When Attention Learns to Drive the Car

When Attention Learns to Drive the Car Most human lives run on an unannounced autopilot. The body wakes up, the mind boots its usual software, and the day unfolds according to scripts written long ago—by parents, society, fear, ambition, survival instincts, and that unforgettable teacher who once said, “You’re not good at maths.” Even before the first cup of tea has cooled, the machinery is already humming. Thoughts appear. Reactions follow. Moods arrive uninvited. By evening, exhaustion sets in, not because life was difficult, but because it was unconscious. In this mode of living, attention behaves like a leaf in a river. Wherever the current of conditioning flows, attention is dragged along obediently. One thought leads to another, one emotion recruits a second, and soon the entire inner ecosystem is running a familiar soap opera. The characters change—boss, partner, neighbour, nation—but the plot remains stubbornly repetitive. Here’s the crucial principle: where attention goes, energy flows. Or at least that’s how it’s supposed to be. But as it happens, in an unconscious life, energy moves first. Old patterns surge up—desire, anxiety, resentment, pride, insecurity—and attention follows like a fascinated spectator. The pattern arises, grabs attention, feeds on it, strengthens itself, and politely leaves behind a deeper groove for next time. This is not a moral failure; it’s mechanical. Like gravity. Or like opening WhatsApp and somehow losing forty minutes without consenting to it. Conditioning is simply stored momentum. It is energy that has learned familiar routes through the nervous system and mind. These routes run below conscious awareness, which is why they feel so personal. “This is just how I am,” we say, mistaking habit for identity. Anger feels like my anger. Fear feels justified. Desire feels urgent. Attention, captured repeatedly by these energetic patterns, becomes enslaved without ever signing a contract. This is why most human suffering has a strange déjà vu quality. The circumstances differ, but the inner response feels recycled. The same emotional knots, the same mental arguments, the same post-event regrets. Energy keeps running the same tracks, and attention keeps obediently chasing it, convinced each time that this one is different. Awakening begins the moment this relationship starts to reverse. Through inquiry, meditation, devotion, self-observation, or the slow roasting heat of lived experience (tapas), something subtle is noticed: attention itself is a power. Not the strained, effortful attention of concentration—the kind that gives you a headache—but relaxed, present awareness. One sees that attention can be placed, sustained, and withdrawn. Energy no longer dictates terms automatically. The old patterns may still arise, but now they arise in attention, rather than owning it. At first, this discovery feels small, almost trivial. A brief gap between thought and reaction. A moment where anger appears, but does not immediately speak. A flash of fear that does not hijack the body. But these gaps are tectonic. They reveal that attention is not glued to energy by nature; it was glued by habit. This is the turning point. Energy used to say, “Look here.” Attention now replies, “No, you look here.” Initially, attention is weak and inconsistent, like a muscle that has been ignored for decades. It slips back into old patterns. It gets distracted. It forgets itself halfway through the day and wakes up again at night, wondering how the hours vanished. This is normal. Conditioning has seniority. It has been in charge for years. It does not resign politely. The mind protests. Old habits throw tantrums. The body asks why its favourite dramas are no longer being fed. Restlessness increases. Boredom appears. An odd sense of groundlessness may surface, because the familiar reference points—complaint, anticipation, rumination—are no longer being continuously reinforced. But gradually, something else emerges. A new intelligence. Attention becomes less reactive and more stable. It starts to lead rather than follow. Energy begins to reorganize around it. Emotional patterns still arise, but they burn less fuel. Thoughts still appear, but they no longer demand belief. Desire still visits, fear still knocks, pleasure still charms—but none of them run the household. This reversal—from energy dragging attention to attention guiding energy—is the practical core of awakening. It is not mystical in the escapist sense. It is deeply functional. Life does not become quieter because nothing happens; it becomes quieter because nothing unnecessary is amplified. This inner shift is not merely psychological. It is archetypal. Indian spiritual symbolism captured it with startling precision long before brain scans tried to explain it in PowerPoint slides. In the iconography of Kali standing over Shiva, we are not being shown a scene of dominance, punishment, or violence. We are being shown a map of consciousness. Kali represents Shakti—raw energy, movement, time, life-force, the unstoppable pulse of becoming. She is birth, decay, desire, destruction, creativity, terror, ecstasy. Everything that moves. Shiva represents pure awareness—still, silent, ungraspable, unchanging. He is not inactive; he is non-reactive. He does not interfere. He witnesses. In unconscious life, Shiva lies inert. Awareness is present, but unused, like a smartphone only ever employed as a paperweight. Energy runs wild, unconscious, repetitive. It dances endlessly, but blindly. Creation continues, but without freedom. Kali standing over Shiva shows energy recognizing awareness. She is not crushing Shiva; she is awakening him. Her foot on his chest is not an act of suppression but a shock of recognition. The moment Shiva realises his own existance, the entire cosmos rearranges itself. Energy is no longer blind. Awareness is no longer passive. They begin to move as one. This image is deeply misunderstood when read morally or socially. It has nothing to do with power struggles or hierarchy. It is about alignment. When awareness is absent, energy dominates. When awareness is present, energy serves. In human terms, this means that emotions no longer dictate behaviour blindly. Thoughts no longer impersonate truth automatically. Sensations no longer demand immediate response. Attention holds them, illuminates them, and allows energy to express itself intelligently. This is why many Mahavidya forms depict fierce energy paired with still awareness. They are not asking the seeker to destroy energy, suppress desire, or transcend the body. They are pointing toward integration. Energy is not the enemy. Unconscious energy is. A human being fully awakens not when energy disappears, but when Shiva(attention/awareness) and Shakti (energy) become one—when awareness and energy are no longer split into watcher and chaos. Action flows, but without compulsion. Stillness is present, but without withdrawal. At this stage, life becomes oddly simple and profoundly alive. Decisions arise without excessive inner debate. Action happens without the heavy sense of a personal doer dragging it forward. Effort remains, but friction reduces. Even suffering, when it appears, is clean. It does not multiply through resistance and storytelling. This is often where confusion arises. People imagine awakening as passivity or detachment from life. In reality, it is the end of inner sabotage. Energy, no longer leaking into unconscious loops, becomes available for clarity, creativity, and compassion. Attention, no longer fragmented, becomes naturally steady. One still feels anger—but it does not linger. One still experiences desire—but it does not enslave. One still encounters fear—but it does not paralyse. Everything arises, but nothing overstays its welcome. This union also dissolves the sense of being a separate doer. Actions happen, words are spoken, choices are made—but the heavy psychological claim of “I am doing this” loosens. Life feels less like something you are pushing through, and more like something that is unfolding through a clear channel. This is why awakening is often described not as acquiring something new, but as ending a misunderstanding. Awareness was always present. Energy was always active. What changes is who leads the dance. When Shiva and Shakti become one, there is no longer a tug-of-war between silence and movement, meditation and life, spirituality and humanity. The human being becomes a conscious expression of energy, arising in awareness guided by ‘Viveka’, rather than a bundle of reactions pretending to be a person. At that point, life stops feeling like something that happens to you. It feels like something that moves through you, a sense of control without controlling. Attention rests in itself. Energy serves intelligence (Viveka). And the ancient image stops being mythological and starts feeling embarrassingly literal—like a user manual you somehow ignored while complaining about the product. The wild goddess was never the problem. The sleeping god was.