The Two Kinds of Abundance

I’m always on the lookout for that phrase, song, or story that quietly rearranges the way I see things. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, it’s like sunlight breaking through a densely clouded sky. Usually it’s not a brand-new idea, but something I’ve understood intellectually for years that, all of a sudden, lands somewhere deeper. It shifts from something I “know” to something I actually feel.

About a month ago, that happened when I came across the word Yogakshema. From the Bhagavad Gita, it describes two fundamental forces that drive our lives. “Yoga,” in this context, is the impulse to acquire—to reach, to strive, to want. “Kshema” is the impulse to preserve—to care for, to sustain, to protect what we already have. Acquisition and preservation.

What struck me is how much of life is spent chasing the first, while quietly neglecting the second.

Because “kshema” isn’t just about money or possessions. It’s our health. Our relationships. The feeling in our home. The small, steady things that are already working, already supporting us. The abundance that doesn’t announce itself loudly.

Reading this, I had one of those startling flashes of clarity. I could see how tilted I’d become toward the striving side. Staying up too late. Letting afternoons slip by when I could have been outside, jumping on the trampoline with my kids. Filling the house with things that once felt important but now just added noise. I held my kids and felt a deep, bittersweet grief for all that I've ignored paired with a profound gratitude for what I'd woken up to. 

In Vedic thought, Lakshmi is said to withdraw when we fail to honor what we already have. It makes intuitive sense, when my kids scatter their toys across the floor and treat them carelessly, the last thing I feel inspired to do is give them more. Her companion being Vishnu, the maintenance operator, the sustainer, is not a coincidence. Abundance doesn't follow the hustle, it follows stability.

And yet, we live in a culture that relentlessly amplifies more, better, faster, next. It’s easy to get swept up in that current. It reminds me of the Vedic rakshasa (demon) Rahu who had been cut in half, a mouth with no stomach. Consumption without the capacity to feel full.

What I find grounding about Yogakshema is that it doesn’t ask us to stop reaching. Growth is natural. Evolution requires movement. But it gently insists that the movement reach in both directions, that as we reach forward, we also root down. That we build the capacity not just to receive more, but to truly holdwhat’s already here.

Because when we do that, when we tend to what we already have with care and attention, something shifts. The ordinary starts to feel sufficient. The present moment fills out. And the quiet, unassuming forms of abundance begin to reveal themselves.

Maybe that’s the balance we’re actually looking for—not less desire, but deeper appreciation. Not the end of striving, but a remembering to pause, look around, and ask:

What here, already, is worthy of being cared for and fully lived? 

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