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WRITERS BLOCK
MOGOJ X KGOJ CONNECTION
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WRITERS BLOCK TO POTENTIAL BLOCK BUSTER
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SDE
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How many triangles do you see in this picture?
Unless you’re being cheeky, you’d probably say five.
Now imagine that you take one of the small outer triangles - say, the one on the top - and slide it away from the group. You move that triangle somewhere else:
When you did that, what happened to the triangle in the middle? Where did it go?
Did it ever exist?
One answer is that none of these triangles “exist.” They’re only the result of context. When the circumstances around them change, we realize that they never had any inherent “triangle-ness” - that was just a temporary label we ascribed to them.
Similarly, you and I have conceptions of ourselves as people that are largely the result of context - who we work with, where we grew up, what we eat for breakfast. We don’t exist in a vacuum. If you took away the causes and circumstances that make us who we are, my sense of “me” and your sense of “you” would be as empty as our sense of the disappearing triangle.
This is an explanation I learned from a friend at the Buddhist monastery I’m living in this summer. He’d tell you we exist, but only the same way those toothpick triangles do. It’s a way to keep things in perspective.
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spinning threads of re-connection,
as we rest our bones upon this earth
we rediscover
our creative powers of remembrance;
we rediscover
the strength that comes up from our roots
when we lay these bodies down
upon this land, and ceasing to think
our way out of this mess, instead
we can feel our way back into
our place together
All that we see, or seem to see, is but a dream within a dream.
Dilgo Khyentse Rinpoche | meditation master
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C ISSUE- PNR
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"The world is full of struggle. It is also full of overcoming."
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SRK THROAT CA - FINISHING PRARABDHA KRMA
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It is not the second part of your question that scares me; I have lived knowing that I will eventually die. As I have aged into my mid 70s, that becomes more obvious every day as I lose friends and family.
What scares me is the uncertainty of how and when I will eventually die. To this point, I still have not received the final diagnosis. When my 97 year old mother died rather abruptly of a brain bleed two years ago, I realized immediately that this was a radically different way to go than the Parkinson’s that slowly and painfully took my former colleague, Kevin, or the CoVID that killed my friend Paul over two weeks in 2020, or the pancreatic cancers that took my friends Todd and Elisabeth in the last three years. Uncertainty is the most troubling aspect of growing into old age.
We don’t pick that final diagnosis; it picks us. That is the really scary part
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