Coach S!rk

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Have you ever heard the story of the unborn twins in the womb?

One asks the other, “Do you believe in life after birth?”

The second twin answers, “Of course not. This is all we’ve ever known. Why would there be anything else?”

And yet, beyond the rhythm of their mother’s heartbeat, another world awaits—a world they cannot yet comprehend, yet they will one day enter as their truest reality.

This short parable hits exactly what we were thought about reality and life.

Like those twins, we too often doubt what lies beyond the thresholds of our current understanding. We cling to what we can see and touch, forgetting that the unseen is often more real than the tangible. The soul remembers what the mind resists: there is more. There is always more.

We Are All Midway Between Wombs

This morning, as I watched that beautiful video again, something stirred. A voice whispered, not from the outside, but from within:

“You are not here to debate the next world. You are here to remember it.”

So many of us, whether consciously or not, remember the contractions of a spiritual birth. The crumbling of the structures we relied on. Relationships shift. Identities we’ve worn for decades no longer fit. We feel… squeezed.

But what if it’s not collapse?

What if it’s labor?

What if it’s the crowning of your soul?

From Darkness to Light

The womb is a quiet, warm world. Safe, enclosed. Familiar. But it’s also a world with limits. A world where growth eventually becomes painful because something larger wants to emerge.

This is the tension many of us feel. We outgrow our environments—energetically, emotionally, even professionally. Yet fear makes us hold on: “This is all I’ve ever known. Why would there be anything else?”

And so we resist.

But the contractions, calling for change keep coming.

And this is grace.

Life After This Life

I’ve observed souls through their “womb moments.” Times when the known falls apart, and the new has yet to take form. It can feel like dying. And in a way, it is. But not an ending.

It’s the death of illusion.

The death of limitation.

The death of the idea that you are only what you do, what you own, or how others see you.

The twins in the story remind us: what feels like the end is a beginning. Life after death. Life after ego. Life after trauma. Life after silence.

The Invitation

So today, I invite you to sit with the questions the twins once asked:

• What have I outgrown?
• What unseen reality is calling me forth?
• Where am I clinging to the known out of fear?
• What part of me is asking to be born?

You don’t need to have the answers yet. You only need to stay open, even if that means keeping the door ajar. You only need to trust the rhythm of something greater than you—just as the twins were carried, nourished, and eventually born into a world they never imagined existed.

Let yourself be born again—not just once, but every day, every breath, every awakening.

Because beyond this womb of form and fear, a truer life awaits.

And your soul remembers.

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We don’t always notice the moment a shadow enters our field.

It’s small, unassuming—a crumb, really. But the weight it carries can be generations deep.

One of the most powerful symbols that appears in dreams and daily life is the “black crumb”—a fragment of past hurt, silent fear, or conditioning that clings to us without permission. It can appear in a conversation that leaves us off-center, a thought that won’t let go, or a dream that stirs an old discomfort.

The mistake many make is to obsess over the crumb—to analyze, overthink, or carry it with them longer than needed. But true healing begins with a different kind of attention: simple awareness, paired with loving release.

Here are three soul-guided steps to alchemize your black crumb moments:

1. Acknowledge Without Drama: Don’t judge the discomfort or suppress it. Say silently, “I see you.” Witnessing your inner reaction with clarity creates instant space for healing.

2. Choose Loving Detachment: Not all crumbs need fixing—many just need brushing off. When something no longer serves, imagine your wiser self gently clearing it away, like brushing lint from a beloved coat.

3. Transform Through Elemental Presence: Step outside. Feel the breeze on your skin. Let the light of the sun or the sound of the rain carry your energy forward. Crumbs dissolve when we return to presence.

Perfection isn’t the goal—presence is. And healing isn’t about avoiding the dark, but remembering the light we carry through it.Let today be simple. If a crumb arrives, see it for what it is—a chance to return to yourself.

The Weaver of Hidden Threads

In a secluded hamlet cradled in the Bali highlands, where mist curled around the trees like murmured secrets and the rice terraces shimmered with morning dew, there lived a girl named Luh Kerti. She was unlike the others, though no one could quite articulate why.

She noticed designs invisible to most. She sensed the weight of words before they were uttered. And when the gamelan resonated through the air during ceremonies, the world around her seemed to dissolve, leaving only rhythm, hue, and luminescence.

But in her village, her quiet nature made elders sigh in disapproval. Her distant gaze provoked giggles from the other children. “She is slow,” some murmured. “She drifts in her own world.”

Even her mother, who cherished her deeply, often sighed. “Luh, you must try harder to be like the others. You need to learn to concentrate.”

But Luh was attentive—just not in the way they meant.

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The Loom of the Ancestors

One morning, her uncle, Pak Nyoman, a revered artisan of sacred textiles, summoned her to his workshop. The space brimmed with looms, skeins of hand-dyed threads, and partially woven songket cloths glistening with gold.

“Luh,” he said, his voice warm like the sun cresting over Mount Agung, “do you know why we weave?”

