Praying is Talking to the Universe. Meditating is Listening to It
Ankit Gupta | Apr 11, 2025, 12:15 IST
The deep spiritual insight behind the phrase “Praying is talking to the Universe, meditating is listening to it.” Drawing from the Upanishads, Bhagavad Gita, and Vedantic philosophy, it delves into how prayer expresses the soul's longing, while meditation opens us to divine response.
Praying is Talking to the Universe. Meditating is Listening to It
प्रार्थना ध्यानम् एकत्वम् — यथा श्रवणम् एव ज्ञानस्य मूलम्।
(Prayer and meditation are two sides of the same coin; just as listening is the root of knowledge, silence is the cradle of wisdom.)
In the vast quietude between the stars, in the trembling silence between heartbeats, there exists an ancient exchange. One side speaks in longing, the other answers in silence. This eternal dialogue between the human soul and the infinite cosmos takes the form of prayer and meditation. At first glance, they may appear to be similar spiritual disciplines—both solemn, both inward-looking—but at their core, they serve opposite yet complementary functions. Prayer is the act of talking to the Universe; it is desire dressed in devotion, hope structured into words. Meditation, on the other hand, is the sacred space where one listens to the Universe—a quiet surrender, a field of awareness into which the whisper of the divine flows.
Prayer is the earliest language of the soul. Before scriptures, before temples and doctrines, there was the whispered plea under the stars, the folded hands before the rising sun, the silent cry in the darkness. Whether through Vedic hymns, Biblical psalms, or whispered affirmations, prayer has always served one essential function: to create a bridge between the finite and the infinite.
In prayer, we articulate our desires, express our gratitude, confess our fears, or simply invoke the presence of something larger than ourselves. It is not always formal or rehearsed—it can emerge as a cry, a chant, or a breath. But what makes prayer sacred is not its form but its sincerity. When the heart opens in vulnerability, when the ego bows in surrender, prayer becomes an invocation not just of words, but of shakti, divine energy.
In Sanatan philosophy, this is reflected in the practice of japa (repetition of mantras), stuti (praise), and prārthanā (plea or request).
Yet, no conversation is complete without listening. And that is where meditation begins.
In the sacred silence that follows prayer, something mysterious begins to unfold. The mind, having poured out its longing, enters a state of receptivity. This is meditation—not a passive state, but an alert stillness. Just as a lake reflects the stars only when its surface is still, so too does the soul reflect the divine only when thought has been stilled.
Meditation is not the absence of thought, but the transcendence of it. Where prayer is a directed current—moving outward or upward—meditation is a return inward, back to the source. In the Upanishads, this is beautifully echoed:
यत्र ज्ञानाः निवर्तन्ते अप्राप्य मनसा सह,
आनन्दं ब्रह्मणो विद्वान् न बिभेति कुतश्चनेति॥
(Where thought and speech cease, and only pure awareness remains, there lies the bliss of Brahman—the knower of that fears nothing.)
In this quiet inner sanctuary, there is no need to ask, no need to plead. The very act of being becomes sufficient. The meditator no longer reaches for the divine as if it were somewhere outside, but instead discovers that the divine has always been within, patiently waiting in the background of awareness.
One could say that meditation is the answer to prayer—but it is more subtle than that. In prayer, we speak to the Universe. In meditation, we allow the Universe to speak through us. Not in the form of thunderous revelations, but in glimpses of insight, waves of peace, or wordless knowing. Sometimes, there is no message at all—only presence. But that presence is enough. It is the ultimate response: You are not alone. You were never separate.
Modern science has begun to catch up with this ancient truth. Neurological studies on meditation reveal that during deep states of meditative stillness, areas of the brain associated with self-referential thinking go quiet. The boundaries of “I” begin to dissolve. This aligns with the Vedantic idea that the ego is a veil that must fall for the Self to shine through.
Thus, meditation is not about escaping the world, but about returning to one’s true nature—unclouded, undistracted, and unafraid. It is the space where the divine responds—not through voice, but through vibration.
Prayer and meditation, though seemingly opposite, are actually two movements in a single sacred rhythm. Just as night follows day, just as inhalation follows exhalation, the human spirit oscillates between expression and stillness, between invocation and reception.
The ancient rishis understood this rhythm deeply. In their yajnas (ritual sacrifices), chanting would be followed by silence. In yogic practice, mantra repetition (japa) is often followed by dhyana (meditative absorption). This sequence is not accidental—it mirrors the structure of the Universe itself: sound and silence, action and stillness, will and surrender.
In Tantra, this balance is symbolized by the union of Shiva and Shakti. Shakti, the kinetic energy, represents prayer, action, movement—the voice that reaches. Shiva, the pure consciousness, is stillness, awareness, the silent witness. Neither is complete without the other. Prayer without meditation becomes noise; meditation without prayer becomes inertia. But together, they create the cosmic circuit of communion.
