Dr Dosti Regmi Blog

  We carry winters in our bones. I am wounded by your wounds. I will hold your fragility— quietly, even if not perfectly. I have no haste to understand, nor to heal— only to hold, and make you feel safe, until you soften and melt.  

There are moments that arrive without announcement—quiet, unearned. Walking toward the library, nothing special was being sought. No insight, no resolution, no spiritual breakthrough. Just movement. And then I saw a tree in bud, another tree with fresh shoots. A new leaf in early spring. I touched it. Not an idea of renewal, natural cycles, not a metaphor yet— just softness under the fingertips. Something tender, alive, unguarded. Then the tulips, standing with their quiet dignity. And the agelia—its pattern revealing itself without effort: five petals, two apart, three closer, a subtle symmetry holding itself together. Patterns within the petals—so precise, yet so effortless. .  This was not to be understood. It was not given to be interpreted, analyzed, or turned into meaning. It asked for nothing except to be seen, touched, and allowed. The mind, so used to converting everything into language, into insight, into something “useful,” found itself unnecessary.  Becaus...

How can I fix it if it was never broken? You search for meaning— and call it a lack. You try to fix— and call yourself broken. You keep walking, striving— as if arrival were somewhere else. You keep searching— as if arrival were somewhere else. But deep within, There is something untouched— unbreakable, self-sufficient, eternal arrival, a quiet, radical presence that does not move, yet holds all movement. Let these small searches, these passing problems, not disturb that stillness. Life will rise and fall— as it must. So fail—beautifully. Break—beautifully. Be lost—beautifully. Let things pass without the urge to fix, to fill, to replace, to improve. A feeling comes— burns— and fades. They last but moments. What lingers is the thought that follows, the grasping that sustains it. Do not weave stories around fleeting storms.   The first pain arrives uninvited— The second is chosen, self-inflicted second dart - Buddha says.  So let it be. Let it pass. And rest— not in becomi...

Many voices gathered around me— “Come this way,” one said, “No, this way,” another insisted, “Faster,” urged a third, “Don’t stop—run.” Paths multiplied, Urgency grew louder than my own breath, And somewhere along the way, I forgot the quiet rhythm within my chest. Then you arrived— Not with directions, Not with maps or promises, But with a softness I had long abandoned. “You must be tired,” you said, “Sit here… just for a while.” And in that simple permission, The roads dissolved, The noise loosened its grip, And for the first time— the seeker dissolved, And only the stillness remained.