📝 Blog: The Journey Within and Beyond

Welcome to the written soul of Explore Ikigai —
A sacred space where words become bridges between pain and peace, purpose and presence.

This blog is not just a collection of wellness tips or travel tales.
It is a living manuscript — born from a life touched by deep love, profound loss, and a relentless search for meaning beyond success.

Having lost my beloved son to the silent battle of bipolar disorder, and chosen to live on with grace, this space is my offering —
to those walking with grief, to seekers of stillness, and to anyone who wants to grow wiser with time, not just older.

Each blog is a love letter — to your future self, to the soul of humanity, to the courage of continuing.

📚 The Ikigai Blog Library

Soul Scripts for a Meaningful Life

“Words are not just language — they are medicine.”

This is the beating heart of Explore Ikigai —
where wisdom walks hand in hand with wonder, and where your longing for a soulful, purposeful, and long life finds a companion.

These blogs are shaped by tears, moments of silence, and slow awakenings.
They are chapters of a personal and collective human journey.

💠 What You’ll Discover Here

Each blog is:

• Handcrafted with heart, not just skill

• Rooted in lived experience — from fasting to forgiveness

• An invitation to reflect, not rush

You’ll find:

• 🌿 Ancient longevity secrets simplified for modern living

• 🌏 Travel stories that heal the traveler, not just describe the destination

• 💓 Emotional recovery tools drawn from real-life pain

• 🔥 Productivity hacks that serve your purpose, not just performance

• 🧘‍♂️ Meditation and fasting journeys that sanctify struggle

• 🪶 Memoirs from the frontlines of love, loss, and life after loss

🕯️ For Whom Are These Words?

This blog library is a shelter for those who:

• Have lost someone and vowed to live more fully

• Are tired of noise and crave clarity

• Want to build a legacy, not just a lifestyle

• Believe the world needs soulful humans, not just “successful” ones

  ✨ Featured Categories

🌏 Life Vision & Ikigai

Timeless wisdom for a purpose-driven life — even beyond 100.

• “Designing a Hundred-Year Life”

• “Why Dying Young Is Not a Plan: Embracing Longevity with Courage”

• “From Survival to Serenity: My Journey Into Ikigai”

🧘 Wellness & Healing

Ancient rituals and modern practices for body, mind, and soul.

• “Olive Oil & Fermented Water: My Morning Longevity Ritual”

• “Fasting Like a Monk: A 72-Hour Transformation”

• “Healing Trauma with Breath and Stillness”

📿 Grief & Grace

Stories of loss turned into light.

• “A Letter to My Son in the Sky”

• “How We Chose to Travel Instead of Celebrate Dashain”

• “Grief as a Gateway to Awakening”

🌄 Pilgrimage & Purpose

Spiritual reflections from sacred journeys across Nepal, India, and beyond.

• “Walking the Footsteps of the Buddha”

• “In the Silence of Rara Lake, I Heard My Soul”

• “To Ogami Island, Where Ikigai Was Born”

💡 Legacy & Longevity

Wisdom for those building meaning after 50 — and serving humanity till 100.

• “My Life Timeline: Serving Humanity Until 100”

• “Designing a Family-Free, Festival-Free Path with Purpose”

• “When Age Becomes a Gift, Not a Burden”

🌿 Our Writing Philosophy

• Long-form, soulful reflections meant to be printed and read offline

• Literary, emotional, yet simple — for a global reader

• Inspired by real life, not curated perfection

• Designed for depth, not just clicks

✍️ If a Post Touches You...

· Share it with someone who may be silently searching

· Write to us — your story matters too

· Let these words guide, not just inform

💌 Submit Your Story

Have you walked through fire and found flowers?
Found peace after 50? Turned grief into growth?

Have you chosen love after loss?
Found your true calling after 50?
Turned pain into purpose?

We welcome guest stories from:

• Caregivers

• Pilgrims

• Peacebuilders

• Seekers who walk slow but deep

📧 Email us: exploreikigai@gmail.com

🌍 Why This Blog Matters in Today’s World

In an age of constant noise and shallow scrolling, we believe in returning to the sacred slowness of reflection.
These pages are not just content — they are companions.
They walk beside the caregiver who just lost a spouse.
They sit with the seeker meditating in the mountains of Nepal.
They whisper hope to the parent who wakes up crying.
They remind you that healing takes time, and meaning is found in the pauses between breaths.

