I've been asked what is my favorite page from the book, and this is my favorite illustration -- or at least part of it. It's funny, because when I was taking painting lessons when living in Taipei, my teacher had painted a composition of wilted lotuses as a demonstration for a classmate who happened to be a Buddhist monk. The teacher gave a disclaimer saying normally we wouldn't choose such a subject to give another person, but as a practitioner of Buddhism who appreciates the concept of impermanence, death and rebirth, the student wouldn't mind.

The thing is that in Chinese culture, when giving works of art, one needs to be mindful of the meaning that could be conveyed by the subject. For example, if you give a recently married couple an painting of a pair of a mandarin ducks, which symbolize conjugal happiness, but the birds have clipped wings or are anatomically missing sections of feathers, it might be interpreted as hoping their marriage is short-lived.

Wilting flowers can mean a wish for someone's demise or predict a loss of good fortune, a waning of one's sun. But for me, it can also be beautiful. As Adrienne Maree Brown describes the role of mushrooms and decomposition, what is toxic, broken, decaying, and no longer serving life can still be used. It need not be wasted. It can be processed back into the wholeness of living. And I think of that when I look at this image. Brokenness only looks bad when I see it from a narrow point of view. When I expand my perspective to include the act of processing what's broken back into the whole, it looks beautiful.

Inspired by one of Sadhguru's most well-known speeches, this eye-opening chat reminds us that seeing the world with a beginner's mindset can be invaluable especially when engaging with a child.

Modern society teaches us that anything worthwhile doesn't come easily. We are always told that the good things in life take hard work. We have to work hard, study hard, play hard, and if we fail or fall short, we must try harder, practice harder, become harder. Everything hard, hard, hard... because life is hard.

As a result, I found that I got in the habit of approaching nearly everything in life as a confrontation, as something to conquer or overcome. Moreover, I assumed that if I didn't apply much effort at something, then there was something wrong, there was some kind of catch.

This was a pattern I fell into in my romantic relationships for many years. I had heard the narrative of couples working hard to stay together against all odds. The stories I heard as a child like "The Little Mermaid" and "Romeo and Juliet," all seemed to convey the same thing. If you really love someone, you fight to stay together. As I grew older, I seemed to pay attention to those narratives that upheld that belief. I was surrounded by stories of how difficult it was to maintain a relationship or marriage for decades. I received advice on working hard to communicate and of the necessity to sacrifice for each other. As a result, I felt that I couldn't leave a relationship when I felt it wasn't a good fit, because I was under the impression that I could just work on it until it did.

I was compelled to put huge effort into my relationships from the beginning in a way that set them perpetually off balance. This had become such a pattern for me, that when I started getting to know my now husband, it felt so weird and wrong at how easy and effortless it was to just be with him. It made it difficult to trust him and the relationship, because I was always waiting for the other shoe to drop. I often found myself pulling away, because I felt like I wasn't in control.

And I think that's one pitfall of the narrative of "working hard" can play out in our lives. We've set the expectation that life is hard, and so if we're not working hard at life, then we're somehow doing it wrong. Of course, relationships can hit rough patches, especially when under external stress factors. I am not blind to those truths, and my marriage is not immune to them either. There are many aspects of life that are extremely difficult. Moreover, life in general is unfair, and some of us have harder lives than others. But at the same time, let us ask ourselves: Is there still space for joy? Is there still space for grace? Or mercy? Or softness? Can we not make things more difficult than they have to be?

For most of us in most situations, the answer will always be yes. No matter how difficult, boring, sad, or painful something is, there is always room to introduce a little space for joy in our hearts. I'm not talking about blind optimism; I'm referring to making a little crack in the rigidity of our hard mindset, a crack that may seem to make us weaker, but ultimately is, as Leonard Cohen says, what lets the light in. The Dalai Lama also taught something similar, that no matter how difficult a situation, there is always room to be kind. And even the Seven Dwarves in Disney's "Snow White" showed a whole generation how to whistle while we work.

