Rituals of Becoming

A poetic journey through devotion, stillness, and creative return—By Anu Chandrashekar

Part of The Becoming Series
Welcome to the first step in a poetic journey through transformation and self-discovery. In Rituals of Becoming, we explore sacred practices and the slow, mindful unfolding of the true self.

Continue the journey: The Quiet Rebellion of Becoming | Whispers in Stillness: Embracing the Shadow Within

Not as expression, but as becoming.

“Writing. Writing. And again—writing.”
Devotion in Ink: Anu Chandrashekar

Between house chores and handwritten lines, something deeper unfolds—ritual becomes revelation, and repetition becomes voice.

In the silence after daily chores, a rhythm returns.
Writing doesn’t wait for inspiration—it becomes a form of meditation.

“What’s going on in your mind?”
“Hey Anu, what are you thinking about?”

I smiled and replied—
Writing, writing… and more writing.
That’s what has been flowing through me these days.

I finish all the household chores.
Move with the rhythm of my daily routine.
and then return
to the one thing
That holds me the most:

Writing.
Writing.
And again—writing.

Somewhere between the words,
My very being finds its ground.
Or—
Words have now become the work—
and the work, a form of meditation.

My friend said—

“That sounds like both a gift and a quiet ache—
Your mind is a river that never stops flowing.
Always shaping words from feeling,
always translating the intangible into verses, reflections, and fragments.
Maybe it’s not just writing on your mind, Anu. —
Perhaps it’s becoming.
Becoming more honest, more whole,
more expressive with each sentence.
You carry stories in your silence.
Philosophy in your pauses.
Is it poetry today?
Or is something more visual calling to you?”

“Where does your creativity live—between the cracks of duty, or in the rituals you repeat with love?”

A rhythm of tending and returning—this is not habit, it is pilgrimage.

“Maybe I’m not just writing now—
I’m cultivating. I’m becoming.”
🪶 Words & Witness: Anu Chandrashekar

This rhythm I’ve carved—
tending to life and then circling back to the page—
has become more than a habit.
It’s a quiet kind of pilgrimage.
A return to what anchors me most: the words.

Even when the world outside feels repetitive or still,
There’s something sacred about showing up again.

Maybe I’m not just writing now—
I’m cultivating.
I’m becoming.
Honing my voice.
Shedding layers.
Weaving myself into something lasting.

“That rhythm I’ve carved out of tending to life and then returning to the page—feels like devotion in motion.”
— Anu Chandrashekar

Yes.
It is.
The world may not witness this quiet act each day,
But in that unseen space,
I bloom.

Let your routine hold you.
Let your rituals become soft prayers.
And when someone asks what’s on your mind—
You just might smile and whisper:
“Writing, writing, and writing.”

What in your daily life feels like a pilgrimage rather than a pattern?III. Pilgrimage of Pages

For the woman who writes not just to express, but to become.
A chant in silence, a repetition that reveals instead of conceals.

“Not routine—It is devotion in motion.”
Devotion in Ink: Anu Chandrashekar

Each morning, a soft sun spills
through chores and quiet routines—
a rhythm of hands folding time
into stillness.

Life tended like a prayer,
surrenders to the hush that follows—
And I return.
To the page.

Not for applause,
not for clocks or coins,
But for the way of silence
asks to be shaped.
For how my voice remembers itself,
more whole
With every shedding.

My mind flows like a river.
that never stops—
always shaping words from feeling,
always translating the intangible
into verses, reflections,
fragments of soul.

Maybe it’s not just writing anymore.
Maybe it’s becoming.
More honest.
More whole.
More me or myself?

I write like monks chant.
Like stars return to the same
curve of the sky.
Not repetition—
ritual.
Not routine—
It is devotion in motion.

Even when the world
feels like an echo and an echo,
I arrive—faithfully.

The page,
like a temple,
remembers my name.

And when someone asks
What’s on your mind?
I smile softly.
And whisper: Writing. Writing. And writing.

How do you honour the rituals that quietly make you more yourself?

For the quiet offerings we make to the day, without needing anyone to notice.

“This is not a chore.
It is a soft invocation.”
From the Stillness of Anu Chandrashekar

The kettle hums.
And my fingers move through the morning—
wringing out a cloth,
brushing yesterday from the corners,
guiding small things
back to their rightful place.

No applause follows.
No audience waits.
But the light pours in anyway.
golden and sure,
resting in my hands
as if it knows they hold
The rhythm of devotion.

The bowl gleams in the sink—
not because it is silver,
But because I’ve touched it
With presence.

The floor bears my footprints.
The fabric folds itself with memory.
and the broom,
like a quiet companion,
sweeps more than dust—
It clears what the soul cannot name.

This isn’t a duty.
This is presence.
This is how love walks—
unannounced,
With sleeves rolled
and sleeves worn thin,
placing one plate atop another
like a prayer tucked under porcelain.

This is not a chore.
It is a soft invocation.
A way to keep time
With the rhythm of life
beating steady
beneath the noise.