🕊️ From My Life to Yours: A Quiet Offering

As the founder of Explore Ikigai, my journey has been shaped by deep contrasts:

• The radiant joy of fatherhood

• The unfathomable grief of losing my son

• The still strength found in solitude, simplicity, and spiritual service

I didn’t create this space to become known.
I created it so you don’t feel alone — wherever you are, whatever your story.

🌐 Be Part of This Living Library

This isn’t just my story.
It is our collective journey toward peace, purpose, and presence.

📬 If a blog moves you, tell us how.
🖋️ If you have a story to share, write to us.
🤝 If you want to co-create a world filled with meaning, let’s walk together.

📧 Email: exploreikigai@gmail.com

You are not late.
You are right on time — for the life your soul has been patiently waiting for.

In the stillness of suffering, may you find your sacred strength.
In the pages of this blog, may you feel seen.

📝 Blog 1: Whisper of the Beginning – A Life Reimagined at 59

There comes a time in life when the world quiets just enough for us to hear the soft, persistent whisper of our soul. For some, that whisper arrives in youth like a raging fire. For others, like me, it arrives at 59 – not as a storm, but as a gentle wind that clears the dust of old wounds and reveals a road never taken.

I do not see this age as a closing chapter, but rather the true beginning. Not a sunset, but the first ray of dawn after a long, dark night. My youth was filled with duty, discipline, responsibilities – raising a family, building a livelihood, surviving sorrow and celebrating joy. It was a life that moved with purpose, but rarely paused to ask, “What was my purpose?”

And then came the unbearable loss – the kind that splits your heart and rearranges the axis of your world. My beloved son, a radiant soul battling invisible demons, departed this world far too soon. His absence hollowed out festivals, silenced the laughter at home, and carved a permanent ache into our hearts. My wife and I, once surrounded by life, felt like exiles in our own homeland.

But it was in this grief – in this sacred, raw wound – that the whisper came. “You are not done yet,” it said. “Live, not just for yourself now, but for the son who no longer can. Walk the path he couldn't. Heal in his name. Give, explore, love, and rise again—not in spite of him, but because of him.”

At 59, I chose to begin again.

I looked inward and discovered a calling: to live with radiant health, to travel the world, to serve the forgotten, and to transform every remaining year into a song of meaning. I chose ikigai – not merely as a concept, but as my compass.

This is not a story of late success. It is a story of deep awakening. I now see my life as an offering – to the world, to humanity, to peace. I’ve let go of the need to please society or chase validation. Now, I follow only what aligns with truth, love, and impact.

I started planning a 41-year journey – with a full heart and open eyes. From Nepal’s hidden valleys to the Arctic lights of Norway, from sacred Indian temples to silent monasteries in Japan – I will walk, learn, and offer service. Not to escape life, but to embrace it fully.

And in each step, I will remember my son.

Each mountain I climb, each elder I care for, each child I smile at – his soul will walk beside me. I’ve given up festivals, but not celebration. Now, I celebrate life – each breath, each act of kindness, each sunrise.

This is the whisper of my beginning.

And through this blog, I invite you to walk with me. No matter your age, no matter your losses – it is never too late to begin again.

Let’s find our ikigai.

My Dream Lifestyle After 60: A Life of Purpose, Peace, and Profound Joy

As I cross the threshold of sixty, I am not stepping into old age—I am stepping into a sacred chapter of deep intention, soulful contribution, and personal fulfillment. I no longer chase ambition for its own sake. Instead, I seek something purer, something timeless—a life of harmony, service, and grace.

In my dream lifestyle after sixty, the day begins not with an alarm, but with a gentle sunrise that kisses my windowpane. I rise not to rush, but to reflect—to sip warm water, to stretch into prayer, to greet the morning breeze as an old friend. My home becomes a sanctuary, simple yet soulful. Every item I own serves a purpose or tells a story. No clutter. Just clarity.

My body becomes a temple I honor. I eat with awareness, move with rhythm, and rest with trust. I no longer measure health by weight or blood pressure, but by peace of mind and lightness of spirit.

