Young Souls and an Afternoon of Painting White Flowers

Growing up is not a milestone. It doesn’t happen the day we turn 18, or 30, or 60. It doesn’t come with degrees, titles, assets, or even years of experience. To me, growing up is a quiet journey – A process of slowly learning not to be startled by every little thing that life brings. Learning to accept. And then, learning something even harder: to receive. To receive things as they are, without adding expectations, without pushing back, without trying to reshape them.

There are people who live to the end of their lives still carrying hearts full of resentment, reactions, and resistance. But there are also people, still very young, who already possess a sense of calm in how they see, how they speak, and how they simply show up. That, to me, is maturity. And perhaps even a quiet kind of awakening.

Last week, I had the chance to spend time with three young people like that. Two of them are American, and one is Vietnamese, who has lived in the U.S. since she was fourteen. All three are just entering their twenties – that tender age so often labeled as impulsive, superficial, overly fast-paced, addicted to social media, lacking in depth. But what I saw in them was the exact opposite.

One of the American friends had read almost all of Thich Nhat Hanh’s books. He didn’t just read; he remembered full passages – both prose and poetry. When I mentioned a particular book, he recited lines from it as though they had long since become part of his body, part of his memory. He doesn’t use social media. When he speaks, he looks you in the eye. He asks sincere questions, not small talk. And he can sit with a story – eally listen – without needing to interrupt, without rushing to relate it back to his own experience or “empathize” by offering a version of it from his life.

I was moved. Partly because I felt a quiet ease – like finding resonance in a real conversation. But more than that, I felt grateful. I was witnessing a generation that is very different from the one often portrayed in the media. I saw in them a maturity that wasn’t worn-out, an awakening without arrogance, and a peace that felt as natural as breath.

At one point, I told one of the three: “I’m honestly thankful. In a world full of noise, urgency, and very real worries – it’s rare to be able to sit with someone and just listen to each other. Fully. Quietly. Humanly.”

Of course, I understand they are unique. I don’t expect all young people to be like them. But perhaps because they are rare, their presence feels all the more meaningful to acknowledge.

My own son is a few years younger than they are. He’s still fully immersed in being his age – excited, curious, driven to prove himself, passionate about beauty, technology, and the wider world. And that’s completely natural. I don’t wish for him to “grow up too soon” or to become “wise beyond his years.”

I once told a dear younger relative in our family: “I’m not in a hurry for you to understand something before you’re ready. People can’t truly let go until they’ve held on tight. And it’s only when what we’re holding begins to hurt us – when we can’t bear the weight anymore – that we understand what it really means to release.”

Still, I remember a small moment that stayed with me. A few years ago, my son was working on a school project where he had to make a vlog reviewing a book. And the book he chose was The Power of Now by Eckhart Tolle. I never got to see the video. Maybe he said something very simple, maybe he didn’t understand the full meaning of the book yet, or maybe he just picked it because it “sounded interesting.” But to me, that was a sign. A quiet spark. A seed.

And I believe, even if it’s not today, or five years from now – or even ten – that seed will grow.
At some point, my son – and many other young people – will begin to ask deeper questions about existence, about the meaning of life, about awakening. And when that time comes, I hope they’ll know they’re not alone.

Because moments like this past week, conversations like the ones we shared – are quiet markers.
They whisper that a new kind of world is already forming. Quietly. Gently. Beneath the surface.

I’ve always believed that when someone no longer has to worry about their next meal, their rent, or basic survival – then the spiritual life begins to unfold naturally. When a person is given space to pause, to breathe, to ask themselves questions without the pressure of deadlines or external expectations – then they’ll begin to wonder: Who am I, really? What am I here for? What truly matters?

Our generation – those of us who were raised in the aftermath of war, or during times of rapid societal change – may not have had much room to ask those questions. We were busy. We were bracing ourselves. We were afraid of being left behind. And in the midst of all that, we set our spiritual lives aside – sometimes for decades.

So when I see young people today – even just a few – who are able to sit still, listen deeply, and reflect on their own being at such a young age, it moves me deeply. This is not maturity as performance. This is something softer. A quiet growing-up from within.

On one of the afternoons during their visit, I found myself sitting down to paint. Not to capture anything specific, not to record a memory. I wasn’t thinking. I just picked up the brush and painted – as I often do when something inside me feels quietly full.

The result was a white flower.

When I stepped back and looked at it, I realized that everything from those conversations had found its way into the painting. Not as symbols. Not as messages. Just presence. A quiet afternoon. A feeling of being connected without needing to say too much.

I didn’t assign it meaning. But I knew what it was: A greeting. A silent thank you. And perhaps, a gentle reminder – That if we can, we should hold onto that part of the soul that is still pure. Even if the world around us keeps changing its colors.