Inspired by a quote from C.S. Lewis from his heart-touching work, "A Grief Observed," that he wrote following the death of his wife

Though C.S. Lewis was a Christian writer, I love that Buddhism also teaches us that when we get angry, we are in fact suffering immense pain. ⁠

Anger in itself is neither good nor bad. All emotions are informative. All emotions are a form of energy, and like all energies, can be transmuted. If we sit with our anger long enough to get to know it and the sorrow inherent to anger, it can show us the way to transmute it into right action.⁠

Have you ever lived through a kind of pain that throws the world off balance, the kind that shatters and reshapes a previously stable worldview into one that seems to have new rules or new conditions and severely distorted your sense of self?

Inspired by Ken Follett

To desire is such a natural part of the human experience, that I see myself and my son waver from one desire to the next, satisfying one wish, and moving on effortlessly to the next. Buddhism teaches that desire is the cause of all "suffering" or "dis-ease" -- lack of lasting peace and contentment, but even to want to be free of desire is a desire in itself.

Maybe the peace we so desire is not the cessation of desire, or freedom from desire, but freedom to desire, to feel, to experience without having them hijack our awareness to think and do what is right.

An Instagram follower shared this ⁠story with me a little while back about the importance of having good friends with the compassion and courage to help us confront ourselves and grow in life. I hope you enjoy it, as much as I enjoyed painting these little buddies!⁠

"Ananda, one of Shakyamuni Buddha's closest disciples, once asked him: 'It seems to me that by having good friends and advancing together with them, one has already halfway attained the Buddha way. Is this way of thinking correct?'⁠

Shakyamuni replied, 'Ananda, this way of thinking is not correct. Having good friends and advancing together with them is not half the Buddhist way but all the Buddhist way.'"⁠

Power in some ways carries a negative connotation for me. The idea of power either fuels a sense of purpose through the ego, or has me suppressing it with feelings of judgment or sometimes shame. But is power in itself really that bad?

Something that I've often read and have come to notice and admit is true in my own experience is that it isn't. There are some things that I might be ashamed to admit that I wish to pursue, like my own happiness, a relationship, fame, wealth, and influence, can sometimes go hand-in-hand with what is aligned with my true self, or my soul. Happiness and desire in themselves can be terrible masters to serve, but happiness can be a by-product when I pursue things that bring purpose and meaning in my life.

But, if I pursue happiness for the sake of happiness, I actually create a life of greater insecurity, because I end up living in constant fear that my happiness will fade. I constantly look for that next high, the next hit of happiness, to maintain my sense of safety and comfort. Likewise, if I pursue power or influence for the sake of power and influence, I actually end up having less of it. Power is never satisfied, because in its nature, power can never have enough of itself. The more power I get, the more I fear losing it. The more I fear, the more insecure I feel, and therefore, I'm actually not that powerful.

For me, power is not the ability to control my surroundings, to dominate those in my path, or pre-determine my life. Power in its deepest essence is freedom from being swept away by my circumstances, the throes of my emotions, the actions or judgment of others. I long for power as a by-product of an inner calmness that comes with self awareness, observation, and decisive action.

Power plays are common in my home life with a strong-willed six-year-old. Often when it's time to get ready for school, time to get ready for bed, or do anything that he's not 100% on board with, my son will often make a bid for power and test my tolerance. Just as many parents get tired of their children's disobedience, I often find myself feeling angry at my son and bitter that he should defy me when as a child, I would never dream of speaking to my parents in any way that questioned their authority, much less insulted them or Not applicablely assaulted them as he sometimes does to his father and me.

The truth is I don't want him to be obedient for the sake of obedience. I don't wish to define my power as, "He obeys me without question." I wish to define it as, "I am not affected by his behavior." I wish to hold to the boundaries and rules that I set as a parent without feeling angry or bitter, without shaming him or myself, by teaching the skills of listening and communication as the foundation for understanding, respect, and compassion. That, for me, is true power.

There's a saying that goes, "The person with the calmest heart is the most powerful."

And it also reminds me of another Pema Chödrön line that reads, "You are the sky. The rest is just weather." To keep power close, to not become a slave to power that is never satisfied, my primary goal is to master myself, to know myself intimately and honestly, so that I can embody that sky -- eternal, immense, and clear -- experiencing and witnessing, but ultimately unaffected by, all the weather that life presents.

Welcome back, as I resume new comics this month! Over the summer, I came across a story from a woman named Torria on "Humans of New York." She said of her childhood, "I was just going through so much, you know. Horrible things were being done to me. Horrible, terrible things. So I’d use whatever I could. I’d pay attention to anything that made me happy. That’s one thing I can do: pay attention. It comes from something within me. We all have it. But you know, I tap into it. I still do. I just took a picture of a flower this morning. I’m so grateful. I’m telling you, I’m so grateful that I came out of the darkness. Maybe my journey wasn't to make money or to be successful or anything. It was just to recover."

