Every language reveals what a culture sees most clearly. When we have many words for something, we begin to notice its subtle forms. When we have only one, our perception flattens. Words are not only labels. They are instruments of awareness.
Nowhere is this more visible than in the word love.
The problem with “I love you”
When two people say I love you, they rarely mean the same thing.
One may be speaking of passion, another of companionship, another of care. English hides these distinctions under a single word. The result is confusion. Lovers mishear each other. Friends misjudge devotion. Families mistake attachment for care.
If a couple says I love you without knowing what each means, they may not even be in the same conversation. One may mean I desire you, another I cherish you, another I will stand by you. All of them true, all of them different. When language is vague, relationships become vague too.
Imagine asking, Do you love me?
The honest answer might be, Of course. What kind of love do you mean?
Do you mean closeness, admiration, passion, or loyalty?
By naming the kind of love we give or expect, we build relationships that are clear instead of cloudy.
Six ways to love in Greek
The ancient Greeks solved this problem through language. They had distinct words for love, each defining a different way of caring.
Érōs (ἔρως) — passionate attraction that pulls two lives together.
Philía (φιλία) — affectionate friendship built on trust and mutual respect.
Storgḗ (στοργή) — familial love that feels like belonging.
Agápē (ἀγάπη) — selfless and unconditional love that can feel divine.
Philautía (φιλαυτία) — self-love, which can mean integrity or vanity.
Xenía (ξενία) — the sacred care between host and guest.
Each has a translation in English, but when we collapse all of them into love, we flatten emotional depth. Language gives shape to perception. The more precisely we speak of love, the more precisely we can live it.
If two people could say, I feel philía for you or I feel érōs for you, they would know where they stand. Expectations align. Misunderstanding dissolves. Love becomes a language of clarity, not confusion.
The problem with “I meditate”
We face the same poverty of language within ourselves. When we say I meditate, it can mean many things: sitting quietly, focusing on breath, observing thoughts, feeling energy, dissolving identity, touching pure awareness.
One person’s meditation is concentration. Another’s is rest. Another’s is devotion. Yet we use the same word for all of them. Without distinctions, we cannot describe where we are or where we are going. We cannot teach clearly or learn from each other precisely.
Just as I love you hides many meanings between two people, I meditate hides many meanings within one person.
The many states of meditation in Sanskrit
The Sanskrit tradition describes meditation as a refinement of attention. First you steady it. Then it flows without effort. Then it becomes seamless.
Dhāraṇā (धारणा): focused meditation.
You sit and choose one object, often the breath. The mind jumps to sounds, plans, and memories. Each time you notice wandering, you bring attention back. The practice trains steadiness.
Dhyāna (ध्यान): flowing meditation.
Attention holds by itself. Returning becomes rare. The breath, body, and awareness move together. Focus feels natural and continuous.
Samādhi (समाधि): absorptive meditation.
The sense of “me attending an object” dissolves. Only the object’s presence shines. Observer and observed feel like one.
Vipassanā / Vipaśyanā (विपश्यना): insight meditation.
You watch sensations, feelings, and thoughts arise and pass. You see change directly and understand that nothing stays the same.
Ānāpānasati (अनापनसति): breath mindfulness.
Awareness rests on the full in-breath and out-breath. The mind grows clear through calm observation of breathing.
Upāsanā (उपासना): devotional meditation.
You attend to the sacred with reverence. Awareness turns toward something greater — a mantra, a form, or pure presence.
Each of these is a distinct way the mind can relate to experience. To call all of them meditation is like calling every form of love simply love.
How other traditions describe meditation
Across Asia, different cultures explored the same inner landscape and named its forms. Each language points to a doorway into awareness — stillness, clarity, devotion, or luminous presence.
Tibetan ways to practice and see
In Dzogchen and Mahāmudrā, meditation is not a climb but a recognition — seeing what awareness already is.
Shiné (ཞི་གནས་): calm abiding.
