Can True Peace be Practiced?

As interest shifts from a purely theoretical or intellectual understanding—whether of peace, totality, or our true nature—to a direct, lived experience or experiential clarity, the idea of practice frequently takes on greater significance. This is often rooted in the belief that transformation—whether of the mind, perception, or spiritual realization—occurs through repeated and disciplined effort.

Close-up view of a serene meditation space with candles and soft lighting

Unlike Western philosophical traditions, which emphasize reasoning and debate, many Eastern traditions root knowledge in direct experience. In Buddhism, prajñā, and in Hinduism, jñāna—often translated as knowledge or understanding—carry an implicit experiential dimension, perhaps closer to what we would call wisdom.

A simple definition of practice is “to engage in an activity regularly to develop mastery.” In Hindu and yogic traditions, spiritual growth is often seen as a process of gradual purification and liberation (moksha), typically associated with steady progress through sustained effort—much like the Buddha’s path to nirvana.

The emphasis and necessity of practice is also closely tied to how these traditions understand the workings of the mind—functioning through habitual patterns, or in other words, conditioning. Nearly all of us, if not all, carry unconscious habits of attention that contribute to suffering, both personally and for those around us. Since these patterns operate unconsciously, they are not a matter of deliberate choice but rather the result of conditioning and early-life experiences, including inherited or acquired trauma.

In this view, recognizing and clearing these deeply ingrained mental tendencies—referred to as vasanas in Vedanta—or purifying the mind is seen as essential for attaining true peace.

Have we ever been so lost in thought that we didn’t notice an obstacle while walking and ended up bumping into it? Or have we ever been so caught up in a situation that our attention became fixated on solving, fixing, or changing it—leaving us almost completely oblivious to our surroundings and the life unfolding around us? Delightful, isn’t it?

Such moments reveal how easily our attention can become trapped or fixated in mental loops, narrowing our awareness of what is actually happening. Those are examples of the play of ingrained mental tendencies that many traditions describe as obstacles to fulfillment. To address them, a wide range of meditative techniques have been developed to slow down habitual and often compulsive thinking patterns, fostering greater vigilance so that attention is not constantly pulled into the stream of thoughts.

Meditative practices often provide a moment of refreshment—a silent transformation in how we move through life, revealing the possibility of a more loving and peaceful way of being. But is experiencing peace in short intervals, like a 30-minute break in our day, truly enough? How much, or how often, would we want it? And could we sustain meditation for long periods while remaining functional in a society that doesn’t particularly value stillness?

If the intention is to experience peace continuously, surely unbroken meditation would seem preferable to an intermittent practice. But if meditation requires a specific posture, closed eyes, repeating a mantra, controlled breathing, or any effort to control our experience, how many of us would realistically be able to sustain it? Why is that? One way to look at it is that such practices are often associated with effort, and for most of us, effort comes with a limit—until exhaustion inevitably takes over.

So, can effort or the attempt to control our experience truly lead to lasting peace? And do we even have real control over it?

Since this habit may be so deeply ingrained that we barely notice it, it’s worth exploring in our own direct experience. How does the act of trying to control feel? Does it carry the underlying sense that something should be different—that what is here shouldn’t be, or that something missing should be? Or does it manifest as an inner narrative, like: “If only I could [fill in the blank], then I would…”?

This inquiry seems essential to recognizing our actual experience of the present moment. After all, it doesn’t take much for contentment to shift into a feeling of “this moment is not enough.” As Isaac Shapiro once jokingly put it, “I do not agree with what is happening and I refuse to be happy until it changes.”

But if trying to control doesn’t bring peace, how do we stop?

This is where it gets tricky—because any deliberate attempt to stop would itself become another layer of control, just in a more subtle form. H. W. L. Poonja once said “Effort is bondage. Effortlessness is freedom.” Ramana Maharshi put it in similar words, “Peace is your natural state. It is only your efforts to attain it that disturb it.”

More recently, Alan Watts, the philosopher and writer, offered an intriguing insight on this: “When we see that doing something about our situation is not going to help us, and trying not to do anything about it is also not going to help us, where do we stand?” His conclusion: “We are simply reduced to watching.”

This is why many teachers of insight and voices of wisdom emphasize the importance of “letting go,” “dropping everything,” “stopping,” and similar invitations—to allow this moment to be received in its totality, just as it is.

In the complete openness to what is in this very moment, there might be a big shift in the way we experience things. Before we go on to the next page, should we give it a try?

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If you did pause and look, do you sense any difference in your experience? Was it easy to simply pause and contemplate, or did you feel an initial impulse to keep reading? Did you get any value from pausing?

At this point, another relevant inquiry is: “If it were up to me, would I consciously choose not to savor this moment in its Totality?” Unconsciously, it may seem like there's no problem with it – since that is how it plays – but who would choose to voluntarily be overtaken by contraction, suffering, harm, or even obliviousness to the beauty around us? If it were truly our choice, would we pick that? And if we’re not choosing it, how does it happen? Does it play by our doing, or does it unfold on its own?

As Isaac wisely puts it: “When something is happening automatically and unconsciously, who is doing it? What does that mean about you? Typically, it is taken personally, automatically. But does taking it personally assist in any way? Often, when it brings a sense of unease, there is an automatic urge to fix, change, or eliminate it. Does that wanting to change, fix, or get rid of it help, or is it a hindrance?”.

So, if a practice is tied to the idea of fixing, changing, eliminating, or even subtly controlling our experience, can it truly lead to Peace? With this kind of approach, the more we try to grasp it, the further it seems to slip away. But if we deeply recognize that neither doing something nor trying to do nothing will bring peace, what remains?

This recognition leads to a powerful question: What is left when we stop striving—when we release all effort to alter the present moment? What remains may not be something to achieve, but something that naturally reveals itself when we no longer resist. Perhaps, in that surrender or getting out of our own way, we come to see that True Peace was never something to reach for, but something that has always been here, obscured only by our attempts to attain it.

Yet, if practice is not about achieving a state but about returning to the simplicity of being—untainted by the impulse to control or manipulate experience —then Peace, it turns out, is not a destination reached through effort; it is a recognition, a natural state that becomes apparent when struggle ceases.

In the end, the true inquiry is not “What can we do to find peace?” but rather, “What remains when we stop seeking?” And in that stillness, we may discover that peace was never absent—only unnoticed.