In the end, they got me with the tote bag.
Back when I fled the publishing industry, I went through a period of radical cleansing of all ties with the publications I used to regularly consume for work (and sometimes for pleasure). This included The New Yorker, which was like a badge of honor on my freshly minted editorial assistant uniform. I’d march to the subway every morning in my high heels, coffee in one hand and my thin, folded magazine in the other while I twisted myself around the pole for balance. (This was the time before ubiquitous music-listening, so reading was still a pretty common form of subway entertainment.) As much as I genuinely enjoyed perusing the “Talk of the Town,” learning about local events I likely wouldn’t attend but could, and diving into some of the best reporting and writing in the world, The New Yorker is in some ways mentally abusive. Like a bad boyfriend, there were enough moments of joy and pleasure to keep me renewing my subscription, but most of the time its arrival elicited a pang of dread and guilt. Its slim body belies a bulky interior—the pages are dense with prose (and poetry—!), and reading it cover to cover could take a the full week, just in time for the next issue to arrive without a pause to catch your breath. Keeping up is hard for everyone, and at the time I was often reading entire books in a single day for work. I rarely made it to the monthly fiction (arguably the weakest part of the magazine). By the time I canceled my subscription, I had a pretty tall stack of unread issues that weighed on my mind like an anvil. Tossing them in the recycling, all at once, felt like a deep breath from the bottom of the crushing ocean.
Fast forward a few years, and the PTSD of publishing had faded. In its place, an interesting counterpoint: a longing to immerse my mind into long-form writing. Like many people, I mourned the loss of my attention for and interest in reading books in the early days of COVID; there was just too much going on, and every story somehow seemed to play into the existential fears and loss of human connection of the moment. Slowly, I regained my capacity for reading books. But the kind of writing that lived in between a social media post and a full-length book was lagging behind. Plus, part of me longed to be part of the intellectual culture that used to define my life. Despite all of my ongoing studies of Eastern philosophy and plant medicine, despite taking on the legitimately crazy task of writing and publishing a book 100 percent by myself, I wanted to feel smart. I was getting tired of the chameleon hustle needed to try to stay afloat in a cookie-cutter industry, while my heart resisted the models for a “successful” independent business with every sun salutation and conversation about why you can’t just take triphala.
My ubiquitous New Yorker tote bag was looking as worn-out and shambly as my mind felt. Since the machines can read our thoughts now, I started getting marketing emails for the subscription that once suffocated me, and now beckoned me like a straw through which I could find breath even if I had to stay underwater a little while longer. Convincing myself that I needed a new tote, I gave into my true motive: I wanted my old brain, and, a little bit, my old life.
*
When the first issue of my new-old reading friend arrived, I was practically giddy. I slipped it into my bag and made a formal plan for sitting on a bench in the park to read between classes (how New Yorker of me . . . 😉). My muscle memory of reading the magazine came back like the choreography for an *NSYNC song. A cruise through the short openers, brief pauses on the luxury ads that strategically interrupted the flow of a piece. I landed on the first “real” article about 30 pages in, and without any professional agenda of trying to turn the piece into a book I could acquire, I felt something new. My reading was slow and patient. I laughed. I didn’t have my finger tucked under the corner anticipating the page turn. I sat evenly on both sitting bones.
It seemed like my mission was 100 percent successful. Here I was, reading immersively and with a kind of engagement that I didn’t even expect—that I didn’t know would be possible given this familiar material. It was like reconnecting with an ex and actually being friends—when did that happen??
And then, halfway through my delight, I felt another new thing. My body became restless. The bench was suddenly extremely uncomfortable—painful!—and no combination of leaning or leg-crossing helped. My vision softened to take in the full, massive width of the three-columned page full of ridiculous punctuation. I flipped ahead to see how much more of the article was left, fast-mathing in my head to find out how much longer I’d have to be trapped in these pages, reading. Before I got to the end, I decided I might need an extra five minutes to get to the studio. Quick as a whip, I closed the magazine, shoved it in my bag, started walking, and breathed a sigh of relief—and fear.
