“Do I Have to Meditate to Use This?” — A Dialogue on Permission, Practice, and the Fear of Getting It Wrong
You pick it up. The beads are cool, heavier than you expected. They feel serious. You run a few through your fingers. There’s a quiet pleasure in the smoothness, the slight click as they nestle together. And then, the thought arrives, clear as a bell: I don’t know how to use this.
It’s not a technical ignorance. It’s a social one. A spiritual one. You’ve seen pictures—yogis in lotus position, hands draped gracefully, eyes closed. You’ve heard the word “mantra.” You know it’s for “meditation.” And you know your meditation looks nothing like that. Your mind races. You get bored. You fall asleep. You feel like an impostor before you even begin.
So the question hangs there, unasked but felt in the weight of the beads in your palm: Do I have to meditate to use this? Do I need to be that person—serene, devoted, spiritually literate—to derive any value from this string of stones? Or will I just be play-acting, wearing a costume that doesn’t fit?
This dialogue is for that moment. Not to answer the question, but to sit with it, to unpack its layers, and see what’s underneath.
Is it the ancient traditions that developed it? Is it the wellness influencers who’ve made it an aesthetic? Or is it the object itself—a collection of beads, a string, a tassel—waiting for you to determine its function in your life?
This cuts closer. Is it that people will think you’re “spiritual” and then find out you’re not? That you’ll be seen as trying to be something you’re not? Or is it that you’re afraid you are trying to be something you’re not—that your interest is superficial, aesthetic, a longing for the vibe without the work?
This fear is a sign of respect. It means you take the object and its heritage seriously enough to not want to trivialize it. That’s good. But respect can also be a prison. What if respect could also look like using the object with sincere intention, even if that intention isn’t traditionally “spiritual”?
Your intention might be: “I want to be less reactive.” “I want to feel more grounded in my body.” “I need a physical thing to help me transition out of work mode.” These are sincere, human needs. They may not be about enlightenment, but they are about well-being. Is that not a worthy use?
Maybe the worry about misrepresentation is really a worry about being seen in a vulnerable light—as someone who is trying, struggling, seeking in a messy, non-linear way. And maybe that’s exactly the person this object has always been for.
The Object in Question
The Rose Quartz & Rhodonite Mala sits in this space of potential. It holds its history lightly. It is offered not as a key to a specific tradition, but as a well-made tool for attention. What you build with that attention—peace, focus, simple pause—is your business.
View the Jewelry Piece →You’re attracted to it. You like how it looks, how it feels. But does that mean it’s “for” you? This is the heart of the hesitation. We’re taught to be suspicious of mere attraction, especially to things that seem to have deeper meaning. “Do you like the symbol, or just the aesthetic?”
But what if the aesthetic is the doorway? What if the smooth pink rose quartz appeals because, on some level, you crave that softness? What if the grounded rhodonite with its black veins speaks to your need for resilience that acknowledges past cracks? The attraction might not be superficial. It might be your intuition recognizing something you need, before your intellect can name it.
Alignment doesn’t have to mean perfect doctrinal fit. It can mean: “This object offers something I lack, or reflects something I’m trying to cultivate.” The attraction is the first signal. The practice—whatever form it takes—is the exploration of that signal.
Without deciding first if you’re “meditating.” Without labeling it. Pick it up. Feel the beads. Maybe sync one with a breath. Maybe just count ten beads slowly. Notice if your shoulders drop half an inch. Notice if the frantic thought-loop pauses for a second.
The proof is in the using. Not in the theory, not in the “right way,” but in the lived, tactile experience. Does this simple action, repeated, bring a moment of calm? Does it create a sliver of space between you and your reactions? If yes, then the “what it’s for” becomes self-evident, and it’s written in the language of your own nervous system, not in ancient texts.
It might be that you use it intensely for a season, then put it aside. It might become a daily companion. It might live in your pocket for emergencies. All are valid. The relationship is allowed to evolve.
So the question—“Do I have to meditate to use this?”—remains. But perhaps its power fades a little when you realize the answer is yours to give. The beads don’t demand a belief. They simply offer a rhythm, a texture, a count. A structure. What you bring to that structure, what you find within it, that’s between you and the quiet attention you muster, one bead, one breath, one hesitant, honest moment at a time.
