This is our eighth anniversary issue. One year for each petal of the lotus seat. Old enough to celebrate the slim odds of surviving the high mortality rate for magazines of any ilk, let alone of the singular independent Buddhist variety. Yet as a measure of time, “eight years” has no meaning. The experience of that amount of time is, on some days, very very long. Almost geologic. On other days, it seems just around the corner, as if the collapse of time might best be apprehended in terms of spatial proximity.