*
In the years since I’ve been a health counselor, I’ve always been fascinated when some part of my body breaks down—my fascia, my muscles, my lungs, my immune system. Even through the real discomfort, I can somehow zoom out of myself and observe, witness-style, the etiology and pathology and think, “Wow, so this is what this is like. How cool!” Observing my mind break down in the pages of The New Yorker didn’t elicit that same curiosity and awe. There was no witness mind, just my novelty-seeking, rajas-ified mind, having reached its attention limit far sooner than I expected. Nor could I as easily participate in the recovery from said breakdown. For days afterward, I side-eyed the magazine as it lay like a time bomb on my table. Should I try again? Maybe the first time was like a warm-up, and now I’ll be on my reading game. But maybe I’d fail again, and have to experience, again, this death of my former self and the disillusion of my current self’s smartness.
As I sat with this situation, all the while writing and editing my own book, plus reading plenty for work and pleasure, I came to some realizations that softened the blow of that afternoon in the park. Obviously I could still read, and certainly pay attention; several stretches of working in my manuscript could be described as a “flow state.” But many things about my, and all of our, daily communications have changed since I was a young publishing professional and could balance so many things in my hands, on my shoulders, and in mind, at once. You probably don’t need me to tell you, but I will: these d*mn phones. They’re everywhere! They do everything! Precisely their intention, but to give the Tech Bros some credit, maybe not to the degree and perniciousness with which they’ve infiltrated our lives.
Our tiny screens, and especially the apps that they house, were specifically designed to exploit the most vulnerable parts of our human brains. To this, the Tech Bros have confessed. The very things that make social media so addictive—the (false) sense of community and belonging, the reinforcement of external approval, the bright lights and colors (even more since video has superseded photos), the endless scroll format, the messages of improvement and need, the algorithm itself—are the same things that at one point we needed to stay alive. Designed to pick up on potentially threatening novelty in our environment, our senses are wired to go toward anything that’s unfamiliar, and anything that might reinforce a sense of lack or deficiency (negativity bias). When we’re exposed to such stimuli for the majority of our day, however, this evolutionary strength becomes a weakness.
I wouldn’t go so far as to say the human species is evolving with technology, but certain concepts from Vedic philosophy offer helpful explanations about what’s happening in our minds while under this ubiquitous, addictive influence.
First, let’s take a collective breath and remember that the troubles we have with our minds have been around, well, forever. In the first few yoga sutras, written around 2,000 years ago, we learn that yoga is achieved when the “fluctuations of the mind” (vrttis) are redirected toward the self; moreover, that the disintegration of the Self arises when the mind identifies with its inherent movements and its variable content. In Ayurveda, we hear from Sushruta, the founder of surgery, that diseases stem from “desire” (raga; synonymous with blood). These ancient technologies, along with all the other mindfulness and spiritual traditions that focused on meditation and prayer, recognized what feels like a very modern problem, where dancing light boxes and nonstop consumption fill our days (and nights). In the past, troublesome emotions or thought patterns would have a somewhat blank canvas on which to unfold; our environments weren’t that exciting, which in certain ways heightened the mind’s quest to invent something new and interesting. So why not dwell on a family argument, or that rude lady at the market, or the uncertainty of this year’s harvest? Eventually, though, the vrttis quieted, like kids running around a playground until they collapse into naptime. Today, we will still hold on and ruminate and seek entertainment, but our environment is all too happy to oblige and keep that vrtti-train going. And so distractibility, and identification with those distractions, is reinforced not only with more content, but good feelings. Every time we get a like, follow, email, or text message, our minds say “yay, a friend!” And who would choose to spend say, 30 minutes, paying attention to one, boring thing when you could possibly gain a new friend every second? Inconceivable!
