An Easter Egg and the Silence from Which All Paths Arise

„For the cosmic consciousness, which is not limited by the ego,
there is nothing separate from itself, and it is simply aware.
That is what the Bible means by 'I am that I am.“

Ramana Maharshi (1879–1950)

"Would you like an egg as well?"

"Would you like an egg as well?", the pharmacist asks me – and leaves me speechless for a brief moment. "Oh, I see…", I smile, as I notice the hard-boiled Easter egg in her hand, and politely decline.

Yes, it is Easter. The highest Christian holiday – and I am here in my home country, Germany.

In Christianity, the egg became a symbol of resurrection: just as a chick hatches from its hard shell, so Christ is said to have risen from the tomb. But there was also a very practical reason behind the tradition: in the Middle Ages, eating eggs was forbidden during Lent – yet the hens kept laying faithfully regardless. The eggs that had accumulated were then cooked and painted in bright colors at Easter, marking the end of Lent, to distinguish them from fresh ones.

The owner of the fruit and vegetable shop in my town is of Turkish descent. He told me that in Turkey, and in several other Muslim countries, there is also a beautiful tradition of placing colorfully painted eggs on the festive table at Nowruz – the Persian New Year, the beginning of spring. This is known as the Haft-Sin table.

Two different religions, and yet so many points of connection.

As I reflected on this, a conversation with a dear friend and meditation student from a few days earlier came to mind.

She was raised in a devout Christian household and goes to church regularly, also praying at home with her family. This faith gives her deep grounding.

In my last meditation class, I spoke about how meditation, at its core, means nothing other than becoming aware of the "I am" – our deepest being, resting behind all the objects of life. This "I am" is the still, pure awareness that underlies all thoughts, feelings and perceptions.

Something surprised my student – as it does so many meditators: this "I am" is not an invention of modern meditation teachers. It is not a concept that arose in Indian ashrams and was then exported to the Western world. It is, rather, an insight that people in all cultures, in all ages, and in all great spiritual traditions have arrived at – independently of one another, and yet in remarkable agreement.

This agreement is no coincidence. It points to the fact that the "I am" is not a religious or cultural construction, but a direct description of what awaits anyone who dives deeply enough into their own inner silence.

The Oldest Source in the West

One of the earliest and most striking pieces of evidence is found in the Old Testament – in the Book of Exodus, Chapter 3. Moses stands before the burning bush and asks God for his name. The answer he receives is no ordinary introduction. God replies: "I am that I am" – in Hebrew, Ehyeh asher Ehyeh. And he continues: "Thus you shall say to the Israelites: 'I am' has sent me to you."

These words have occupied theologians for millennia. But for anyone familiar with the experience of pure awareness, they ring immediately familiar. God does not give a name, nor a title. He identifies himself as pure being – as the unconditional "I am" that requires no further explanation.

It is the same experience that Ramana Maharshi, the great Indian meditation teacher, described millennia later, when he invited his students to follow the question "Who am I?" all the way to its source – to that still point where only the pure "I am" remains.

The Mystical Heart of All Traditions

What the Old Testament hints at is expressed even more explicitly in other traditions.

In Hinduism, arguably the oldest living spiritual tradition in the world, non-duality is not a fringe phenomenon but the very heart of the Upanishads. "Tat tvam asi" – "That art thou" – is one of the great declarations of the Chandogya Upanishad. The meaning: the universal consciousness underlying all things, and the individual awareness you experience in meditation, are not two different things. They are one and the same.

In Buddhism, this is expressed with greater caution – the Buddha deliberately avoided metaphysical statements about a "self". And yet the experience he points toward moves in the same direction. In Dzogchen, the deepest teaching of Tibetan Buddhism, Rigpa is described – a pure, non-dual awareness that has always already been present, and which meditation does not create but merely recognizes. In Zen, one speaks of Kensho or Satori – the direct recognition that the felt separation between the individual and the whole is an illusion. The words differ; the experience is the same.

Islam, too, knows this heart – outside its orthodox center, in Sufism. The Andalusian mystic Ibn Arabi taught in the 12th century the Wahdat al-Wujud, the "Unity of Being": all that exists is a manifestation of the Divine, and the perceived separateness is nothing but a veil. Even more directly, Al-Hallaj expressed it with the words "Ana'l-Haqq" – "I am the Truth", "I am God". This declaration cost him his life in 922. In its directness, it is barely distinguishable from "Aham Brahmasmi" – "I am Brahman" – the central declaration of Advaita Vedanta.

In Christianity, the same heart is found above all in the mystical tradition. Meister Eckhart, the German Dominican of the 13th century, expressed it with a clarity that still moves us today: "The eye through which I see God is the same eye through which God sees me." He too was treading at the edge of what the Church could tolerate – for these words allow no absolute separation between the one who prays and the one who is prayed to. In the Gospel of John, Jesus himself says: "I and the Father are one."

The mystical Kabbalah of Judaism describes Ein Sof – the boundless Divine from which everything arises and to which everything returns. And Taoism, finally, in the simple language of Laozi, points to the Tao – that nameless principle underlying all things, which, the moment it is named, has already been missed.

What This Means for Our Practice

This agreement across all cultures and centuries is more than an interesting historical observation. It is an invitation – and a profound encouragement.

What you experience in the silence of your meditation, when thinking grows still and only pure awareness remains, is not some exotic experience reserved for a particular belief system. It is the deepest experience human beings are capable of – and it has been made in all times and on all continents. Sometimes it was called "God", sometimes "Brahman", sometimes "Tao", sometimes "Rigpa", sometimes "Unity of Being". But the experience itself – the still, pure "I am" that needs no further attributes – is recognizable in all of these descriptions.

And this also means: when you encounter this silence in meditation, you are not alone. You are entering a space that countless people before you have entered. A space without boundaries – neither religious, nor cultural, nor temporal. It has always been there. It is the "I am" that Moses heard, that Ramana explored, that Meister Eckhart saw, and that Laozi described without ever being able to name it.

It is what you are.

My dear friend told me that this realization brings her great comfort – to feel that her church, like all religions, shares the same universal root, despite all outward differences.

Outward forms and institutions may sometimes obscure the view of what truly matters – and sadly, they have all too often worked toward division. But the core is the same for all religions and all people.



Perhaps you too will remember this in the days ahead, whenever you see a brightly colored Easter egg.

With all my love,

Heiko