She shook her head.

“Weaving is more than creating fabric,” he said, lifting a golden strand. “It is about perceiving the unseen. The pattern already exists before we begin—our hands simply bring it into form. Just like life.”

Luh ran her fingers over the cloth, tracing the raised motifs, the hidden designs revealing themselves through touch.

“But what if the image in my mind differs from what others expect?” she asked hesitantly.

Her uncle chuckled. “Ah, then you are like the spider, the sacred spinner. She does not question if her web resembles another’s. She weaves what she knows is true.”

Luh’s eyes widened. The spider. The silent architect of unseen bonds. The patient artist of the wind.

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The Dance of Threads

That night, Luh sat beside the fire, gazing at the stars. Instead of struggling to conform to the patterns others imposed, she allowed her mind to drift like a thread through a loom.

She recalled how, when she surrendered to her instincts, words flowed effortlessly. How, when she stopped forcing correctness, movement became natural. She had been overanalyzing, tightening strands that were meant to remain fluid.

She rose, closed her eyes, and inhaled—four counts in, six counts out. A rhythm. A sequence.

And then, like the weaver’s shuttle gliding through warp and weft, her thoughts softened, and she let herself create her own tapestry—one that did not need to resemble any other.

From that moment on, Luh Kerti no longer tried to think like the rest. Instead, she attuned herself to the wisdom already interwoven within her.

Return to the Ancient Ways

The Dieng Plateau has always been a place of whispers. The land itself breathes stories—of old kingdoms and sacred temples, of ancestors whose footsteps still echo in the mist. The Kali Tulis River, winding through the valley, does not just bring down rainwater; it carries memories, truths woven into the fabric of time.

And so, when Joko walked along its edges, the river spoke to him—not in words, but in a rhythm, an energy vibration older than language itself.

For most of his life, Joko had felt like an outsider to this rhythm. His stutter made him feel separate, incomplete, as if he had been carved differently from those around him. He believed he had to fight against himself, that his voice was something broken to be fixed. But here, by the river, a quiet truth was stirring, waiting to be seen.

Pak Raden had told him once that wisdom is like the wind—it is always there, but you must be still, in the moment to feel it.

That day, as the old man led him into the cedar forest, Joko felt something shift. The air here was thick with an energy unseen, an ancient presence woven into the roots of the earth. The trees stood tall, their silence deeper than words. And in that silence, Pakde spoke.

The Truth Behind the Noise

“Joko,” he said, his voice carrying the energy of the ages, “have you ever wondered why the wise of old sought silence? Why the Rishis, the Wali, the Hermits of the Mountain all withdrew from the world to listen?”

Joko shook his head.

“It is because truth does not come from the mind, your thinking but from beyond it.” Pak Raden tapped his chest. “It arises from the space within, where there is no fear, no struggle, only knowing.”

Joko furrowed his brow. “But… how do I locate that space?”

The Hidden Power of His Voice

Pak Raden sat down beside him, picking up a handful of soil. “The ancients knew something we have forgotten,” he said. “That every path, every challenge, every so-called flaw is a doorway to something greater.” He let the earth flow through his fingers. “Your voice, Joko—it is not a mistake. It is a gift waiting to be seen.”

Joko swallowed. “A gift?”

Pakde nodded. “Your pauses, your struggle—they are not barriers. They are the spaces where something deeper can enter.” He smiled. “Haven’t you noticed? When you speak, people listen. Not because you force them to, but because your pauses create space for something greater to come through.”

Joko’s breath caught in his throat. He had never seen it this way before.

“Most people speak to fill silence, very often even with filler words” Pakde continued. “But you—you allow silence to speak. That is rare. That is powerful.”

The words settled into Joko’s bones like a truth he had always known but never named.

For so long, he had always seen himself as incomplete. But what if, like the river that sings only when it meets resistance, his voice was made beautiful by the very thing he had once hated?

What if he had never been broken?

What if he had always been exactly as he was meant to be?

Returning to the Knowing

A wind stirred through the forest, rustling the leaves. Joko closed his eyes and felt it—not just as air moving past him, but as something alive, something that carried the knowing beyond words.

He had been taught to see his stutter as a limitation, but now, he saw the truth beneath the illusion. The wise ones of old did not rush their words. The greatest teachers, the elders, the mystics—they spoke slowly, deliberately, with pauses that allowed their words to sink into the heart.

And suddenly, he understood.

He was not separate from them.

He was not broken.

He was part of the same rhythm that had always existed, the rhythm of the river, the wind, the trees. He had been walking his own path of wisdom all along, without even knowing it.

Joko opened his eyes and met Pakde’s gaze.

The old man smiled. “You see it now, don’t you?”

Joko nodded, and this time, when he spoke, his voice was steady—not because he had forced it, but because he was no longer afraid of it.

“I see.”

And with those words, the mist over the Dieng Plateau seemed to part, revealing the path that had been there all along.