I just read and re-read that statement, and came back to it weeks and even months later: "My journey wasn't to make money or to be successful or anything. It was just to recover."

And it brought to mind how unfair life can be. How different our experiences are, how due to "man's fault" -- the fault of humanness, our ability to inflict unspeakable pain on someone, to plunge another being into darkness -- someone might never fulfill some potential for greatness. It's just not fair.

There is no known reason that I can understand which explains why I was born into the life I have, and the opportunities availed to me, while somewhere else, another woman who might have been a greater artist, a more heart-touching poet, or a more nurturing mother, is struggling to keep herself alive in a civil war.

I can't judge the world on the basis of fairness. It would break my heart and drive me crazy with anguish every time. Instead, I've been trying to look at it from the Confucian perspective that each of us must simply "discharge one's duties" in life. I return to Torria and how the darkness of her childhood kept her in shadows from which she was lucky to emerge. Michael Meade says, "The fateful event of being wounded early in life creates the need for a deep healing process that becomes the path of awakening for each person." No, it wasn't fair that she suffered through such darkness. It was wrong, and she deserved better. And at the same time, she discharged her duty to herself to recover. And who can say that that's not enough? It's more than enough. It's amazing.

So what is the implication for someone whose "path of awakening" is more accessible? I guess I, too, must discharge my duties be responsible to myself and because I have the means, to live beholden to those around me. No, I can't make life fair, and I can't make the whole world just, but I can make some good for others through good work. And maybe that's all that I should expect.

Inspired by Olga Jacoby's letters, from "Words in Pain," that were written at the end of her life as she faced terminal illness

I don't want to romanticize another being's pain and suffering. But insofar that pain is an inevitable byproduct of loving in this life, I also can't deny that pain and suffering is a remarkable teacher that makes compassion, and therefore progress, possible.

So many people are suffering right now, sometimes from the lasting effects of our upbringing and lived experiences that makes fear our constant companion; and sometimes from pain inflicted by others who are moving about propelled by their own suffering. And then, there's also the pain inflicted on all of us in the modern world, by nearly invisible systems that benefit a few at the expense of many. These are my teachers, and this pain isn't wasted.

If anything, I know we are made richer for witnessing it within ourselves and in others, and in this richness, in this abundance of feeling, we learn what we ought to do.

Introducing an adult character, the oxherd boy's grandfather, who I imagine has been a big influence in his life and contributes much to the boy's everyday wisdom.

The boy's grandfather and he together are bookends to the cycle of life and learning. The spiritual path is not a journey to somewhere new, but a mental return trip to where one is originally from, a recognition of where he has been all along. Ultimately, the grandfather settles on a simple truth at the end of his life, that to be with one another, to mean something to one another is the greatest honor life can afford.

A little chat inspired by Thelonious Monk and Miles Davis, two incredibly important musicians who made their distinctive mark in music and paved the way for others to do the same

There seems to exist a fallacy in our perception that to be iconic means to have some signature trait that remains static, and being true to ourselves somehow means that that truth never changes. But it does, and the ability to flow with that change is what keeps our existence honest, timeless, relevant, and connected.⁠

My son likes to pay his respects at various temples we pass on the way to and from school. I think the rituals are fun for him, and he finds the gods and deities interesting to look at. Explaining religion to him is a bit of a challenge for me, because I didn't grow up with worship as a large part of my life. So, today's chat is inspired by Confucian philosophy. ⁠

Rather than look to "otherworldly sources of spiritual values," Confucian philosophy holds human relationships to be sacred. Each of us is fundamentally good, and capable of developing our moral nature through communal effort and self-cultivation of the Five Constants (五常): ⁠

• Compassion⁠
• Justice⁠
• Propriety⁠
• Wisdom
• ⁠Integrity⁠

The goal of Confucian philosophy is to create a world -- government, families, citizens -- centered on morals. Our world is constantly changing, and while we can never predict what the future will bring, nor what situations we find ourselves in, Confucianism argues that if we have a strong foundation in recognizing right from wrong, and create a society that promotes right over wrong, then humanity should be able to make good decisions and do right by each other.⁠

All of this is kind of ironic, because Confucianism now has a reputation of being an extremely traditional, rigid, and ritualistic philosophy... not to mention anti-women, so I'll just take the core of its teaching and leave the rest.

Walking meditation is one that I find easiest to practice, even for a few minutes in my day, no matter where I am. It's an accessible meditation, especially for people who are on the move.

