🧆 The Falafel Heresy — Why Form Is a Wonderful Servant (and a Terrible Master)

 

Yesterday, I found myself laughing while eating falafel. 😹​

A sentence that, at first glance, does not sound like the beginning of a great revelation... No thunder. No lightning. No ancient scroll falling from the sky.

Just me, sitting there with my ridiculously delicious food.

But somehow, my falafel had started a very serious philosophical conversation. Because I had done something slightly outrageous:

I had changed its shape.
Instead of making round falafel balls, I had made little bars.

Not because I wanted to rebel against tradition.
Not because I thought:
"Finally, after centuries of falafel making, 
I will discover the true falafel."

But because I wondered:

What if I stopped asking 
what falafel was supposed to be?
What if I simply asked: 

"What would serve this meal best?"

Not the tradition.
Not the expectation.

Just this moment.

This little creation I wanted to make.
This wrap I had been dreaming about.

Was it easier?
Honestly... not really. 😸​

The round version probably would have been the easier option.
But then again... it would have given me less crispy surface.
And crispy edges are a serious matter!

Somehow, this shape was exactly what the wrap needed:

The spaces between the pieces created little places for the vegetables and all the other ingredients to join the meal.

I was not trying to invent a new falafel...
I was simply allowing the form 
to serve what I wanted to create.

But suddenly I had this funny thought:

Could I still call it falafel? 
Or had I committed some kind of tiny culinary heresy?

Would an invisible Falafel Council appear and say:

"Excuse me... Falafel is round!"
"Who gave you permission to change the form?"

And the more I thought about it, the more I laughed.

Because underneath this playful question was a very human one:
How often do we mistake the form for the essence?

🍵​ The Cup, The Recipe, And The Thing They Were Always Meant To Carry

Forms are beautiful.
They truly are.

Without forms, how could anything be shared?

• A song needs notes.
• A poem needs words.
• A cup needs a shape before it can hold tea.
• A spiritual tradition needs stories, symbols, practices and teachings so that something one person experienced can become an invitation for another.

Forms are not the enemy.

They are a gift.
They carry things.
They preserve things.
They help us remember.

The problem begins when we forget what they were carrying.

When the cup becomes 
more important than the tea.
When the recipe becomes 
more important than the meal.

And maybe the funny thing is:
We humans do this everywhere.

Can Something Look Different And Still Carry The Same Essence?

Maybe this is why we have always searched for the "right" way.

• The right religion.
• The right interpretation.
• The right practice.
• The right teacher.
• The right understanding of God.

And believe it or not...

I have even had a passionate discussion about the "right" falafel recipe years ago. Because apparently, we humans can turn almost anything into a question of correctness.

There is something beautiful about this.

The longing for truth is sacred.
The desire to understand is sacred.
The wish to protect something precious can come from love.

But sometimes, very quietly, something changes...
The search for truth starts creating the very separation we wanted to overcome.

Suddenly we are no longer simply asking:
"What brings me closer to love?"

We start asking:
"Who is correct?"
"Who understands?"
"Who has the right interpretation?"
"Who is following the real path?"

So maybe the deepest irony is this:
We can become so busy defending the truth...
that we forget to live the love the truth was pointing toward.

📋​ When Does The Heart Begin Turning Wisdom Into A Checklist?

I have seen this pattern in many places.
In spirituality.
In religion.
In communities.
And I have seen it in myself.

Because this is not a story about "those people."
This is a very human story...

We all know the comfort of belonging to something.

• A practice.
• A philosophy.
• A tradition.
• An identity.

"I am vegan."
"I understand scripture correctly."
"I have studied this, that and the other."
"I practice yoga every day."

All these things can be beautiful.
They can come from compassion, 
devotion and a sincere longing for truth.

But maybe the deeper question is not:
"How perfectly do I hold the form?"

Maybe the question is: 
"What does this form create in my heart?"

• Does it make me more loving?
• More humble?
• More compassionate?
• More able to see another human being?

Because if something truly 
brings us closer to the Divine...
shouldn't the heart become more spacious?

