their importance, in so far as they present circumstances more or less conducive, in appearance, to genuine inner work. But let us hold no illusion: the human being finds ways to sleep spiritually just as readily in a monastic cell as in the tumult of city life. The reverse is equally true: he who knows how to keep watch, keeps watch in any place whatsoever… The practice of religious observances, whatever the tradition, or the use of techniques of whatever nature, does not, a priori, bring about any substantial spiritual change. Everything depends on the presence within us of a genuine desire for awakening and deep transformation. Traditions and techniques are tools. They can yield good or poor results depending on how each person uses them. And confusing the instrument with what it makes possible is one of the most tenacious illusions of the spiritual life. Shutting oneself in a monastery to meditate ten hours a day, or separating oneself from the world in any other manner, is not a primary condition for advancing.

The true prerequisites lie elsewhere: to awaken within ourselves the one who observes, and to develop a genuine presence to oneself. It is through this work — and through it alone — that we can emerge from illusions and complacency, and attain an authentic self-knowledge. It is by discerning who we are, how we have been formed and how we truly function that we can undertake this patient journey, which alone allows us to find within ourselves the space of stability where our spiritual dimensions gradually awaken. Retreats, readings and teachings can be precious oases along the way. But they do not replace the walking itself, which takes place wherever we are, in the ordinary fabric of our days.

The patient art of working upon oneself as a masterpiece

There remains the need to carry within us a genuine desire to awaken to our deep being, the desire to reach that space of inner calm where our most intimate voice can resonate. If this desire is present, the path that leads there is open to us right now, in our daily life, which is the best place to begin. It is by casting a lucid eye upon our functioning here and now that we shall learn most about ourselves. And the progress made, being independent of facilitating circumstances, will prove enduringly solid when the trial returns.

This work is marvellous: learning to see ourselves as we truly are, in all sincerity — with our luminous aspects and our shadows, our strengths and our weaknesses, our wounds and our splendours. Then patiently deconstructing some rigid aspect in order to replace it with another, truer one, and so on. It is, in a sense, to work upon oneself as the artist works upon his masterpiece. It demands patience and constancy over time. It is this taste that we must cultivate. With time, what at first seemed a burdensome discipline becomes a joy in itself, an almost secret pleasure in seeing oneself advance, in recognising within oneself nuances and subtleties that were not there the day before. It is by keeping this bearing that we shall succeed little by little in letting go of all those influences that push us towards the useless and the futile. And we shall reach what is essential: to hear the small voice which, in the stable refuge of the inner depths, teaches us how to free our spiritual potentials and activate our human talents in the service of the world.

The virtuous circle of equanimity

To succeed in reaching this space of stability within oneself is to find calm and rest that protect us from the ambient agitation as much as from our own inner turbulence. And it is thus that a more equanimous approach to existence gradually develops. The more familiar the access to this inner refuge becomes, the more it helps us to step back from the events of our daily life. We then approach them with a more even temper, whether they be agreeable or difficult, expected or unforeseen, flattering to our ego or disagreeable to it. Several paths can facilitate this quiet interiority: meditation or relaxation, walking in nature or listening to soothing music, prayer or reflection upon spiritual texts. Whatever means is chosen, the more the path that leads there becomes clearer and easier, the more our capacity to remain connected to ourselves is strengthened — without being quickly unsettled by persons or situations.

This is a virtuous circle, whose beauty lies precisely in the fact that it reinforces itself without our needing to think about it. The more readily we reach this motionless point within ourselves, the more we can be present here and now while observing ourselves in order to know ourselves better. And the more we are present to ourselves, the more access to this space of plenitude becomes simple, frequent and lasting. A new energy — more alive and more subtle — begins to spread through all parts of our being, generated by our patient work upon ourselves. Our relationship to the world is progressively calmed thereby, for negative emotions have less and less hold upon us. We then enter the dimension of awakening and the sacred, where each instant can become at once denser and lighter, more present and freer of the ego, if we are able to advance within it in full consciousness.

Subscribe now

Hokusai — South wind, clear sky, also known as Red Fuji (c. 1830–1832) — **Hokusai** **— South wind, clear sky**, **also known as** **Red Fuji** **(c. 1830–1832)**

One foundation, a thousand faces

In the constellation of humanity’s spiritual traditions, this foundational stability has received different names and faces depending on language and culture, yet its deep reality is everywhere the same: that inner anchor without which no fruitful spiritual life can stand upright over time.

In Judaism, this quality receives the name of Yesod, the Foundation, the sixth emotional sefirah of the Tree of Life according to Kabbalah. Yesod occupies a singular position on the Tree: it stands on the central axis, just above Malkhut the kingdom, and it is that vertical channel through which all the energies of the preceding sefirot — love, rigour, compassion, victory, splendour — converge into unity before they can take concrete form in life. Without Yesod, the qualities elaborated upstream remain dispersed and cannot be faithfully transmitted to the dimension of action and reign. The Hasidic tradition calls the authentic sage Tzaddik Yesod Olam, “the righteous one, foundation of the world”, drawing on a verse from the Book of Proverbs which designates the upright man as the living pillar upon which creation rests. The Hebrew month associated with this quality is Elul, the month of inner preparation before the High Feasts, during which the work consists precisely in gathering the scattered fragments of oneself and bringing them back to the central axis of the heart. The Sefirat HaOmer, that count of forty-nine days leading from the Exodus to the revelation at Sinai, passes through this sixth week as its penultimate stage — the one where all that has been worked upon must converge into a stable foundation before it can blossom into full realisation.

