The Buddhist in Me
I hear the ancient Bristlecone Pines whisper: “All Things Must Pass”
I am alone at 10,000 feet in the White Mountains of California, sitting on a flat rock, eyes closed, meditating, and trying — so far unsuccessfully — to empty my mind of all thought, internal chatter and worry.
The setting sun, warm upon my face, is casting an amber glow on the weathered, honeyed trunks of a pair of ancient bristlecone pines known as the…
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