"There is a voice that doesn’t use words. Listen.” Rumi

This year, my journey to Japan aligns with a rare moment in time. Across continents, across faiths, millions of people pause. Catholic and Orthodox Lent, alongside the Holy Month of Ramadan, unfold simultaneously—three different traditions, three distinct paths, yet all leading to the same destination: purification, awareness, and inner stillness.

I was born and raised in the North Caucasus, a region where Orthodox Christianity and Islam have coexisted for centuries. Growing up, I witnessed and deeply respected the traditions of different faiths, seeing not division, but shared devotion, discipline, and reverence for something greater than ourselves.

For the past ten years, I have observed Lent, and every time, it has been more than just a practice—it has been a reset, a return to something deeper. Abstaining from certain foods, habits, and distractions has never been about deprivation but about clearing space—physically, mentally, spiritually. The more I let go, the more I realize how little I need to feel whole.

Fasting, in every culture, is never just about discipline. It is a sharpening of the senses, a cleansing of the noise, a stripping away of excess. It is a reminder that life is not defined by what we consume, but by what we cultivate within. It is the art of letting go.

Japan is a place where this philosophy is woven into the very fabric of life. Wabi-sabi teaches us to find beauty in imperfection, in the quiet decay of time. Satoyama reminds us that humans and nature are not separate, but part of the same breath, the same pulse. Shintoism does not place the sacred in the distant heavens—it finds divinity in the ordinary: in the curve of a river, the stillness of a stone, the whisper of the wind.

Yet, if this wisdom once came instinctively, why does the modern world move in the opposite direction?

Why do we treat the Earth as a commodity to be controlled rather than a living entity to be honored?

Why do we speak of sustainability as a technological challenge rather than a spiritual discipline?

Why, in an age of unlimited knowledge, do we find ourselves increasingly disconnected from the ability to feel?

This rare alignment of fasting traditions is not the only convergence this year. For the first time in decades, Catholic and Orthodox Easter fall on the same day.

A coincidence? Or a whisper from time itself, reminding us that the borders we draw—religious, cultural, ideological—are no more real than lines in the sand?

We are so used to seeing the world through the lens of separation. But what if all these traditions are saying the same thing? What if the path inward is always the same, no matter where we begin?

For centuries, philosophers and mystics have tried to convey this truth. Christian theologians, Sufi poets, Taoist sages, Hindu philosophers—their words echo one another, even when spoken in different tongues.

Eckhart Tolle reminds us:

“Thoughts are only a small part of consciousness. They do not exist outside of it, but consciousness does not need thoughts.”

This is where true energy is born—not in striving, not in grasping, but in presence.

We live in an age where exhaustion has become the norm. It is not just the body that tires—the mind, overwhelmed by noise, anxiety, and the relentless need to prove itself, begins to wither.

But this year, it is not only the dates that align. It is an opportunity to pause.

What if true transformation does not come from effort, but from the ability to be fully here?

Remember: sub specie aeternitatis.