In the Christian tradition, this quality has taken two complementary forms. The stabilitas of the Benedictine Rule — that vow of stability to place and community which monks profess — is not a geographical attachment but a discipline of the heart: to refuse flight when difficulties arise, to remain where one has been called in order to accomplish there the inner work that only this place and these companions will make possible. Saint Benedict saw in the wandering monk, the gyrovague, the very image of the dispersed soul, incapable of allowing itself to be worked upon in depth by anything whatsoever. Further to the East, in the tradition of the Desert Fathers and then in Byzantine hesychasm, this stability takes the name of hesychia, the silent quietude, that calm inhabited by a vivid attention which Gregory of Sinai and Gregory Palamas place at the heart of all authentic prayer. The Gospel itself offers the founding image of the rock: “the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house; and it fell not, for it was founded upon a rock.”

In Islam, this spiritual stability is expressed through several profoundly complementary terms. Sakina, a word sharing its root with the Hebrew Shekhina, designates that soothing and stabilising presence which descends into the heart of the believer to root him in trust despite trials: the Quran evokes it on several occasions as a precious gift that “descends into hearts” at the very moment when fear and distress threaten to carry the soul away. An-nafs al-mutma’inna, the serene soul mentioned in Surah 89, designates that mature stage of inner development where the believer has moved beyond the commanding soul and the blaming soul to attain profound quietude. Tawakkul, the total trust in God taught by the Sufis, is not resigned passivity but that unshakeable reliance of one who acts fully while knowing that the outcome does not depend on him alone: his heart is no longer agitated because it is anchored beyond the fluctuations of the world.

In Hinduism, inner stability is expressed as sthira, the tranquil firmness which Patanjali, in the Yoga Sutras, makes one of the two essential qualifiers of every right posture: sthira-sukham asanam, “the posture is stable and comfortable.” This definition, which seems to concern only the body, is in reality the precise metaphor for what the yogi’s mind must become: firm without rigidity, settled without heaviness, capable of enduring effort without unnecessary tension. The Bhagavad Gita magnificently develops the figure of the sthitaprajna, one whose wisdom has become stable and who, like the ocean “into which all rivers flow without its being disturbed thereby”, receives the events of existence without being carried away by them. Samatva, equanimity in the face of joy and sorrow, honour and dishonour, completes this figure: this is not indifference but that living balance which enables a just response to each situation because one is no longer a prisoner of one’s automatic reactions.

Buddhism, in all its branches, makes inner stability one of the pillars of its practical path. Shamatha, the pacified quietude, is the first of the two wings of Buddhist meditation, the other being vipassana, the penetrating vision: without the prior stabilisation of the mind, no clear vision is possible, for the agitated consciousness projects its own turbulence onto what it observes. Upekkha, equanimity, is the fourth of the “sublime abodes” (brahmavihara), the one that crowns and stabilises the preceding three — loving-kindness, compassion and sympathetic joy. Tibetan Buddhism gives to this stability the striking image of the mountain, immovable and majestic, around which the clouds of thoughts pass without altering it: not a mountain that resists through hardness, but a mountain that is, simply, and whose very being suffices to hold firm.

Taoism addresses this stability through the image of zhong ding, the stable centring, and through the still deeper image of the hub of the wheel. “Thirty spokes converge upon the hub, but it is the empty centre that makes the wheel useful”, says Lao Tzu in chapter 11 of the Tao Te Ching. The sage is he who has found within himself that empty and stable hub around which all may turn without carrying him away; and it is from this paradoxical centre — motionless because empty — that right action can arise at the precise moment it is required, in the art of wu wei already evoked at the stage of discipline. Zhuangzi illustrates this quality through the figure of the sage who “sits in forgetting”, zuowang, and whose inner stability is not a fixation of the will but a dissolution of the resistances that were preventing deep nature from expressing itself.

All these traditions converge upon a single deep conviction: inner stability is not the immobility of the dead, but the steadfastness of the living being who has found his axis. It does not oppose movement — it makes movement possible and right, as the hub makes the rotation of the wheel possible, as the root makes the unfolding of the branches possible. Without it, all the other spiritual qualities we have cultivated risk remaining scattered fragments that the first gust of wind will carry away; with it, these fragments gather into a unified work that can at last begin to radiate.

