There was a time in my life when my meditation practice extended beyond the cushion … and into my hands.

Years ago, before heading overseas for a meditation intensive, I felt a quiet pull to take something meaningful for my teacher. Not something bought, but something made.

I decided to handcraft a 108-bead mala.

The beads themselves had a story – black lava stone I had found in Bali, formed from volcanic rock deep within the earth. This is a protective stone believed to repel negativity with a grounding quality that comes from being created through powerful high pressured volcanic activity deep within the earth. I also found some old brass beads, which you often see in traditional Indian jewellery that looked simple and quietly beautiful.

At the time, my practice was quite intensive. There were daily sittings to record, reflection work, research assignments, and preparations for my travels. My mornings and afternoons were anchored in meditation, and in the evenings, I would sit down with my mala-in-progress.

Just a few beads at a time.

I remember feeling like I was fumbling my way through it; trying to remember what I had learned in a mala-making course that I’d only recently done (and loved!). I knotted and unknotted more times than I can count. Some nights I felt calm and focused … other nights I felt frustrated, and impatient, and ended in tears.

And yet, I kept returning.

Back to the breath.
Back to the thread in my hands.
Back to the next bead.

It was never going to be perfect. The knots weren’t always even. The spacing shifted. There were moments I wanted to start again completely.

But slowly, something softened.

I began to meet the process with a little more kindness.
A little more forgiveness.
A quiet understanding that what I was creating didn’t need to be flawless to be meaningful.

Somewhere along the way, it stopped being something I was trying to complete … and became part of my practice itself.

It became a ritual.

And in many ways, it taught me something I still come back to now – that our practice doesn’t live in just one place.

A regular, seated meditation give us a solid foundation or course. But it’s not the only way.

Practice can live in the small, repeated actions of your day.

In the way you make your morning tea.
In a slow, mindful walk.
In pausing for a breath before responding.
In lighting a candle at the end of the day.

These quiet rituals … they shape us. They bring a sense of steadiness, of presence, of returning – again and again – not unlike moving your fingers along the beads of a mala.

So if you’re moving through your own practice right now, I’d gently offer this:

There is more than one way.

And it doesn’t need to be complicated.

Sometimes, it’s simply about choosing one small, meaningful action … and meeting it with your full attention.

With kindness.
With forgiveness.
With care.

That’s where the practice begins to weave into your life.

xx Sarah