Jesus said:

"These people honor me with their lips, 
but their hearts are far from me."
— Matthew 15:8

I find this incredibly powerful.

Jesus uses words that were already ancient in his own time to remind people of something timeless. The sentence he speaks is not a new idea. He quotes the prophet Isaiah — a voice from generations before him.

And the Upanishads offered a similar reminder:

Nāyam ātmā pravacanena labhyo
na medhayā na bahunā śrutena. (...)
— Katha Upanishad 1.2.23
(also found in a closely related form in the Mundaka Upanishad 3.2.3) 

The Self is not attained 
through eloquent speech,
nor through intellect,
nor through much hearing. (...)

Maybe that is part of the mystery:

So many of the deepest truths 
have been spoken again and again 
throughout human history.

Different languages.
Different cultures.
Different cups.

But perhaps the tea was never new.
The wisdom was never meant to belong to
one person, one tradition, or one perfect wording.

The form changes.
The invitation remains.

Jesus does not reject the words 
that came before him.
He brings them back to life 
by returning them to the heart.

The words were never empty.
The traditions were never empty.

The invitation was always to notice the distance ...

Between the outside and the inside.
Between the lips and the heart.
Between the cup and the tea.

Because truth cannot only become something we collect.

At some point... we have to taste it.

​🗣️​ Can The Same Words Open And Close The Same Heart — Depending On Who Speaks Them?

One of the most humbling experiences of my life happened with my mother:

During a very intense time, something fundamental inside me changed.

My relationship with fear.
Especially my relationship with the fear of death.
Something suddenly became lighter...

I felt a freedom I had never experienced before.

And naturally, I talked about it.
But my mother experienced something completely different:

She was afraid.
And looking back, I understand her.
Because love can become afraid.

Especially when someone we love 
enters a place we do not understand.

From my perspective, 
something felt like freedom.
From hers, 
something felt dangerous.

And then, only two or three days later, 
something almost funny happened.

I visited her and saw the book she was reading.
A book by Yogi Bhajan.

I opened it randomly.
Just a few pages.
And I chuckled...

Because so many sentences expressed 
almost exactly what I had been saying.

The same ideas.
The same direction.
The same essence.

And suddenly I saw something so human:
The words were not different.
They were almost identical.

Only the relationship 
to the person carrying them 
was different.

When her child said them, they created worry.
When a spiritual teacher said them, they created inspiration.

Humans are fascinating creatures...

We don't only hear words.
We hear through our relationships.
Through our roles.
Through our expectations.

And maybe this was another gift hidden inside this experience:

🌱 Can I Offer A Seed And Accept That It Won’t Grow Everywhere?

Maybe not every seed 
needs to be planted everywhere.

Not because truth should be hidden.
Not because we should become silent.

But because love also asks:

🌾​ Is this the right soil? 🌾​

A seed can be precious.
But even the most beautiful seed 
cannot bloom in every moment, 
in every place, or in every season.

Sometimes love speaks.
Sometimes love listens.
Sometimes love simply protects something quietly until the right moment comes.

🧆​ The Falafel Lesson Comes Back

And here I am...
Creating a form to remind myself not to get too attached to forms.

Using words.
Choosing sentences.
Editing.
Searching for the "right" expression.

Maybe the universe has a sense of humor.
Maybe my rectangular falafel was simply a tiny reminder.

Not: "Stop writing."
Not: "Stop sharing."
Not: "Stop creating."

But: "Remember why you create."

Because there is a difference between 
sharing something from love...
and trying to make someone else 
finally see what I see.

The first is an offering.
The second is a burden.

For me, this is one of the deepest lessons:

People do not need to be saved as much 
as they need to be loved.
...including the person writing these words. 🥲​

Of course I can share.
Of course I can help.
Of course I can speak when something matters.

But love does not drag...
Love invites.

And a loving invitation does not guarantee agreement.

Even Jesus was misunderstood.
Even Gandhi was attacked.

Love means 
we do not lose our heart 
when disagreement appears.

Sometimes the most loving thing we can do
is to leave the door open...

and trust that life knows how to keep inviting.