Nhat Hanh had described a kind of walking meditation with a mantra as well to go along with it:

"Usually, our in-breath tends to be a little shorter than our out-breath. When you breathe in, you may take two steps and say: 'I have arrived, I have arrived.' When you breathe out, you might like to take three steps and say: 'I am home, I am home, I am home.'

'Home' means being at home in the present moment where you can touch all the wonders of life. We should be able to walk with a lot of tenderness and happiness on this beautiful planet. 'I have arrived, I am home,' is not a statement, but a practice."

Kelly Corrigan recently shared a line that I think came from David W. Augsburger: "Listening is so close to love most people can't tell the difference." She goes on to share a rhetorical question from her youth: "Are we really communicating or are we just taking turns talking?"

Listening is probably the most underrated action that can transform a relationship. It is the bridge to understanding, and understanding makes space for love.

We're often reminded that actions speak louder than words, that words can be empty promises. But today, I am grateful for words that are born from kindness and carry the spirit of love and hope. I've been re-reading some of my favorite books lately and finding much comfort in doing so. This variation of Natsuki Takaya's saying focuses on that aspect of the power of words.⁠

Inspired by Saint Theresa de Avila

From a young age, so many children are asked what they want to be when they grow up, what they want to do with their lives, as though life were something to "do" -- something to mold to one's will -- rather than the canvas, the clay, the creator, and the process all rolled together and unfolding at the same time.

So maybe the deeper, more worthy challenge is not how to achieve as much as possible, but rather how to live with maximum love.

One of the most heart-opening realizations I've had from when I was a child was that as intensely as I was experiencing all the thoughts, feelings, hopes, and anguish in my life, every single other person on this earth likely is going through the exact same process as their lives unfolded as well.

It was a realization that made me feel an unmistakable communion with all people. It was also a humbling awakening that forced me to admit that I'm no more worthy than anyone else, and that my comfort and satisfaction is no more important than another's.
I'm another you -- different maybe, but also very much the same.

In an age when human hearts and minds face unprecedented exposure to large-scale suffering, I often find myself feeling paralyzed and powerless, angry at my own inability to effect sweeping lasting change towards freedom, justice, and mercy.

It's a humbling realization to accept the limitation of human will, and yet as Johann Wolfgang von Goethe said, "Let everyone sweep in front of his own door, and the whole world will be clean." There are likely many wars not started because someone did sweep in front of his one door. He or she did perform any number of small acts of goodness within their circle of influence, and maybe that's the difference that ultimately matters.

I can't think of progress without also thinking of its sister, patience. Progress without patience is a battle half won. Progress -- whether from an individual, communal, or societal perspective -- is nonlinear. ⁠

Sometimes it feels like we're not moving forward at all. Sometimes it even feels like we're even going backwards. However, our desire and hastiness to better ourselves and our world can lead to more pain, frustration, anger, and suffering when we find ourselves confronted with obstacles or failures. ⁠

Have faith, take heart, and be patient with yourself and with others.

I've been thinking about love recently, and how everyone feels loved in different ways. Some enjoy receiving tokens of affection like gifts, while others crave a Not applicable bond like hugs, or maybe someone feels most valued when you spend time with them working together on a project.

Sometimes I've felt frustrated when my friends or family don't understand how I interpret love, but maybe I would do better to just appreciate their love for what it is -- imperfect though it may seem -- because any expression of love will be imperfect given the limitations of language and understanding. But it doesn't make love any less still real.⁠

I've been wending my slow way through bell hooks' book, "All About Love." Something that she talks about in the beginning is how she realized after working extensively with a therapist, she was that she was never loved by her family. She never learned how to love from her parents. She explains that while she received care, support, praise, and affection from her parents, she also received extremely confusing expressions of "love" that was saddled with Not applicable, mental, and emotional violence, and perpetuated generational trauma.

At first, it felt a little shocking to me -- even disloyal -- to read that the author even came to a realization like this, to admit that the people who raised her and nurtured her in all the ways that society expects parents to, was not actually love. Who was she to decide how her parents expressed their love anyhow? But after thinking on it more, her perspective began to make more sense. Most relationships in society are built on a transactional basis, and from a certain perspective a lot of them make sense. If I pay my electric bill on time, I expect the light to turn on when I flip the switch. It's a transaction. But when transactions become the basis for a more intimate relationship like that of a parent and a child, I can see how it can quickly leech love from the picture.