Time slows. Conversations lengthen. Laughter deepens.

I travel—not to escape, but to embrace. To walk barefoot in Bali’s rice fields, to chant with monks in Ladakh, to cry silently before a glacier in Iceland. Each journey is not a vacation, but a pilgrimage—to nature, to people, to the depths of my own soul.

And I give—not because I must, but because it is who I have become. I mentor the young. I listen to the lonely. I plant trees I may never sit under. I create legacy, not monuments.

After sixty, I do not grow old—I grow gentle. I become more curious than certain. More present than perfect. I don't just live; I live well, with a Purposeful Life.

📝 Blog 2: The Sacred Pause – Fasting as a Spiritual Gateway

In a world that worships speed, consumption, and endless motion, I discovered a quiet revolution: fasting – the sacred pause my body and soul were craving for decades.

It began not as a trend or health experiment, but as a deep inner calling. I had lived 59 long years, carrying the weight of life’s duties, dreams, losses, and regrets. My body bore the burden of time; my spirit bore the burden of silence – the things unspoken, the grief unprocessed, the divine wisdom unread.

Then one day, amidst the ache of a sleepless night, I felt it – a whisper not from the world, but from within: “Stop. Empty yourself. Let the healing begin.”

So, I began to fast.

Not with fear, not with force, but with reverence. I stepped into the ancient rhythm followed by sages, monks, mystics, and healers for millennia – the rhythm of emptiness that makes room for grace. For the first time in my life, I wasn't feeding my body—I was nourishing my soul.

The first 36 hours without food or water felt like crossing a desert barefoot. The body protested, the mind begged for distraction, but my heart stayed still. I watched old emotions rise and dissolve. I watched hunger turn into humility. And in that silence, I heard my son's laughter echo from memory—clearer than ever before.

Then came the next 36 hours, drinking only sacred liquids – coconut water, sugarcane juice, kanji fermented with love and sunlight. Each sip felt like medicine from Mother Earth, reconnecting me with ancestral wisdom that modern life had hidden under layers of convenience.

And through it all, I meditated. I sat under the sky, barefoot on the ground, whispering mantras, forgiving the past, thanking the breath. I wept. I smiled. I felt alive again.

What fasting gave me was not just a lighter body – it gave me a brighter soul. It cleansed more than my blood; it purified my intentions. I emerged not just detoxified, but reborn.

I learned that food is not just fuel – it's a relationship. Hunger is not the enemy – it is a guide. And silence is not emptiness – it is the space where God speaks.

Now, fasting is part of my sacred calendar. Every few months, I retreat into silence and stillness, offering my body as a temple, my time as an offering. Not to punish, but to purify. Not to deny, but to remember.

Because when the stomach is empty, the heart begins to sing.

To those of you who are tired, grieving, searching, aging – I invite you to fast with intention, not as a punishment, but as a pilgrimage. Let your body speak. Let your soul answer. And in that stillness, find your ikigai—not in the food you eat, but in the light that begins to return when you no longer run from yourself.

This is the sacred pause.
This is the beginning of peace.

📝 Blog 3: Filling the Emptiness – Nourishing the Forgotten Gut

Most people, in times of grief, turn to food—
But my grief stole even my hunger away.

After my beloved son—so mercilessly—left us and this world, food was no longer a joy but a burden.
The aroma of cooking tore my heart apart,
And an empty plate screamed his absence louder than words ever could.

But with time, I began to understand—
My body was speaking.
That hollow feeling was not born of emotions alone;
My intestines, my gut, my “second brain” was hurting too.

We often focus only on the soul and the mind,
But the very center of the body—the gut—is forgotten.

So I began to study—
The billions of microbes living in the gut,
Rulers of our moods, our memories, our decisions,
Even the tides of our emotions.
And I learned how grief, stress, indigestion—
All of them can shatter that inner world.

I decided—if I wished to fill my emptiness,
I must begin with the body itself.

And so began my journey into inner nourishment.

I started drinking kanji—
An ancient fermented water of carrot and beetroot,
Seasoned with cumin, hing, and rock salt,
Left under the sun for three days.
With every sip, I could feel life returning.

I changed my diet—
Filling it with probiotic and fiber-rich foods
To revive the gut’s forgotten garden.

