There is a particular discouragement that arrives about six weeks into any practice. You sit, nothing happens, and a quiet thought starts up underneath it.
ou step outside and for a second or two there is no you-here and world-over-there. The closing lines of Korea's oldest scripture say that second was not a mood. It was accurate.
There is a particular tiredness that comes from sitting in front of something you are supposed to make. You press harder, nothing comes, and the pressing itself becomes the problem.
You woke up meaning to have a good day. Then something small got you — a tone in someone's voice, a smell from the kitchen, the heat that would not let up.
There is something about your own life you have almost known for years. Most of us assume the voice is too faint — this week we look at the other possibility.
Somewhere along the way you were told to find your center. It is one of the most useful-sounding instructions that can quietly take you away from what you are looking for.
There's a certain person — you know the one — who can unsettle you with a single glance or a passing comment. This week, we turn the question gently around.