It may seem like a trivial thing at first, but the transactional mindset can become a habit in many ways. It can start as a simple expectation of how my son should behave based on what I am doing for him: If I treat him to ice cream after school, he should be on his best behavior at the ice cream parlor. This kind of framing is a transaction, an expectation of one behavior in exchange for a benefit. And I wonder if this habitual kind of thinking easily grows over time into larger expectations of how children conduct themselves in life later on.

For instance, it is an often-told story in many immigrant families of parents who toil through years of hard, Not applicable labor, to give their children a brighter future -- so they can go to medical school or law school or become a software engineer -- only to become disillusioned when their children decide to switch to a less stable career, fail to perform well enough, or feel bitter towards their parents because of the pressure and burden of guilt.

So what then, is a more appropriate way to frame a relationship in order for love to be present?

Love as a state of being that emerges, as Amit Pagedar describes, when "comparison, envy, insecurity, fear, and hate disappear." Rupert Spira describes the love we feel as the "felt sense of a lack of separation." bell hooks shares the act of love as "to extend oneself for the spiritual growth of another."

Love as a state, love as a feeling, love as an action. I like all three definitions, and to combine them in my relationship with my son, is to remove expectation, to see him not as a separate person I'm transacting with, to help him grow spiritually. To take my very mundane ice cream outing example, instead of feeling betrayed by my son or painting him as ungrateful, I could frame the entire experience as something entirely different:

1. I think taking my son out for ice cream could be an enjoyable experience for both of us.
2. He begins to act in a way that is not appropriate to the outing.
3. I therefore slow down and help him and myself find emotional balance.
4. The outing is postponed and revisited at a later date.

I can choose not to saddle the outing with pre-defined expectations. I can change the goal from "having a nice time together eating ice cream" to "working through a moment of emotional dis-regulation." And I can always try again.

To put this kind of perspective into practice after so many years of programming my understanding of love and relationships is for me, seriously uphill work. But it is also a very liberating perspective, to see love not as a finite well to draw from, that can in times of conflict and difficulty feels like it could run dry, but as an endless and ever changing ocean to swim in with everyone else. It's empowering to feel that I am capable of such love. I hope you know that you are, too.

Albert Camus said, "Man is the only creature who refuses to be what he is."

There is always something else to do, some other way to act or talk or dress or think, that we struggle with in order to be "better." So isn't it funny that we have such impossible standards for ourselves and a completely different standard for animals -- like dogs, for instance -- a standard that is based on universal generosity?

From my understanding, there is no real competition on whether someone's dog is better than another's. When someone says, "My dog is the best!" does anyone actually feel threatened by those claims? For the most part, we smile. We delight at the relationship they have with their dog. We curiously ask for more details. We share in their joy. But turn that around and when someone says, "I'm the best!" or "My boyfriend is the best!" or "My mom is the best!" we find ourselves balking at such boastful claims or end up comparing our own lives and relationships, worrying that we somehow fall short.

I wonder: What does it take for a dog to be the best dog to his owner? Maybe a dog only has to be himself, be with his owner. Maybe a dog only has to accompany his owner in life. A dog needs only to be present to be the best.

I also wonder: Wouldn't it be so much kinder if we believed that to be the best person is to do the same? If all we needed to do to be our best is to show up and just be there for ourselves and the people in our lives with complete presence of mind without thinking we need to be different or be somewhere else or doing something else?

For instance, when I ask myself what my son might remember in years to come as things that made me the "best mom," I doubt he will recall that I mended his school uniforms or kept the house clean or arranged the classiest Christmas decorations. My guess is he'll remember that I sat with him everyday as he worked on his homework, showing me proudly how to write a certain character in Mandarin. Or he'll remember our water fight as he rinsed dishes with me after dinner. Or maybe, he'll remember playing make believe, pretending to be Santa placing pretend presents under the tree while Mom and Dad acted as little children sleeping away on Christmas Eve.

The demands of being "the best" can feel never ending, and so I have to decide where to draw the line. I have to decide what the ending looks like. For right now, it's about being there for my family when we are together and not longing for something different. Maybe the ending looks different for you, because of other demands on your time and energy, because of circumstances out of your control. And that's OK.

Let's leave comparison behind. We can all be "the best" and not take away from each other's glory. In fact, I believe that by being our best, we add to our collective contentment -- when I am my best, and you're your best, we are all better off together.

Don't let love get crowded out. Negativity and despair can easily overwhelm one's ability to recognize love. At the other end, anger says there's no place for love in a fight. But love is everything.

The Tao teaches that love excludes nothing and allows for the multitude of things to exist at once. It's the starting point from which ten thousand are possible and lays the foundation for hope, which is the catalyst for action.

As Baba Ram Dass says, as long as you have a body, you must act. And if you act, you have a role to play. And the question of what role therefore becomes, how can I be an instrument of love?