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219 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 1997
Following the retreat, though, I return home. With my daughter off to first great and my wife busy teaching dance classes, I have the whole house to myself, free to meditate mindfully for hours, but instead, every distraction imaginable is at hand, and I succumb. The computer, the televisions; the radio; the refrigerator; the ability to stand up, walk outside, and check whether the overnight ice storm has ripped off my gutters – the combination of these proves far too compelling (35).And
Driving home from Atlanta, it hits me – my first experience with Tibetan Buddhism was basically a six-hour sermon.Does he find the answer to that question?
Six hours.
And I sat through it, willingly.
Six hours?
As a kid I would have cringed at the very thought. Even Father O’Donnell’s shortest orations, as little as fifteen minutes or those Sundays when his colon was acting ups, made me squirm and moan. In my Catholic-boy mind, the sermons were endless, irrelevant, and insincere. Not only were they like medicine – ill-tasting and suspect, forced upon me by a condescending adult – but to the best of my knowledge, the didn’t cure a thing.
So I ask myself, why was I sitting on an uncomfortable cushion, listening to Geshe-la for hours on end, and not complaining? When I didn’t have to? When no one, not even John Daido Loori, had threatened me with eternal damnation? (57).