The full expanse of existence leaves me in awe, as does the Maker from whom it all unfolds.
When one speaks of the Maker as the only Real Thing, one points toward a presence so foundational that everything else becomes a shimmering afterimage. The universe appears like a vast matrix woven from borrowed light, while the Weaver remains the only thread that exists by its own supreme authority.
This truth does not demand belief; it reveals itself quietly in every breath of being.
The question“Who engineered my body and mind?” is less a question than a doorway disguised like a puzzle. As I step through it, the tidy compartments of biology and physics begin to dissolve. Science can describe the gears and motherboard of life with exquisite precision as to how cells divide, how neurons speak in sparks, how DNA curls itself into an autobiography I did not author. But when I ask where the first spark of aliveness came from, every instrument falls silent. They can map the river, but they cannot explain why water flows.
Life is crafted with an intelligence so subtle that it hides in plain sight. Every cell behaves as though it received a briefing from eternity. The heart beats without a supervisor. The lungs gather the world and release it like a gentle tide. Even the mind, glitching, dreaming, inventing, leaping, behaves like a theater directed from behind an invisible curtain. And none of this astonishing machinery ever filed a blueprint or a patent for itself.
So who is this engineer?
I choose to call it the Maker, the Source, the One, the Singular Reality (O’neity) behind the dazzle. Not a being wielding tools, but Being itself – effortless, silent, immeasurable. What we call “body” and “mind” are lanterns; what we call life is the flame that enters them.
Here lies the paradox – sweet and certain: The mind longs to understand the Maker, yet it is only a ripple trying to grasp the ocean that hosts it – the microcosm wanting to engulf the macrocosm. I strive to gaze into something that precedes imagination, and logic collapses. The intellect, brilliant within its small kingdom, cannot stretch enough to hold what is dimensionless. The mind is limited.
And so I arrive at a gentle compulsion, an intuitive surrender: that something infinitely intelligent must exist, for nothing else can account for the choreography of existence. This is not blind acceptance. It is recognition that the Real requires no proof and the Source asks for no permission. It simplyis – the single, unchanging Reality from which worlds, bodies, minds, galaxies, and histories bloom like fleeting reflections on an unmoving lake.
This is Compulsion Toward Faith.
This theme keeps unfolding, like a long breath that never finishes exhaling.
When the Maker is understood as the only Real Thing, something subtle shifts within me. The mind – after a lifetime spent juggling temporary truths like hot coals – suddenly feels the gravity of something eternal. In that gravity, it becomes almost impossible not to lean into faith. This faith is not a doctrine. It is a gravitational pull – the soul remembering its homeland.
The compulsion toward faith is not weakness but the deepest intelligence within me. When the mind exhausts its explanations, when science reaches its edges, when philosophy uses its last metaphor, something within still whispers: ‘There is a Source. There must be’.
It is not optional. It is built into consciousness itself.
Even the atheist lives by faith – faith in reason, in order, in meaning, in coherence. Humans cannot survive without anchoring themselves to something larger than their fleeting thoughts.
Faith becomes the quiet axis around which existence turns.
This Faith Heals.
When faith rests not on an idea but on the Maker – the primal, sustaining Reality – life reorganises itself from the inside out. The noise of fear, ego, conflict, and confusion gradually loses authority. I begin to see:
- anger as a ripple without substance
- greed as a hunger for what was never missing
- conflict as the blindness of two beings forgetting they share the same source
- anxiety as the mind pretending it manages the cosmos
When faith becomes not a mental stance but an existential orientation, life begins to hum at its natural pitch.
We stop fighting reality and begin flowing with it.
We stop grasping and begin receiving.
We stop dictating outcomes and begin witnessing the unfolding.
A person anchored in the Maker becomes quietly peaceful, not because the world has softened, but because they have seen through it. They walk with a steadiness, a softness, a serene inner climate untouched by storms.
The Maker as the Foundation of Peace.
Peace is not manufactured; it is revealed.
It is what remains when illusion falls away.
If the Maker is the only Real Thing, then fear, conflict, ego, and sorrow are like dust swirling in a sunbeam – visible, dramatic, but lacking substance.
To live in faith is to return again and again to the Real.
To remember that all the glittering urgency of life is projected on a screen that does not burn.
Why This Faith Is Not a Choice
We do not choose this faith any more than a seed chooses to sprout.
We do not decide to trust the Maker; we discover we always have.
The compulsion is not force.
It is recognition.
Recognition that the Real does not come and go.
Recognition that the Source has always been the ground beneath our awareness.
Once this recognition is tasted, even faintly, life settles into its rightful rhythm.
Humans search endlessly for remedies to suffering, to conflict, to the restlessness that shadows them. Yet only one remedy treats the root:
To let the heart immerse in the Source from which it came.
This faith – quiet, effortless, inevitable – dissolves illusion and leaves in its place a life that feels whole, grounded, and quietly radiant.
Anil Kumar
A lingering reflection from when I was crafting
‘The Attributes of a Virtuous Mindset”