I ate in silence—
Honoring every bite,
Offering gratitude with each chew.

And I realized—
It is not food alone,
But the mind too, that shapes the gut.

So I began meditation, breathwork,
And routines to restore balance.

The wonder was this—
As my gut began to heal,
My mind grew calmer.
And when the mind calmed,
Grief no longer shattered me—
It began to refine me.

Now, each morning, I honor my gut—
With warm lemon water,
With kanji,
With gentle yoga,
And with a heart brimming with gratitude.

In life, emptiness can sometimes feel endless—
But that very emptiness can be the path to wholeness.

If you ever feel tired, heavy, or lost,
Perhaps your gut, too, is trying to speak.
Listen to what it’s whispering.
Love it.
Nourish it.

Because when the deep inner emptiness is filled—
That is when life begins to bloom again.

📝 Blog 4: Love Beyond Borders – When Your Daughter Marries into a New World

There comes a moment in every parent’s life when we must loosen our grip—not because we love less, but because we love more. For me, that moment arrived on a gentle afternoon, wrapped not in tears, but in the quiet ache of a blessing. That was the day my daughter, my first child, married not just a man, but an entire world that was different from ours.

She fell in love with someone from across the ocean—from a land of skyscrapers, snowfalls, and freedom. He spoke a different language, ate different food, and bowed before a different set of gods. And yet, when I saw her eyes shine beside him, I knew: she had found her sky.

It wasn’t easy. I would be lying if I said it was.

There were unspoken fears—of losing her, of being forgotten, of seeing our rituals, our language, our values fade like old ink in the sun. There were nights I sat by the window, staring into the distance, wondering whether she still remembered the lullabies I sang when she was a child.

But slowly, something sacred unfolded.

From across continents, she called us every morning. On Dashain, she wore the red tika with tears in her eyes and her hand over her heart. When her daughter—my granddaughter—was born, she named her with a blend of both cultures: half Nepali, half American, all love.

Through her, I saw that home is not a single country. It is a feeling that travels.

Love, it turns out, does not need a visa. It does not wait for approval. It leaps, it trusts, it expands. And when it is real, it finds a way to honor all roots—not by clinging, but by blooming wider.

I have watched my daughter become not less Nepali, but more human. She now cooks dal-bhat beside tacos. She teaches her child “Namaste” in the same breath. She carries our traditions not as chains, but as wings.

And I?

I have grown, too.

I have learned that the world is not divided by flags—it is united by stories. That parenting does not end at the wedding altar—it transforms. That we raise children not to keep them, but to free them, knowing that in their joy, we are reborn.

Now, when I see them together—my daughter and her partner—I see not foreignness, but harmony. Not departure, but arrival. And in their child, I see a new Earth being born: one with no borders in the heart.

Yes, love took my daughter far. But it brought her closer than ever before.
And in that, I found peace.
A peace that whispers across oceans: She is happy. She is home.

🕉️ Blog 5: The Forgotten Joy – Rediscovering the Child Within

When was the last time you danced—without reason, without rhythm, just for the mood?

When was the last time you laughed—belly-aching, tears-in-eyes, like a child?

I look back at my past and see—a little boy, his eyes sparkling with wonder.

For whom swimming in the Narayani River was dearer than chairs and benches, whose mud-stained pants were a badge of pride,

and whose chocolate-smeared cheeks were his medal of honor.

That boy grew up with the scent of fields,

and at night, without a lantern, he’d bravely go to the neighbor’s house to study in their light.

The youngest of five brothers, yet the first to earn a formal education—

that was his life’s first victory.

But as I grew older, I drifted further from that boy.

The voices of life—“Behave properly,” “Be serious,” “Speak less,” “Earn something,” “Work, don’t play”—

slowly silenced his laughter, one by one.

Walking the long road of study and struggle in foreign lands,

becoming the unseen foundation of my wife’s political journey,

carrying my children to a secure future in America,

I locked life into a wooden box of “responsibility.”

But life dealt an invisible blow—my life’s very foundation shook.

At the age when he was to marry,

at 27, my son—my pride, my dream, my laughter—

was lost to the silent storm of bipolar disorder.

In that moment, all my plans, my discipline, and the walls of “success” crumbled.