​​🎁​ The Gift That Was Already Given

Years ago, I saw a funny sign at a gas station:

"We have everything you need.
And what we don't have, you don't need."

I laughed. Because I immediately thought:

Maybe nature has been saying this to us all along.

The tree does not need a philosophy before it grows.
The bird does not need permission before it sings.
The flower does not need a certificate before it blooms.

Life is already giving.
Always.

And maybe this is something we forget.
We create so many beautiful things:

• Teachings.
• Practices.
• Scriptures.
• Traditions.
• Ways of understanding.

They are water and light.
They nourish us.
They guide us.
They help us remember.

But they are not the source itself.

The garden existed before the fence.
The river existed before the map.
The flower existed before the name.

🌸 Can I Recognize Life Even When It Blooms Differently?

Maybe this is also why Paul wrote:

"Test everything; hold fast what is good."
— 1 Thessalonians 5:21

I love this sentence because it holds such a beautiful balance.

It does not say:
"Accept everything without reflection."

But it also does not say:
"Reject everything that looks unfamiliar."

There is an invitation here:
Look.
Listen.
Discern.
Stay open.
Take what brings life.
Release what does not.

Maybe traditions were never meant to become statues.
Maybe they were always meant to be gardens.
Because gardens are alive.

They grow.
They change.
They adapt.
They find new ways to bloom.

And maybe this is one of the greatest challenges on a spiritual path:

To love the path 
that has nourished us 
without believing 
that it is the only way 
life can nourish someone else.

Because life is so much more creative than our minds often allow.

We sometimes look at a doorway and say:
"Surely, nobody will ever find something sacred through there."

And then life quietly surprises us.

• Maybe someone discovers yoga through "beer yoga" at a festival.
• Maybe someone enters a spiritual community only because of a sauna.
• Maybe someone first encounters stillness, connection or a deeper question through something we ourselves would never have chosen.

And yes...
Maybe neither sauna nor beer is the destination.

But what if they can become the doorway?

What if someone who would never have entered a traditional yoga class experiences their first moment of presence through an unexpected invitation?

And who are we to decide which doors the Sacred is allowed to use?

Perhaps this is where humility begins...

Not by saying: "Everything is equally deep."
Not by saying: "Nothing matters."

But by remembering:
"I do not know all the ways love can reach a human heart."

The flower does not apologize for blooming differently from another flower.
The river does not ask whether its path is traditional enough.
The tree does not compare its roots with the roots of another tree.

It simply grows.
It simply participates.
It simply expresses life.

Maybe we are invited to do the same.

• To cherish the forms that have carried wisdom to us.
• To create new ones when needed.
• To share what has nourished us.

But always remembering:
The garden was never meant to become a statue.
It was meant to remain alive.

🫖​ The Tea Is Always Waiting

Maybe the question was never:
"Which cup is the correct one?"

Maybe it is:
"Are we drinking the tea?"

Different paths were never 
different drinks fighting over the same cup.

They may simply be different cups.
Different shapes.
Different colors.

Each one holding something 
that cannot be owned 
by any one container.

Maybe truth never needed us to defend it.
Maybe it was only ever inviting us to recognize it.

Not only in words.
Not only in teachings.

But in the place where every true teaching eventually points:

💚 The heart. 💚

And yes...

I think my falafel was still falafel.

After all, changing its shape did not 
change what it was made of.

Although, now that I think about it...
While eating it, I did not even need a definition.

I did not need a committee to confirm its identity.
I simply tasted it.

The Chickpeas were there.
The Spices were there.
The Nourishment was there.

Only when I wanted to put 
the experience into words 
did I need a name for it.

And maybe that is the little joke hidden in all of this:

The form helps us share an experience.
But the form is never the experience itself.

A name can point to something beautiful.
But the name does not create the beauty.

The cup can hold the tea.
But the cup was never the reason 
we gathered around the table.

❤️💛💚

Peace, Pow & Play ✨

Namast’ay Wild!

And every now and then...
have a sip of tea.
Or try a rectangular falafel.

Yours and mine,

I & I (Tea and Falafel) 🦁