Inconceivable is exactly right. Hooked on the high of one more swipe, post, message, episode, etc., we are collectively experiencing one of the “doshas,” a word that means “fault” or “shadow,” of the mind. The mahaguna of rajas, as described in yoga, seeks change even when it is not necessary. Rajas is a necessary part of existence—it’s what wakes us up in the morning and makes us care to do anything at all, that push of energy to break the inertia we naturally tend toward without effort. But in excess, rajas transforms into restlessness, obsession, anger, competition, and judgment. In response to stress, rajas fights or flees, gathering strength and power in physicality. Sound familiar? This is the ecosystem of social media.
Why would anyone willingly engage with rajas, you ask? Well, the stimulation of rajas is actually the antidote to the other mahaguna rising in prevalence: tamas. The principle of inertia and stagnation, tamas resists change even when it’s necessary. While healthy tamas moves us toward states of rest and relaxation, including that 4 pm slump and, later on, full sleep, excess tamas will look like apathy, depression and anxiety, fear, isolation/loneliness, jealousy, and self-defeat. In response to stress, tamas freezes—I’m probably going to die anyway, so why fight it? Doesn’t this also sound familiar in the online world?
Digital life has pitted rajas and tamas, which, remember, are inherent to all aspects of material reality including the mind, as both the causes and antidotes to our collective dis-ease. Cut off from family and community, and worn out by unrealistic work expectations and demands on our time just to stay alive, we sink under the surface of the algae-covered lake of tamas. Desperate for air, we grasp onto any source of rajas—caffeine, drugs, shopping, sugar, scrolling—that might help us swim up to the surface just to feel alive. But since our systems are so depleted, the boost is temporary—we sink again, then gasp for air at the surface again, and repeat.
With this perspective, it’s clear why the myriad, though still somewhat vague, diagnoses around our minds’ sharpness and suppleness are on the rise. Anxiety, depression, and trauma were still taboo to talk about when I was a teenager; now, we (not everyone, but much more commonly than before) wear these states on our sleeves, as normal as saying “I have skin” or “I have a liver.” Added to that, we have labels of ADHD, ASD, dementia, and more being stamped on our brains’ from cradle to grave. While there are many factors that contribute to these conditions, even those varied factors largely boil down to one thing: stress. For all the various ways we can be stressed, react to stress, and hold onto the memory of stress (and try to avoid it), our bodies will corroborate that stress in all of the varied and intricate ways they work.
If we think we adults are suffering from this situation, what about the kids? Pre-pubescent brains are still very much in-formation, and when their impressionable gray matter is being fed toxic stimuli—that which undermines self-worth and actively inhibits key developmental traits like impulse control, and the creativity and social relations/rules that come from IRL play—what kind of adults do we expect them to become? We can extrapolate, but we don’t really know, because this has never happened before in the history of our species. Never before has an entire generation been exposed to technology-as-we-know-it before puberty. And this not-knowing, unto itself, is enough to drown us in rajas and tamas. If the kids are not all right, and the adults who are supposed to be in charge are also not all right, what do we do? Scroll.
*
I’d wanted to share the story with which I opened this piece almost immediately after it happened. I had a lot of feelings—fear, annoyance, intrigue—and I thought writing would help me digest them (and offer a lesson for all of us about how/why to observe the trends in our own mind). But I decided to wait, and I’m glad I did. Because since that moment in late summer, I’ve put some pieces together that feel timely for this last step in our year-long exploration of the srotamsi. Per their natures, time and the mind have arrived at a place of stillness and clarity around the causes of, and remedies to, my own threatened attention—and how to support you if your mind is also feeling like a skittish horse.
