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    Finnegan At His Wake Paid Member

    The guru was dead. His body had just been cremated, lain in state, preserved by salts, for fifty days. His disciples were sitting in rows in the orange-pillared shrine hall that he had designed, with its blue and gilt trim and polished hardwood floor. His throne still rested on its vividly painted dais, the seat now occupied by a photograph of the youthful guru wearing a gold-brocade robe. "When the guru dies," he had once said, "there is still some warmth left behind." More »
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    There is sex and then there is sexuality. Paid Member

    SEVERAL YEARS AGO I found myself wondering just why the arena of sex was so important, not only to me but to just about everyone I knew. Why is this basic and universal drive the source of so much drama? Why is sex so difficult to talk about? And more to the point, why did I still find it so difficult to talk about? When I looked at sex in my life, I saw a… More »
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    Lama Shabkar Paid Member

    Born in 1181, Lama Shabkar, regarded as one of Tibet's great masters, is renowned for expounding the dharma through spiritual songs. The following passage was excerpted from The Life of Shabkar: The Autobiography of a Tibetan Yogin and reprinted with permission from State University of New York Press. ONE DAY as I went to refresh myself In the middle of a meadow, Many goats and sheep came from all sides And gathered around me. …Born in 1181, Lama Shabkar, regarded as one of Tibet's great masters, is renowned for expounding the dharma through spiritual songs. The following passage was excerpted from The Life of Shabkar: The Autobiography of a Tibetan Yogin and reprinted with permission from State University of New York Press. ONE DAY as I went to refresh myself In the middle of a meadow, Many goats and sheep came from all sides And gathered around me. More »
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    Life On The Hospice Ward Paid Member

    I'M A NEW hospice volunteer and walk up and down the ward between the two rows of beds with their pale blue sheers 2nd blankets and blue-green curtains that blend with the pale blue-green walls, which echo the green of the garden and the trees outside the windows. The hospice ward is minty, fresh, and light. Smokey, one of the resident cats, finds an empty bed and curls up on it. "Got a minute?" asks… More »
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    A Democracy of the Imagination Paid Member

                         Ernest Hemingway spoke once of sitting at his desk each morning to face "the horror of a blank sheet of paper." He found himself (as any writer can confirm) having to produce by the end of the day a series of words arranged in a way that has never before been imagined. You sit there, alone, hovering on the cusp between nothing and something. This is not a blank, stale nothing; it is an awesome nothing charged with unrealized potential. And the hovering is the kind that can fill you with dread. Rearrangement of the items on your desk assumes an irresistible attraction. More »
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    Letting Go: Life On The Hospice Ward Paid Member

    I'm a new hospice volunteer and walk up and down the ward between the two rows of beds with their pale blue sheets 2nd blankets and blue-green curtains that blend with the pale blue-green walls, which echo the green of the garden and the trees outside the windows. The hospice ward is minty, fresh, and light. Smokey, one of the resident cats, finds an empty bed and curls up on it. "Got a minute?" asks a haggard man with a husky voice. Of course I do, I have 180 minutes until the end of my shift. George introduces himself to me. "Sit with me while I smoke," he says. "Got a light?" More »