On the edge of a quiet Balinese village, where the rice fields met the sea, there lived an old fisherman named Wayan. He was known not just for his skill in navigating the ocean, but for his wisdom—though he never claimed to be wise. Every morning, Wayan would push his small wooden boat into the waves, without the need to check the tide charts, nor listening to the weather reports, he simply felt the sea, trusted its rhythm, and allowed it to take him where he needed to go.

One day, a young man named Ketut, who had always admired Wayan, approached him.“Bapa Wayan,” the youngster said, “how do you always find that abundance of fish? Others come back empty-handed, yet you always return with your boat full. What is your secret?” The old man chuckled, his sun-wrinkled face breaking into a smile. He gestured for Ketut to step into the boat. “Come,” he said. “Let’s go fishing.” As they paddled beyond the breaking waves, Wayan handed the young man the oar. “Take us where the fish are,” he said.

Ketut hesitated. “But how do I know where they are?” Wayan leaned back, letting the boat rock gently with the movement of the sea. “That’s the trouble, isn’t it?” he said. “You think you need to know before you move. But the sea is alive, always changing. If you wait to be certain, you will never go anywhere.” Ketut frowned, gripping the oar tightly. “So what do I do?” “Feel,” Wayan said simply. “Feel where the water pulls your boat. Feel where your hands move without effort. Trust the feeling.” Ketut closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the soft lapping of the waves against the boat.

Then, he dipped the oar into the water, allowing himself to follow its natural pull. Before he knew it, they were gliding smoothly, the boat almost steering itself. Wayan nodded. “Good. Now let go of the oar.” Ketut’s eyes widened. “But we’ll drift!”Wayan laughed. “Exactly.”

For a long moment, they simply floated. The boat rocked, the sun warmed their skin, and the ocean stretched endlessly before them. Then, suddenly, the surface of the water broke. A school of fish leapt into the air, shimmering in the morning light. Ketut gasped. “The fish!” The older fisherman picked up his net, cast it effortlessly, and pulled it back, heavy with their catch.

Ketut stared in amazement. “How did you know?” Wayan smiled, securing the net. “I didn’t know with my mind. I simply trusted.

The sea has always known where the fish are. The question is—do we allow it to guide us, or do we try to control it?” Ketut sat quietly, absorbing the words. “Life,” Wayan continued, “is like the ocean. It moves, it flows. Most people struggle against it, trying to force their way. They think they must know where to go, what to do, what the future holds. But those who trust the current—who listen, feel, and let go—always find themselves exactly where they need to be.”

As they made their way back to shore, Ketut looked out at the horizon, the light of a new understanding dawning in his eyes.He had spent his whole life focused on trying to steer his boat. He had never considered that, perhaps, the sea had been guiding him all along.

The two men pulled the boat onto the shore, Ketut remained deep in thought. The old fisherman’s words had settled inside him like seeds planted in fertile soil. He had always believed that life required effort—pushing, striving, making sure every step was carefully planned. Yet here was Wayan, moving through life as effortlessly as the waves that carried his boat.

The village was waking up as they walked back. Women were placing offerings at the temple gates, their hands moving with quiet reverence. Farmers bent over young rice shoots, trusting the rain to come. Everything in nature moved in its own time, yet Ketut saw something he hadn’t noticed before—there was no tension in any of it.“Bapa,” he said finally, “what if the sea takes you somewhere you don’t want to go?”

Wayan stopped and turned to him with a gentle smile. “And how do you know where you are supposed to go?” Ketut opened his mouth, but no words came. He had never questioned it before. He had always thought life was about choosing a destination and working hard to get there. The older man pointed toward the ocean. “Look at the waves. They rise, they fall. Sometimes they take us exactly where we expect. Sometimes they don’t. But do you see the ocean struggling?”

Ketut shook his head. “The fish don’t resist the current. The trees don’t resist the wind. It is only humans who believe they must fight life to get what they want.” They reached the village square, where a group of men were arguing over the price of fish at the morning market. “Life is much the same,” Wayan said. “Most people spend their days worrying—about money, about work, about what others think. They push and pull, trying to control things. But the more they fight the current, the more exhausted they become.”Ketut sighed. “I understand what you’re saying, Bapa. But what if I let go, and life doesn’t bring me what I want?” Wayan chuckled. “ And what if it brings you something better?”The words struck Ketut like a bell ringing in his chest. Could it really be that simple? Could he really trust life to carry him?

Just then, a little girl ran past them, laughing as she chased a butterfly. She felt no need to plan her steps or worry about where the butterfly would go. She simply followed it, trusting her joy to guide her. Wayan watched Ketut’s face and saw understanding beginning to bloom. “Life will always take you where you need to go,” he said softly. “Your only task is to listen, to feel, and to let go of the need to control.”

Ketut looked out at the horizon, where the sky met the sea in a seamless embrace. For the first time in his life, he wondered what it would feel like to stop rowing against the current—and simply allow himself to be carried. Perhaps, he thought, the journey had been trying to take him home all along.