A few markers for the path

These reflections on inner stability are not intended to transform us into rigid and imperturbable figures, indifferent to the world and its calls. They are intended to help us recognise and cultivate that point of anchorage within us from which life can be fully inhabited without carrying us away — where we can at last act from what we truly are, rather than from what circumstances make of us. If the Love of the first stage was the sap, the Discipline of the second the form, the Compassion of the third the fruit, the Constancy of the fourth the root, and the Humility of the fifth the soil, Inner Stability is the trunk: that living axis which gathers all, and without which the tree cannot stand upright in the storm.

1. A few questions to let resonate

Take a moment of calm and interiority. Let each of these questions descend within you without seeking an immediate answer. What rises with a slight resistance is often the most precious thing to hear.

On the reality of my inner anchorage
Is there within me an inner place of peace to which I know how to return, or am I almost always carried away by the flux of events and emotions? When I stop, do I find silence within myself, or only the background noise of my preoccupations? Is there a moment in the day, however brief, when I can say that I truly inhabit the centre of myself?

On the quality of my attachments
Are the bonds I maintain with the beings and commitments that matter in my life rooted in genuine love, or rather in need, in the fear of solitude, or in the search for validation? Am I capable of committing fully to a relationship while preserving both my own dignity and that of the other, or do I efface myself in the other, or absorb him into myself?

On my relationship to vulnerability
Am I capable of letting myself be deeply touched by a person or a cause, or have I learned to no longer allow myself to be reached for fear of being wounded? Have my old wounds closed me to new genuine bonds, or have I known how to let them teach me something without allowing them to become a fortress?

On my faithfulness to deep commitments
When I commit to something that truly matters, how long do I hold before allowing myself to be turned aside? Does my commitment withstand the arid phases when what I have undertaken no longer brings me any immediate return? Do I have long-standing commitments that have profoundly shaped me, or is my life made up of short impulses and repeated withdrawals?

On dignity in the bond
Do my attachments — whether affective, professional or spiritual — make me freer and more fully myself, or do they diminish me, efface me, cause me to renounce what constitutes me? And on my part, do I sometimes crush those to whom I am bound, by taking up too much space or by demanding too much of them? The simple test is this: does this bond make me grow? Does it make the other grow?

2. A few gestures for the week

Establishing a daily fixed point
Choose this week a time and a place, however modest, and commit to returning there each day at the same hour for a few minutes of silence, prayer, spiritual reading or simply conscious presence to yourself. The faithfulness to this appointment — more than its duration — builds within you the trunk of which we have spoken. Observe, at the end of the week, what this simple repeated gesture has deposited in you.

Deepening an existing bond
Choose a person you love — a spouse, a child, a parent, a close friend — and this week devote to them a time of genuine quality, free of screens and pressing concerns, in simple attentive presence. Not a utilitarian time for settling matters, but a free time simply to be together. The stability of a bond is nourished less by grand declarations than by these small regular intervals when we consent to stop together.

Examining an attachment
Identify in your life a relationship, a habit or a commitment where you sense that something is not quite right: perhaps you are too invested, perhaps not enough, perhaps through dependency rather than genuine love. Without seeking to change anything immediately, simply take the time to observe honestly the true nature of this attachment. This benevolent lucidity is itself already a work of stabilisation.

Holding firm in a difficulty
Identify a current situation where it would be easy and tempting to give up — a project that is stalling, a relationship that demands effort, a personal discipline that is faltering. Without needless heroism, choose to remain faithful to it for one day, one week more, simply to observe what this perseverance changes in you. Stability is built in these small silent victories over the temptation of flight.

Honouring the strength of another
Tell someone close to you, in simple and precise words, which quality in them nourishes you and helps you to stand firm. This explicit recognition strengthens the bond and bears witness to the fact that inner stability is never a purely solitary affair: we are also held upright by others, and this deserves to be named.

3. Celebrating this stage

At the end of these seven days — or the time you will have devoted to this stage — take a moment to identify one precise instant when you felt this inner stability making a difference: a moment when, instead of being carried away by an emotion, a provocation or a difficult circumstance, you were able to hold your bearing and respond from your centre rather than from your periphery. Note it in a journal, or say it aloud. For stability that is not recognised becomes confused with inertia, and what we celebrate with due attention we invite to unfold further and more deeply into our life.

Next week we shall arrive at the seventh and final stage of this journey — the one where all the qualities previously worked upon at last fully incarnate in a life that stands upright of itself: spiritual sovereignty, that inner reign where the being who has recovered his axis lives at the height of what he came to be, and can begin to radiate, discreetly, the light whose source he has sought for so long.

A good journey to all.

Next article: Stage 6 - Spiritual Sovereignty

To go further

Have you encountered a practice, a discipline, an exercise, or an obstacle that has truly transformed you? Share your testimony in the comments — it will enrich every reader.

And if you wish to express yourself on a subject of spiritual awakening, send me a contribution of roughly one page for the Waymakers section. It will be published under your initials, a pseudonym, or anonymously, as you prefer. Other readers will be able to respond and dialogue with you.

New here? The Opening page introduces the author, the project, how to take part, contact details, and the agenda.

Dialogues of the New World — Spirituality & Civilisation

Inner Stability