Even in nature, this interplay is evident. Rivers flow toward the ocean (prayer), and the ocean, in its vast silence, receives them (meditation). Clouds rise in vapor and return as rain. The sun gives heat, and the earth answers with growth. Every aspect of existence is in this divine conversation. Why should the soul be any different?
When we internalize this rhythm, our spiritual practice becomes holistic. We no longer pray merely to get something, nor meditate simply to escape. Instead, we begin to co-create with the Universe—one breath at a time, one moment of surrender at a time.
There comes a point in sincere spiritual practice when the boundaries between prayer and meditation, between seeker and sought, begin to dissolve. What was once a duality—a speaker and a listener—transforms into a state of non-dual awareness. One no longer talks to the Universe, nor listens to it, but becomes the dialogue itself.
This is the state described by the sages of the Upanishads as “Tat Tvam Asi” — “Thou art That.” The realization that the divine we pray to, and the silence we meditate into, are not separate entities. They are both reflections of the same supreme consciousness—the Self.
In this state, even prayer changes. It is no longer a request or a chant, but a continuous song of the heart. Every breath becomes a mantra. Every act becomes an offering. There is no gap between spiritual practice and daily life. The sacred has moved out of the temple and into the world.
Similarly, meditation no longer requires silence or a cushion. The stillness once sought in closed eyes begins to bloom behind open ones. Whether walking, eating, or speaking, one remains rooted in that center of awareness. Meditation, then, is no longer an act—it becomes a state of being.
The Bhagavad Gita beautifully expresses this state in Krishna’s words:
योगी युञ्जीत सततं आत्मानं रहसि स्थितः
एकाकी यतचित्तात्मा निराशीः अपरिग्रहः॥
(The yogi, absorbed always in the Self, seated in solitude, with controlled mind and heart, free of desires and possessions, is ever united with the divine.)
This is the destination of the path—but it is not a place. It is a recognition. That the Universe was never distant. That the divine was never deaf. That in every sincere prayer, it was listening. And in every deep meditation, it was whispering back.
To pray is to express. To meditate is to receive. But the highest truth lies in the realization of oneness, where the need for expression and reception fades, and only presence remains.
Yet for most of us walking the spiritual path, these two acts—prayer and meditation—are the essential wings that allow our soul to take flight. We speak to the stars, and then we listen to the space between them. We cry out, and we wait in stillness. We surrender our voice to the wind, and then we listen for the echo in our heart.
In a world filled with noise, to pray is revolutionary, and to meditate is radical. For in these acts, we claim our birthright to the divine, and participate in the ancient rhythm of the cosmos.
So let us not choose between them. Let us speak when our heart is full, and be silent when our soul is ready to hear. For when we pray, the Universe listens. And when we meditate, it speaks.
And in that sacred dance, we remember who we are.
प्रार्थना ध्यानम् एकत्वम् — यथा श्रवणम् एव ज्ञानस्य मूलम्।
(Prayer and meditation are two sides of the same coin; just as listening is the root of knowledge, silence is the cradle of wisdom.)
In the vast quietude between the stars, in the trembling silence between heartbeats, there exists an ancient exchange. One side speaks in longing, the other answers in silence. This eternal dialogue between the human soul and the infinite cosmos takes the form of prayer and meditation. At first glance, they may appear to be similar spiritual disciplines—both solemn, both inward-looking—but at their core, they serve opposite yet complementary functions. Prayer is the act of talking to the Universe; it is desire dressed in devotion, hope structured into words. Meditation, on the other hand, is the sacred space where one listens to the Universe—a quiet surrender, a field of awareness into which the whisper of the divine flows.
The Voice of Devotion
Devotion
Prayer is the earliest language of the soul. Before scriptures, before temples and doctrines, there was the whispered plea under the stars, the folded hands before the rising sun, the silent cry in the darkness. Whether through Vedic hymns, Biblical psalms, or whispered affirmations, prayer has always served one essential function: to create a bridge between the finite and the infinite.
In prayer, we articulate our desires, express our gratitude, confess our fears, or simply invoke the presence of something larger than ourselves. It is not always formal or rehearsed—it can emerge as a cry, a chant, or a breath. But what makes prayer sacred is not its form but its sincerity. When the heart opens in vulnerability, when the ego bows in surrender, prayer becomes an invocation not just of words, but of shakti, divine energy.
In Sanatan philosophy, this is reflected in the practice of japa (repetition of mantras), stuti (praise), and prārthanā (plea or request).
Yet, no conversation is complete without listening. And that is where meditation begins.
The Art of Listening
Source: Freepik
In the sacred silence that follows prayer, something mysterious begins to unfold. The mind, having poured out its longing, enters a state of receptivity. This is meditation—not a passive state, but an alert stillness. Just as a lake reflects the stars only when its surface is still, so too does the soul reflect the divine only when thought has been stilled.
