There’s this moment—like clockwork—when I’m meditating.
I’ve got my headphones in. The tones are doing their cosmic magic on my brain. I’m finally slipping into that blissed-out, buzzed-in, ego-less expanse where I forget I even have a grocery list, let alone a body.
And then…
The music stops.
Not just fades. Not gently wafts away on a breeze of enlightenment.
It pauses. Abruptly.
At exactly 20:11.
Every. Single. Time.
At first, I thought it was a glitch. Or maybe I bumped something. But it’s too precise. Too consistent. It’s like the Universe set an alarm titled “Interrupt Her Just Before She Fully Dissolves.”
Rude.
But also? Kind of funny.
It’s the only thing in my life right now that happens with any regularity. A dependable disruption. And in a strange way, it feels… safe.
The Divine IT Department Is Trolling Me
I can’t help but picture some giggling cosmic intern watching me hit peak zen, then poking a big red button labeled “20:11.”
“That’s enough ego death for a Tuesday, Tea. You’ve got tacos to make.”
Maybe I’m being punked by Spirit.
Maybe my guides are concerned I’m going to ascend and forget to feed the cat.
Or maybe, just maybe, this is spiritual training—learning how to hold peace even when the playlist stops.
When Consistency Feels Like a Portal
I’m not mad, honestly.
Okay, slightly irritated.
But mostly intrigued.
There’s something beautiful about the way that timestamp shows up.
20:11.
A number with edges—clean, almost sacred in its symmetry.
Twos and ones. Partnership and initiation. Balance and doorway.
It feels like a gentle knock: Are you ready to keep going? Or is this enough for today?
Ego Death Has Office Hours, Apparently
Look, I know I’m dramatic. But there’s a real thing here—this inner cap, this invisible ceiling on how long we’re “allowed” to feel calm, clear, or connected.
It’s the Upper Limit Problem dressed in incense and yoga pants.
Sometimes I think my soul wants more, but my nervous system says:
“Absolutely not. That’s too much peace. Someone’s going to notice you’re happy and revoke your spiritual tax exemption.”
And so the music stops.
Just as I’m settling in.
Just as I’m unraveling.
Just as I forget who I think I’m supposed to be.
The Interruption Is the Invitation
Here’s the shift:
Maybe 20:11 isn’t the end of the meditation.
Maybe it’s the start of integration.
The moment I’m pulled out on purpose—to bring a piece of that stillness back with me.
To see what I do when the tones stop but the trance hasn’t faded yet.
To remember I can still touch peace, even in the grocery store parking lot or mid-sibling-scream.
Maybe the Universe isn’t gatekeeping me.
Maybe it’s reminding me:
You don’t have to stay in the void to remember who you are. Just dip in, take a sip, and carry it with you.
And if that’s too much for today…
There’s always Wednesday.
Cosmic Tea 