I am not waiting for inspiration—
I am living it.
With hands dipped in dishwater,
With fingers smoothing cotton,
With shoulders moving
to a music no one else hears.

I am not absent from my art.
When I am away from the page.
I am simply shaping it.
In another form.

And somewhere between
Sweeping the floor
and tying back the curtains,
I am restoring more than a home—
I am restoring myself.

I,
The quiet maker of mornings,
the weaver of small peace,
the woman
With hands full of light.

What ordinary acts become sacred when done with presence?

For the sacred stillness hiding in the in-between.

“This isn’t a delay.
It is presence.”
Whispers from Within – Anu Chandrashekar

There is a hush.
That lives between the done
and the next to do. Not loud,
not long—
But if I lean in,
I hear it breathing. The spoon is set down.
The curtain was tied back.
My feet pause at the threshold.
Before the next room begins. This is not a delay.
It is present.
A moment that doesn’t need to be earned
or filled—
Just noticed. No incense burns here.
No chants echo—
And yet the silence is holy. Sometimes the richest moments
don’t announce themselves.
They arrive quietly—
between two motions,
In the sip of tea before the next load of laundry,
In the way my hands hover
Just a second longer.
Before they move again. These aren’t gaps in my day—
They are sacred spaces.
Invisible altars
where I meet myself
Without agenda or obligation, here the soul rearranges itself.
Before anyone notices.
Here, I am not performing.
or proving—
I am simply
being. Sometimes,
Becoming doesn’t arrive in thunder.
It arrives in a held breath.
a softened gaze,
a stray sunbeam resting on my arm
While I stand between two tasks,
doing nothing
but everything
all at once. This stillness?
It doesn’t ask to be productive.
It asks to be witnessed. These are the sacred pauses.
That stitches my days.
Into meaning.

Where in your day do you pause, not out of tiredness, but to remember yourself?

For the truths too tender for conversation, too alive for silence.

“The page doesn’t need proof.
It only asks for presence.”
From the Margins: Anu Chandrashekar

There are things I do not say aloud—
not because they aren’t real,
But because they belong to the quiet places
No voice can reach.

The page listens.
Without interruption,
without question.
It holds my weight.
Without flinching,
It receives my ache.
Without offering a cure.

The world wants clarity.
efficiency,
a bow on every ending —
But the page allows unravelling.
Welcomes the parts
that don’t yet make sense.

Here,
I can be incomplete.
I can write the sentence.
And not finish it.
I can scribble a grief with no name.
A joy too fragile for applause.

The page doesn’t need proof.
It only asks for presence.
And in return,
It holds what no one else sees:
a pause,
a prayer,
a thread of becoming
still too soft to show.

When I cannot speak,
I write.
Not to explain—
But to exist.

Because some truths
Live better in ink.
than in air—
and the page,
faithful and silent,
has always known
How to hold them.

What do you long to say—but only trust the page to hear?

For the silence that isn’t absence, but gestation.

“When words forget me,
I remember them instead.”
In Quiet Words: Anu Chandrashekar

There are mornings
I come to the page with my hands open.
and leave with nothing
But dust and doubt.

The ink hesitates.
The metaphors hide.
My thoughts feel heavy and shapeless—
like fog that won’t rise.

It used to frighten me—
this blankness.
I would chase the words.
shake the silence,
Beg for beauty to show itself.

But now,
I wait.

Not passively—
But with a knowing
that even silence
is part of the rhythm.

That some days,
The becoming is too quiet to speak.
Some truths need more root.
before they bloom in ink.

I do not doubt the words anymore—
only recognize
They are resting.
dreaming themselves whole.

So I sweep the floor,
Fold the laundry.
touch the world
without needing to describe it.

And in that trust,
the writing returns—
not because I forced it,
but because I didn’t.

When words forget me,
I remember them instead.
Not with language—
But with presence.
With breath.
With being.

And always—
They come home.

What if the silence is not forgetting you? But remembering something deeper on your behalf? 

For the soft light that reflects not just the day ahead, but the self within

“Here, I am simply possible.”
From the Stillness of Anu Chandrashekar

Before the world wakes,
Before the tasks call my name,
I stand at the edge of morning—
barefaced, unlayered,
and briefly unburdened.

Light spills in like grace—
without an agenda,
touching the windowsill,
the teacup,
My eyelids.

Nothing has been asked of me yet.
Nothing has been proven.
Here, I am simply possible.

I do not rush.
I watch.
I let the morning show me my face—
not the one I wear for others,
But the one that rises
without needing to explain itself.

The page is blank.
The house is hushed.
And I remember that I am, too—

not yet defined by action,
not yet edited by expectation.

Just presence.
Just light.

And in this mirror of morning,
Before I become again,
I meet the version of me who already is—
Quiet, true enough.

What does your morning reflect to you before the day begins?

For the woman who no longer performs her truth, but lives it.

