Maybe it's like becoming one with the cigar. You lose yourself

Hear the reflective words of Raul Julia, who mused: “Maybe it’s like becoming one with the cigar. You lose yourself in it; everything fades away: your worries, your problems, your thoughts. They fade into the smoke, and the cigar and you are at peace.” At first, this seems but a playful metaphor, yet within it lies a profound teaching on presence, surrender, and the fleeting nature of human burdens. Julia speaks not merely of smoking a cigar, but of the mystery of union—when one becomes absorbed in a single act so deeply that the noise of the world disappears, and only stillness remains.

The origin of this wisdom comes from Julia’s love for theater, for life, and for those moments when the soul is allowed to rest. He was not describing merely a habit, but the way that ritual—whether in a cigar, a prayer, or a moment of still contemplation—can create a space of peace. The cigar, in this case, becomes a symbol of focus, an anchor that draws the mind away from chaos and into the present. Just as monks of old fixed their gaze upon a candle flame or repeated sacred words until the world faded, Julia found in the simple ritual of smoke a momentary doorway into serenity.

History echoes this truth through many practices of stillness. The samurai of Japan once performed the tea ceremony not merely to drink but to still the spirit. The slow, deliberate motions, the rising steam, the silent bow—all became an art of emptying the self, letting worries dissolve in the rhythm of the ritual. The tea was not only a drink; it was a path to calm. In Julia’s words, the cigar served the same role: an object transformed into a medium of meditation, where thoughts faded as smoke fades into the air.

But deeper still is the teaching of losing oneself. Modern life, burdened by worries and restless thought, often traps us in the prison of our own minds. Julia speaks of release, when problems no longer cling, when the ego softens, when self dissolves into something larger. Whether it be through the arts, through prayer, through music, or even through the quiet ritual of a cigar, the act of surrender creates peace. To lose oneself, paradoxically, is to find freedom.

We must not confuse this, however, with escape. There is a difference between fleeing one’s responsibilities and allowing the mind to rest. Julia’s words do not urge us to abandon life, but to remember that within the turbulence of living, we must carve spaces where the heart can be still. Just as smoke rises and vanishes into the sky, so too can our worries drift away when we do not cling to them. The ritual, whatever form it takes, becomes the teacher of impermanence.

The lesson for us is clear: create rituals of peace in your life. It need not be a cigar; it may be walking in nature, sitting with tea, kneeling in prayer, listening to music, or breathing deeply beneath the night sky. Whatever act allows you to set aside your burdens, even for a moment, is sacred. In these practices, you reclaim yourself from the noise of the world and enter into harmony with life itself.

Therefore, remember Julia’s reflection: “They fade into the smoke, and the cigar and you are at peace.” Let your worries fade as smoke fades; let your mind be stilled by ritual; let yourself dissolve into the present moment. For in the art of losing oneself, you do not lose life—you discover it more fully. And in that discovery, you will find what all souls have sought since the beginning: the quiet strength of peace.

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