Meditation is not the absence of thought, but the transcendence of it. Where prayer is a directed current—moving outward or upward—meditation is a return inward, back to the source. In the Upanishads, this is beautifully echoed:
यत्र ज्ञानाः निवर्तन्ते अप्राप्य मनसा सह,
आनन्दं ब्रह्मणो विद्वान् न बिभेति कुतश्चनेति॥
(Where thought and speech cease, and only pure awareness remains, there lies the bliss of Brahman—the knower of that fears nothing.)
In this quiet inner sanctuary, there is no need to ask, no need to plead. The very act of being becomes sufficient. The meditator no longer reaches for the divine as if it were somewhere outside, but instead discovers that the divine has always been within, patiently waiting in the background of awareness.
One could say that meditation is the answer to prayer—but it is more subtle than that. In prayer, we speak to the Universe. In meditation, we allow the Universe to speak through us. Not in the form of thunderous revelations, but in glimpses of insight, waves of peace, or wordless knowing. Sometimes, there is no message at all—only presence. But that presence is enough. It is the ultimate response: You are not alone. You were never separate.
Modern science has begun to catch up with this ancient truth. Neurological studies on meditation reveal that during deep states of meditative stillness, areas of the brain associated with self-referential thinking go quiet. The boundaries of “I” begin to dissolve. This aligns with the Vedantic idea that the ego is a veil that must fall for the Self to shine through.
Thus, meditation is not about escaping the world, but about returning to one’s true nature—unclouded, undistracted, and unafraid. It is the space where the divine responds—not through voice, but through vibration.
The Stillness Between Sound
Source: Freepik
Prayer and meditation, though seemingly opposite, are actually two movements in a single sacred rhythm. Just as night follows day, just as inhalation follows exhalation, the human spirit oscillates between expression and stillness, between invocation and reception.
The ancient rishis understood this rhythm deeply. In their yajnas (ritual sacrifices), chanting would be followed by silence. In yogic practice, mantra repetition (japa) is often followed by dhyana (meditative absorption). This sequence is not accidental—it mirrors the structure of the Universe itself: sound and silence, action and stillness, will and surrender.
In Tantra, this balance is symbolized by the union of Shiva and Shakti. Shakti, the kinetic energy, represents prayer, action, movement—the voice that reaches. Shiva, the pure consciousness, is stillness, awareness, the silent witness. Neither is complete without the other. Prayer without meditation becomes noise; meditation without prayer becomes inertia. But together, they create the cosmic circuit of communion.
Even in nature, this interplay is evident. Rivers flow toward the ocean (prayer), and the ocean, in its vast silence, receives them (meditation). Clouds rise in vapor and return as rain. The sun gives heat, and the earth answers with growth. Every aspect of existence is in this divine conversation. Why should the soul be any different?
When we internalize this rhythm, our spiritual practice becomes holistic. We no longer pray merely to get something, nor meditate simply to escape. Instead, we begin to co-create with the Universe—one breath at a time, one moment of surrender at a time.
The Dance of Union
Source: Freepik
There comes a point in sincere spiritual practice when the boundaries between prayer and meditation, between seeker and sought, begin to dissolve. What was once a duality—a speaker and a listener—transforms into a state of non-dual awareness. One no longer talks to the Universe, nor listens to it, but becomes the dialogue itself.
This is the state described by the sages of the Upanishads as “Tat Tvam Asi” — “Thou art That.” The realization that the divine we pray to, and the silence we meditate into, are not separate entities. They are both reflections of the same supreme consciousness—the Self.
In this state, even prayer changes. It is no longer a request or a chant, but a continuous song of the heart. Every breath becomes a mantra. Every act becomes an offering. There is no gap between spiritual practice and daily life. The sacred has moved out of the temple and into the world.
Similarly, meditation no longer requires silence or a cushion. The stillness once sought in closed eyes begins to bloom behind open ones. Whether walking, eating, or speaking, one remains rooted in that center of awareness. Meditation, then, is no longer an act—it becomes a state of being.
The Bhagavad Gita beautifully expresses this state in Krishna’s words:
योगी युञ्जीत सततं आत्मानं रहसि स्थितः
एकाकी यतचित्तात्मा निराशीः अपरिग्रहः॥
(The yogi, absorbed always in the Self, seated in solitude, with controlled mind and heart, free of desires and possessions, is ever united with the divine.)
This is the destination of the path—but it is not a place. It is a recognition. That the Universe was never distant. That the divine was never deaf. That in every sincere prayer, it was listening. And in every deep meditation, it was whispering back.
A Sacred Exchange
Yet for most of us walking the spiritual path, these two acts—prayer and meditation—are the essential wings that allow our soul to take flight. We speak to the stars, and then we listen to the space between them. We cry out, and we wait in stillness. We surrender our voice to the wind, and then we listen for the echo in our heart.
In a world filled with noise, to pray is revolutionary, and to meditate is radical. For in these acts, we claim our birthright to the divine, and participate in the ancient rhythm of the cosmos.
So let us not choose between them. Let us speak when our heart is full, and be silent when our soul is ready to hear. For when we pray, the Universe listens. And when we meditate, it speaks.
And in that sacred dance, we remember who we are.