That silent boy, who hadn’t spoken to me in years, whispered in my ear again—

“I’m still here. I still want you to play, to laugh, to find joy.”

And so, I turned inward again.

I began to dance—not outwardly, but within.

I started to paint—not just on canvas, but in dreams, in words, in actions.

I picked up the harmonium—never trained, but the moment my fingers touched the keys, my heart began to play.

I started singing songs and hymns—eyes welling up, yet immersed in emotions.

As I gave that boy a place in my life again, something miraculous happened—the world began to open up to welcome me.

Creativity returned, the roots of laughter sprouted, and that old friend, ease, came back.

Now, I still take on responsibilities—but with a child’s curiosity.

I still serve—but with a shadow of joy.

I still live—but with full presence.

If you’ve ever felt tired, empty, or merely “alive” but not truly “living”—

that’s the child within you, knocking at the door.

Open that door.

Dance.

Laugh.

Play the colorful game of life again.

It’s never too late—

that child is still there, waiting to welcome you,

just as he held me together

at the darkest turn of my life.

📘 Blog 6: In Search of Stillness – Meditation for a Restless Mind

The first day I sat down to meditate is still vivid in my mind.
A soft ray of sunlight slipped in through the window.
All around me, there was silence — but inside?
It was like rain falling on a pond, each drop scattering countless ripples across the surface.
Wave upon wave arose in my mind.

The more I tried to be still, the louder the voices became inside me:
“What will happen tomorrow?”
“What path will my children take?”
“What is my wife’s political future going to be?”
— and on and on.

After my son’s passing, this restlessness only deepened.
The moment I closed my eyes, his face appeared —
our joyful treks to Banthati, Ghorepani, and Shikh villages,
the quiet evenings in Tatopani when it was just the two of us,
the early-morning laughter as we took photos at Pokhara’s Lovely Danda,
his moments of joy, his moments of seriousness,
and the final day… a silence that swallowed everything.

Meditation was not peace for me —
it was standing face to face with my pain.
I feared closing my eyes,
worried that the wound would start bleeding again.

But my years in Japan had taught me a truth —
peace of mind never comes by force;
you must invite it in.

One day, in conversation with an elderly man I met in Sapporo,
he said to me:

“Meditation is not about driving thoughts away.
It’s about welcoming them in, offering them tea, and then letting them go.”

That day, I told myself:
“Alright. Even if you are restless, I won’t blame you today.
Run as wildly as you want in my mind.
I will simply sit and listen — patiently.”

In that moment, something strange happened.
Amid the crowd of thoughts, a small opening appeared —
a quiet gap I came to call my Stillpoint.
No voices. No stories. No pain.
Only the gentle rhythm of my breath — inhale, hold, exhale.

I began traveling with my breath:
inhale for four seconds, hold for four, exhale for four.
In time, it stretched naturally to sixteen–sixteen–sixteen.
It stopped feeling like effort,
and began to feel like a rhythm — a song my body already knew.

At first, I found only a few seconds of calm.
Then, those seconds became minutes.
Now, it’s more than a morning ritual —
it’s the foundation of my life.

Whenever my mind grows restless,
I close my eyes and look at the sky within —
clouds constantly moving,
yet the sky itself perfectly still.

Meditation has made me that sky — vast, silent, unshakable.

If your mind is restless,
it is not a fault — it is an invitation.
Set everything down for a moment,
take a deep breath,
and find your Stillpoint within.

That is where a new life begins —

📘 Blog 9: Quiet Festivity – Existence Surpassing Holidays

Long ago,

holidays represented a golden vision in my world—

a multicolored tapestry,

where each shade hummed melodies of affection, delight, and togetherness.

On Dashain's tika day,

my forehead fully covered with red rice grains all through the day,

Tihar's courtyard illuminated by the soft glow of lamps,

and the sky splashed with Holi's vibrant hues—

all these stirred waves of endless jubilation within my soul.

The excitement of sewing fresh outfits,

the enthusiasm for adorning the house with blossoms and wreaths,

moments spent amid the laughter circle of the entire extended clan,

savoring delicious treats—

those times when I could also rejoice in festivals alongside my wife, daughter, and son,

were the invaluable riches of my existence.

