The Law of Attraction

There is a law underlying everything we do, as constant as gravity and as merciful as sunlight. I have learned that it listens so closely to us, closer even than we listen to ourselves. It leans in, attuned not to what we say with our lips, but to the thrum beneath our ribs—the steady beat of our thoughts and feelings. Whatever we hum in that secret language, it answers.

For years I didn’t believe that. I thought life was fickle, that blessings landed on some people like rain and skipped others altogether. But if I look honestly, I see the trail of my own asking and the exactness of what came back. I remember times I said to myself in half-whispered prayers, “Please don’t let me fail.” But failure was the very drum I beat, day in and day out. I thought I was begging for safety, for assurance, but what I was really sending out was the vibration of failure itself. And sure enough, there it was, over and over, proving me right.

There was a time I feared loneliness more than anything. I wrapped myself in that fear like a shawl, rehearsed it in my mind, expecting it around every corner. And the law, faithful as always, handed me nights of quiet rooms, mornings of empty chairs. Not as punishment, but as a response. I hadn’t understood yet that fear is as potent an invitation as hope.

What still amazes me is that this law never once scolded me. It never told me to be more careful or chastised me for asking badly. It only gave, with the generosity of a parent who answers a child’s every request, even the ones the child doesn’t understand. That is the beauty of it: its constancy. Its willingness to say yes to whatever I am tuned to, whether or not I realize it.

The real shift came when I began to experiment, tentatively at first, with imagining what I wanted instead of what I feared. I remember lying awake one night, instead of chanting my usual litany of worries, I pictured the kind of peace I longed for. A home filled with laughter, a steady rhythm to the days, enough abundance to feel safe. I lingered in the sweetness of it, and something inside me softened. Within months, small changes unfolded—a friend offered help I hadn’t expected, opportunities arose from places I hadn’t thought to look. Life began to answer in kind, as if saying: finally, you’re asking in a language I can work with.

Now I try, clumsily but with growing steadiness, to live in harmony with this law. To notice what I am planting in the soil of my own thoughts. The soil doesn’t judge. It doesn’t pause to ask if I’m sure. It grows what I put into it. If I scatter seeds of fear, it delivers weeds. If I place the seeds of trust, compassion, abundance—those are what rise to greet me.

The law never changes. It is not waiting to trip me, nor to favor me over someone else. It is waiting for me to learn its music. And when I do, even for a moment, there’s a kind of relief, a realization that the universe has never once betrayed me. It has been faithful all along, answering my every wordless prayer. The only question is: will I become faithful too, in what I ask?

Hari Om  Tat  Sat