Attention rests naturally. Thoughts lose their pull. The mind becomes steady and clear.
Lhaktong (ལྷག་མཐོང་): clear seeing.
You observe experience directly and recognize its changing nature.
Trekchö (ཁྲེགས་ཆོད་): cutting through.
You rest in the natural state, releasing all effort. Awareness reveals its own purity.
Tögal (ཐོད་རྒལ་): direct crossing.
Specific methods make the luminosity of awareness visible, like light seen through a clear sky.
Chinese and Japanese approaches
When Buddhism reached China, it met the natural ease of Daoism. The Sanskrit dhyāna became Chán (禪) in China, then Zen (禅) in Japan. Here, practice focuses less on steps and more on the quality of being present.
Mòzhào (默照): silent illumination.
Sitting in stillness, awareness remains bright and open without focus on an object.
Kōan (公案): paradoxical inquiry.
A short question or story breaks habitual thinking. Understanding appears through direct insight, not reasoning.
Shikantaza (只管打坐): just sitting.
You simply sit in awareness itself. There is nothing to achieve, only to be.
Western approaches
Christian mysticism speaks of the same silence in its own language.
Hesychia (ἡσυχία): inner quiet.
Repeating a short prayer, you let mind and heart settle before God.
Nēpsis (νῆψις): watchfulness.
You stay alert to each thought as it arises, staying present in quiet care.
Across cultures, language evolved to describe the same stillness.
The silence beyond words
Some states, like shiné or dhāraṇā, can be described because an observer remains. Others, like tögal or samādhi, dissolve even that distinction. In deep absorption, there are no words, no subject, no object. Words belong to form; awareness beyond form does not need them.
Yet words remain sacred. They guide us to the edge of silence. They are bridges we cross to reach what cannot be spoken.
How precise language helps in life and practice
Language and consciousness evolve together. The more precisely we speak, the more precisely we see.
In relationships:
Precision deepens connection. When we name the kind of love we mean, we stop guessing what the other feels. Love becomes mutual understanding instead of assumption.
In meditation:
Precision deepens awareness. When we can name where we are — whether in concentration, devotion, or absorption — we can learn and teach more clearly.
Two simple ways to speak with precision
Use ancient words
These words carry centuries of meaning.
Dhāraṇā: when you are training attention to stay steady.
Dhyāna: when attention flows smoothly without effort.
Samādhi: when awareness absorbs completely into its object.
Shiné or shikantaza: when resting awareness feels natural and open.
Enrich English
Short, descriptive phrases can carry the same clarity.
Focused meditation: you pick one object and keep returning to it each time the mind wanders. Over time the return gets quicker and calmer.
Flowing meditation: you let attention rest gently on the whole experience without forcing it. Distractions are noticed and allowed to pass while steadiness remains.
Oneness meditation: you soften the sense of a separate observer until the watcher and the watched feel like one shared experience. Effort drops and there is simple being.
Impermanence meditation: you watch everything change—sensations, thoughts, and feelings—and keep noticing that nothing stays the same. This shows directly that all things rise, fade, and move on.
Breath mindfulness: you feel the breath as it naturally comes and goes. When the mind wanders, you return to the breath and stay curious about its texture, length, and pauses.
Devotional meditation: you bring to mind a person, ideal, or presence you revere. Love, trust, and gratitude become the focus, and the heart steadies the mind.
Silent sitting: you sit quietly without choosing a single object. You rest as open awareness, letting sounds, thoughts, and feelings appear and fade on their own.
When we speak vaguely, we relate vaguely — both with others and within ourselves.
When we speak precisely, we meet precisely.
Words are the first mirrors of awareness.
When we polish those mirrors, we do not invent clarity.
We reveal the stillness that was always there.
Which approach speaks to you?
Do you prefer using the ancient words — dhyāna, samādhi, shiné — or enriching English with precise phrases?
Or have you found another way to speak about your practice that brings clarity?
I would love to hear what resonates with your practice. Your approach might deepen my own.