Echography of Abundance

 

The morning met me quietly, with that particular, almost translucent light that does not insist, but simply is. I sat down with my notebook, even before the coffee, and thought about how often we look for a straight line where life insists on a curve. A sine wave of abundance—the words appeared not as a concept, but as a bodily sensation, like a rhythm beneath the skin, like a pulse that neither rushes nor lags behind, but simply follows its own inner measure. And I realized that perhaps all the tension of recent years has come from the desire to flatten what is, by nature, a wave.

At times it seems to me that abundance is a promise that must be fulfilled continuously—without pause, without darkness, without seasonality. Inside me lives a strict inner overseer—a voice that insists on constant productivity, on proof, on results, on growth that never stops. From a psychoanalytic perspective, this is the voice of early demand, of that childlike “be” that does not know the word “enough.” And when this voice collides with the reality of seasons—external and internal alike—a rupture occurs. In that rupture, fatigue is born. And guilt. And the quiet shame of not being “in bloom” when I am expected to be.

But nature is never ashamed of its winter. It does not apologize for being bare, for being cold, for having turned inward. It does not reproach itself for not bearing fruit when its juices have withdrawn into the root. Spring, summer, autumn, winter—not as a calendar, but as an inner psychodynamic, as the movement of libido, of energy, of meaning. When it is time to work—one works. When it is time to rest—one rests. And how difficult that “when” is, that boundary, that permission not to be anything other than what the season within me allows.

From a spiritual perspective, the seasons are a prayer without words. Winter is a long silence in which God is not absent, but listening. Or perhaps I am learning to listen. In these periods of limited abundance, of lower “profit,” as we might say economically, there is something deeply sacred. Limitation as a form of care. Lack as a pause that protects against burnout. When we move unnaturally against these balancing, regulating processes, we are not heroes—we are violators of our own psyche, of bodily wisdom, of a rhythm we did not create, yet which carries us.

I often imagine that if we could see the curve of abundance, not as a graph but as an image, it would resemble an ultrasound—an echography of abundance. Pulsating, alive, with periods of intensification and withdrawal. The pulse of the universe. Impulses of energy and well-being that arrive not because I demand them, but because I am ready to receive them. And I ask myself— not rhetorically, but painfully honestly—when was the last time I allowed myself to be in a pause without turning it into failure?

Psychoanalysis would say that in these winter periods the anxiety of abandonment is activated—the fear that if I do not give, I will not be loved. Spirituality would respond that precisely then love is purest, because it is not conditioned by fruit. Between these two perspectives stand I—a human being learning to breathe in the pause, to remain in the unfinished, not to rush to “fix” the silence. Silence as a womb, not as emptiness.

The winter within me is a time of inner migration. Thoughts grow slower, memories more tangible. Light enters at an angle, leaving shadows that do not shout, but whisper. In those shadows I meet older versions of myself—those who believed that love must be earned, that meaning must be deserved, that abundance is a reward for effort. And gradually, with a tenderness I did not know I possessed, I begin to release them from this burden. To be is enough. This sentence does not arrive as revelation, but as a slow, almost imperceptible erosion of old beliefs.

There are days when I feel energy returning—not with fireworks, but like warmth in the palms. These are the harbingers of spring. But even then I try not to hurry. Not to demand. Not to turn the first blossom into a promise of endless summer. Because I know now—truly know—that abundance has its curve, and that the attempt to straighten it is a form of violence—against the body, against the soul, against faith.

Faith, in this context, is not certainty. It is trust in the rhythm. Trust that when there is no fruit, there is root. That when there are no words, there is breath. That when there is no answer, there is presence. And perhaps the most difficult spiritual practice is to remain in this intermediate season—between the question and the answer—without filling the space with noise.

I write this not as a conclusion, but as testimony. For myself. For those quiet days when nothing “happens,” yet everything is being prepared. For those moments when abundance is not measured in results, but in the ability to remain whole. Whole in scarcity. Whole in the pause. Whole in winter.

And if this is a diary, then it is a prayer without an addressee. Or perhaps I am the addressee myself—the one learning to live within the sine wave, without trying to control it. To trust the pulse. To accept that abundance is not a state, but a movement. And that within this movement there is room for everything—light and shadow, work and rest, giving and gathering strength. And in this wholeness, quiet and imperfect, there dwells a soft, almost imperceptible grace.