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The mental leg of the table represents the landscape of your inner world — the thoughts, stories, and quiet narratives that shape how you experience your life. When this leg is steady, your mind becomes a tool for clarity; when it weakens, your thoughts begin to lead instead of listen. Balance returns the moment you remember: you are not the noise inside your head. You are the awareness beneath it.
We’ve all had moments where we’re physically present but mentally miles away — replaying yesterday, bracing for tomorrow, or rehearsing what we “should” say next. This is the mind on autopilot. These thoughts aren’t always loud or cruel; often they’re subtle, like a whisper gently pulling you out of the moment. But when left unchecked, they become the lens through which you see everything. You stop relating to life and start reacting to it. You stop hearing what’s being said because the inner narrative is speaking over the present moment.
Bringing balance back into life begins with recognizing that you are not the thought — you are the one who notices the thought. Awareness is the medicine that steadies this leg of the table.
The mind reflects whatever we hold inside. Unprocessed emotions become overthinking. Fear becomes control. Disconnection from purpose becomes confusion or exhaustion.
But when we soften toward the mind — when we listen, question, and bring compassion instead of judgment — something powerful happens. Awareness becomes medicine. The mind stops trying to protect you through old stories and begins to serve you with clarity. It was never the enemy; it’s simply been working overtime to keep you safe.
Balance comes when the mind returns to its rightful place: not the ruler, but the reflector.
When the mental leg becomes unstable, it often shows up as:
• Overanalyzing every decision
• Feeling unsafe without certainty
• Constant inner criticism
• Comparing yourself to others
• Living from outdated beliefs
The suffering of the mind comes from believing every thought is truth. But thoughts are temporary — clouds moving across a vast sky. You are the sky. The awareness. The calmness beneath the weather.
This practice helps bring balance back into the mental realm by creating space between you and your thoughts.
Sit quietly. Breathe. Notice the weight of your body. The goal isn’t to stop the mind — only to make room around it.
Notice the tone of your thoughts. Gentle? Critical? Anxious? Curious? Write down the first few that rise.
For each thought, ask:
• Is this actually true right now?
• Is it kind?
• Is it mine, or did I inherit it?
Awareness begins to unravel what isn’t yours to carry.
Choose one heavy thought. Place your hand over your heart and ask:
“What would love say about this?”
Write the loving version beneath it — not as bypassing but as reclamation.
Thank your mind for trying to protect you. Visualize the wind carrying away what no longer serves.
In shamanic medicine, the mind is woven into the element of Air — the realm of breath, clarity, and new beginnings. Just as the morning breeze clears the horizon, the East teaches us that the mind is meant to move like wind, not weigh us down. Air reminds us that every thought is a current, every sunrise an invitation to start again, and every breath a doorway back into balance. When we work with the Medicine of the East, we learn to rise above the noise of the mind with the same quiet trust as the winged ones, seeing from a higher perspective and remembering that clarity comes not from control, but from spaciousness.
Balance in the mental realm begins when you shift from being the thought to witnessing the thought.
This is the inner Sage awakening — the part of you that sees from a higher vantage point, like Hawk circling above. The Sage doesn’t silence the mind; she rises above it, listens with discernment, and chooses with intention.
When the mental leg is strong, you think clearly, speak truthfully, and move with grounded purpose. The winds of the mind no longer control you — they carry you.
Balance is not the absence of thought; it’s the ability to see through it. And as the winged ones teach us, steadiness comes not from stillness, but from learning to stay centered in motion.