Here, in this week's comic, I've drawn the oxherd boy, weighed down by responsibility of looking after a young friend, while defending his lunch from far-too-interested chickens. Yet he still maintains a heart that doesn't crackle with toxic positivity, but reflects an imperturbable ease that I hope to bring forth in my daily life and that of my son, especially now that he's in school. The academic environment and tradition in Taiwan is very competitive, and while I recognize the value of applied discipline, at the same time, I try to remind my son: where is the joy in studying? If he can find it, then studying may not become as hard as we fear.

What do you think about the idea of working hard versus working cheerfully? Do you do one more often than the other, and if so, when?

Inspired by Wendell Berry's poem, "Our Real Work":

It may be that when we no longer know what to do
we have come to our real work,
and that when we no longer know which way to go
we have come to our real journey.
The mind that is not baffled is not employed.
The impeded stream is the one that sings.

This poem brings to mind another observation made by film-maker David Lynch who said that as we get older, it's not that that life becomes easier to navigate, but rather it's a limiting of imagination. When I think I know exactly what to do, do I necessarily check if it's the right thing to do, or am I just on auto-pilot?

Children struggle with the real work of living constantly as they learn to navigate the rules set forth by whatever culture and society they happen to be growing through. And maybe that's a gift, to be in a place of not knowing still even in old age -- which begs the question, "How can I continue to baffle my mind?"

They say that love doesn't come from you, it goes through you. As much as I like to be the agent of my actions, it feels so much more natural to me to consider myself a conduit of Love (with a capital L) that exists beyond myself. It feels right to listen to Love, to allow it to move through me, in the many different ways of expression that it needs to reach any individual in any situation.

How do you say "I love you," -- the answer is found not by learning how to speak, but in learning how to listen.

Ever since reading this quote by Baal Tem Shov, I've felt a sense of comfort (although small, ever so small) in moments of great uncertainty in my life. I hope you recognize each moment of your transformation, that no matter what happens, whoever you become will be there always in place of what you have been.

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.

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.

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.⁠

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.

In any social setting with expectations of proper behavior, there are demands on our ability to hide that the negative qualities while only displaying the positive. Sometimes that can reach a level that forces one to reckon with what kind of life to continue leading, what kind of relationship to continue pursuing.

That reckoning poses then, a most difficult choice -- does one choose to be seen honestly or does one choose to be acceptable?

Some days it feels hard to go softly with a compassionate heart. This quote by Krishna Das captures this dilemma so well. There are still ways to ripen, even if I have to drag myself there.

Is there a difference? Can you be one but not the other? Which would you pick if you could only choose one?

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.

Life often feels like a continuous step-wise act between feeling grounded and balanced, and being thrown completely off. It doesn't have to be a completely life-changing event -- though those obviously can and do happen -- but even within the space of an hour, I could be feeling in command and control preparing dinner one moment and then completely blind-sided by a violent tantrum the next.

The issue is that the more I hold onto what I should be, or maybe (more accurately) how I would prefer to be, it's impossible to flow with life. Like a caterpillar that fears the end of what it knows as its existence, holding myself back from what the situation is asking of me really only creates more conflict and denies the potential of what I could become.

To live, a snake must continuously outgrow itself. If it doesn't shed its old skin, it will perish.

We are no different. We grow not only physically from childhood to old age, but with every new stage in life, with every new experience and new perspective. It doesn't do to stay within the limits of our old selves. We, too, must shed them and leave them behind when they—as they inevitably will—no longer serve us.

Moreover, like a snake whose new skin takes time to harden, we find ourselves feeling uncertain and vulnerable until we become comfortable and confident in the new self. And then, the process starts over again, and again, in a continuous cycle of outgrowing.

If you feel like you're breaking, I hope you won't be afraid. Breaking creates the necessary space for things to become whole again. Wonder, instead, at who you will be next.