In our familial realm, holidays weren't merely calendar entries,

but a lively sanctuary of love and recollection.

However, this lovely tale of living suddenly crumbled under a brutal truth.

My 27-year-old son, who had been fighting bipolar disorder,

left this realm due to a merciless brain stroke.

In that instant, my heart split apart—

as if a storm plummeting from the skies had devastated my entire orchard of joy.

He embodied my radiance, my aspiration, the vital energy flowing in every inhale of mine.

Pursuing advanced studies in America,

the one I had lifted through paths of poverty, hardship, and self-sacrifice,

he departed quietly without warning.

My wife,

who was battling in Nepal's political arena for the rights of women and the exploited sufferers,

and I—we both shattered,

like an aged tree's limb breaking away from its base.

Submerged in this sea of grief,

we pondered: would our days now turn into nothing but a hollow narrative of reminiscences?

Following that,

holidays became a tormenting scar for us.

When Dashain arrived, the forehead meant for tika felt not just empty,

but soaked in blood— as though our son's absence stung with every breath.

Igniting Tihar's lamps brought not brightness,

but a sensation of darkness encircling us.

The sweet fragrance from the kitchen mingled with the aura of our son's laughter,

and each bite stirred up an ocean of tears.

For an extended period,

neither of us could endure those occasions.

The festivity's arriving cheer seemed like a poignant mockery to us—

a vacant chime that echoed only stillness.

The melody of happiness in our modest household ceased,

and a hush of tranquility settled over the home.

Yet, anguish revealed a fresh route to us—

much like the initial beam of the sun emerging from night's abyss.

We took a courageous step:

from now on, we wouldn't observe conventional holidays.

This wasn't fleeing, but rather a renewal of being.

We molded those occasions into a novel shape—

paths of seclusion, altruism, and self-reflection.

These days, during holiday periods, we wander to mountain summits,

where breezes bring echoes of our son and comfort our essence.

We head to orphan shelters to distribute food to those little ones,

whose pure grins let us savor the flavor of revived living.

Occasionally, we dwell in quietude—

in a profound state of contemplation,

where utterances cease and sentiments express themselves,

converting sorrow into thankfulness.

A few friends and family members ask:

“Have you completely abandoned your heritage?”

No, beloved friends and kin.

We have let go of the superficial layers of customs, while holding onto their deep core.

The genuine essence of holidays is affection, kinship, and reminiscence—

not restricted solely to dates or rituals.

This core thrives in every instant, like a stream that perpetually flows, no matter the weather.

This odyssey of my days—

rising from an impoverished peasant household,

becoming a doctor via education and scholarships,

pursuing studies in Japan and America,

and returning to the motherland post my son's parting to begin acts of giving—

has imparted this wisdom to me.

My Ikigai, that Japanese concept which bestows purpose on living,

is precisely this: transforming grief into power,

and brightening others' paths through benevolence.

I have led the construction of a new class-room building,

a solid wall fence, and sports field at my childhood institution,

and enhanced it with a vehicle purchased through my own toil and effort.

And now, I am dedicated for the coming 41 years—

to endeavors like serenity hubs, shrine enhancements,

elder care facilities, and neighborhood health centers.

All of this in tribute to my son, in appreciation of existence.

Nowadays, we have turned living itself into a dynamic jubilee.

Observing the emerging sun each dawn,

its golden beams scatter seeds of fresh optimism in our souls— as if a rebirth.

Dispensing every grin feels like a blossom unfolding, which illuminates the nearby gloom.

Whenever hope revives, it resembles a bird's soar, liberated and blissful.

Even amid hush, our souls murmur a harmonious tune—

a gentle harmony of fondness, a poignant note of recollection,

and an energetic beat of revival.

This tune instructs us: existence delves deeper than holidays,

it is a perpetual voyage where each stride contains significance,

each inhalation holds affection.

We are truly existing now—

a profound, purposeful way of being,

which bears the shade of sadness but is traversed by beams of brightness.

And this quiet festivity, this serene enthusiasm, persists every day, in every heartbeat—

like a stream carrying the enigmas of living, forever streaming.

Should you also partake in this voyage, keep in mind:

blossoms sprout precisely from anguish,

and authentic jubilation emerges from stillness.