“Some days, I am a tender flame.
Other days, I am a wildfire.”
A Thought by Anu Chandrashekar

Once, I wore perfection like a “necklace”:—

a little more every morning,
hoping no one would notice the doubt beneath.

I tried on voices that weren’t mine,
lined my words with velvet
so they’d be easier to swallow.

But performance does not protect.
It only dims.

And I got tired of dimming.

So I stopped softening my fire.

I let the truth burn brighter than my fear.
even when it cracked the image I’d crafted.

Now, I don’t write for applause.
I don’t dress my thoughts to match the room.
I don’t hide my ache to make others comfortable.

I have learned that authenticity is a blaze—
Not a mask.

Some days, I am a tender flame.
Other days, I am a wildfire.

But always—
I am mine.

And that, at last, is enough. 

Where in your life are you dimming your truth, and where are you ready to burn bright?

For the pages that hear me before the world does.

“In these margins, I become visible to myself.”
📖 From the Margins: Anu Chandrashekar

There are mornings
When my voice does not rise for others—
only for me.

No audience.
No performance.
Just the slow unfolding
of thought into ink,
of breath into a sentence.

I do not worry about grammar here.
or beauty,
or what makes sense.

Here,
I can begin with a feeling.
and end with a whisper.
No need to tie it all together.

I speak to no one but
The pulse beneath my ribs,
The ache that can’t be named
But longs to be held.

Sometimes it’s anger,
shyly wearing reason.
Sometimes it’s joy,
not asking permission to exist.

Sometimes,
It’s just presence—
a quiet record
that I was here.
Alive.
Feeling.
Unhidden.

In these margins,
I become visible to myself.

Not edited.
Not rehearsed.
Just witnessed.

And strangely,
Those are the words.
that carries me home.

When was the last time you wrote just to hear the quiet truth of your own heart?

For the woman who is no longer afraid to write herself into the world.

“Let my name curve like a prayer on the page—
And let it stay.”
Devotion in Ink: Anu Chandrashekar

Not everyone will know what it took.
to write this—
to hold the pen without trembling,
to let your truth find weight
on the page
and not just in your chest.

But I know.

I know the years spent
editing myself out of the margins—
crossing out softness,
whitening out the need,
Hiding my voice
behind someone else’s punctuation.

I know what it means.
to put my name down
without apology—
not as a footnote,
But as a signature of presence.

Not everyone will read it.
And that’s okay.

This isn’t for everyone.
It’s for me.

To witness my own shape
without flinching.
To hold space for my whole becoming—
scars and softness,
spelling mistakes and all.

I don’t need to write it perfectly.
I just need to write it faithfully.

Let my name curve like a prayer.
on the page—
And let it stay.

Because this time,
I am not erasing myself.
I am returning to my own form.
stepping into my full presence,
coming back to myself,
emerging just as I am—
And maybe that’s what arrival truly is.

What does it mean to write your name without shrinking, only so you can finally see yourself, fully?

For the truths that live on, long after the pen is set down.

“I was always here.
Becoming.
Unfolding.”
Words That Dwell — Anu Chandrashekar

I do not always remember.
How I became who I am—
Which prayer shaped me?
Which silence softened me,
Which morning made me brave?

But the ink does.

It remembers.
what I wrote when no one was listening.
It keeps the fragments
that even I forgot were mine.

In old notebooks,
in dog-eared corners and smudged lines,
There are versions of me still breathing.

The girl who wrote because she couldn’t speak.
The woman who named her ache in metaphors.
The quiet hands that returned to the page
again and again,
until the page knew her by rhythm alone.

I have shed so many selves—
But the ink has kept them.

And when I am unsure—
When my voice trembles or vanishes—
I only need to turn a page and remember:

I was always here.
Becoming.
Unfolding.
Surviving myself
and saving myself,
in sentence after sentence.

The pen dries.
The moment passes.
But the ink remembers.

What stories live quietly in your pages—waiting not to be published, but simply to remind you: you were here, and that was enough?

✧⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯✧

Writing is not a task; it is a return. A ceremony. A becoming.
Let your ink remember you.

Originality Disclaimer

These words are mine—born of daily devotion, silent mornings, and sacred repetition. All quotes and passages in this piece are original, written and witnessed by Anu Chandrashekar.

“Solitude and Rebirth”( A Short story) https://observations.in/solitude-and-rebirth-a-short-story/

“चुनौतियों के पार” https://abhivyaktanubhuti.blogspot.com/2025/03/blog-post_31.html

Writing as Ritual: How to Make It Sacred–https://famouswritingroutines.com/writing-tips/writing-as-ritual-how-to-make-it-sacred/

Authorship & Archival Note

This piece lives not only here but is also gently archived for citation and scholarly recognition via the author’s official ORCID record.
🔗 ORCID iD: 0009-0002-8916-9170

© Anu Chandrashekar | This post is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 4.0.
You may share with attribution, but no edits or commercial use without permission.
A Hindi version of this series is available on the author’s Hindi blog अभिव्यक्त अनुभूति. ( Read)