Everything you just read helped set the stage for a conversation about the srotas (channel) that’s been motivating our whole year-long curriculum; and which motivates our entire notion of Selfhood per the Vedas: the manovaha srotas, or the channel of the mind. It is the enigmatic “+1” of the “13+1” srotamsi that have occupied our attention for the last eleven months:
- Pranavaha srotas
- Annavaha srotas
- Ambuvaha srotas
- Purishavaha srotas
- Mutravaha srotas
- Svedavaha srotas
- Rasavaha srotas
- Raktavaha srotas
- Mamsavaha srotas
- Medovaha srotas
- Asthivaha srotas
- Majjavaha srotas
- Shukravaha srotas and Artavavaha srotas
Exploring each of these systems independently has certainly yielded some interesting insights, on the mat and on the page. For me as a teacher, it’s been fun and challenging to come up with ways to discuss these channels, even when there wasn’t such an obvious movement component. But no matter what you remember about the different qualities of poop (purishavaha srotas), how to practice lymphatic drainage (rasavaha srotas), or which muscles bend and straighten your knee (mamsavaha srotas), the thing I hope you remember most, and which we will reinforce now, is their unification in the mind itself.
The manovaha srotas is both distinct from and embedded in all of the other srotamsi; its health can influence, and is influenced by, the structural integrity and contents of the entire gross body, all its organs and tendons and tunnels and wobbly bits. I reminded myself of this whenever I hit a wall in teaching this year: the same lessons that affected the one, singular mind could be applied to the baker’s dozen of physical channels. And since my purpose was to support the experience of this integrated Self, I didn’t feel bad at all about repeating myself. My mind coming up against limitation, and realizing the resolution in the limitation itself, was all part of the lesson.
Manovaha Srotas Anatomy
- Function: Perception and reaction to stimuli; thinking, feeling, inquiring, deciding, discrimination, desire, memory, communication
- Mula (root): Heart
- Marga (path): Entire body, especially the 10 major vessels
- Mukha (exit): Sense organs, mārmaṇi
So when I found myself stumbling over the task of reading—something I loved and, frankly, identified with—on the park bench in August, I saw a living example of the manovaha srotas. A mind under the influence of rajas was coursing through my body, creating physical sensations of discomfort and restlessness. The more I gave into them, the stronger the rajas became: ahh, I can get what I want if I’m loud enough! Around that time, other choices—like one more cup of full-caff coffee, one more episode of Grey’s Anatomy before bed—ensued. And so I continued to spiral out on rajas.
Familiar with how this story ends, I mustered some tapas (discipline) and stopped the train before it ran off the tracks. To my surprise and delight, my mind course-corrected quickly after some fairly simple (though not easy) changes. I’d already quit Instagram earlier this year, so that wasn’t a tease; but I started keeping my phone in a separate room during the day while working so I’d have to intentionally get up and check it, which became less interesting (sometimes I even forgot where it was). I started eating dinner even earlier, since suddenly I could feel myself getting hungry rather than being distracted by work and too much activity. I switched back to reading before bed—and guess what, I fell asleep really fast! Turns out I get tired at night (what?!?), and the early dinner made for less interference in tamas coming in on-cue. Eventually, I even found myself glancing at, then picking up, an issue of The New Yorker from my pile and diving in without bracing in my stomach or holding breath in anticipation of losing my attention.
While sitting with this experience, I was in the throes of finishing my book on—of all things—practices to work with the mind through the senses. Earlier in the process, I had the disarming, and ultimately sweet, revelation that I could, through practice, not learn to control my mind, as is often taught/explained in yoga circles, but befriend it. My mind—the mind—is ever and always trying to keep us alive and safe. Over the course of my decades-long healing journey, I’d settled on a narrative that my imbalances were the fault of my mind—for it being so delicate and needy and unable to come back to reality even once the storm had passed. I edited my own story to one of gratitude, and it was like that first day in fourth grade when I put on prescription glasses. Suddenly, everything was clear. The overtones of rajas (racing from one practitioner, one herb, one treatment to the next) and tamas (the desperation motivating those actions) were gone, and everything was normal again. I realized that our relationship with the mind is one of privilege and responsibility—the tending of a sensitive yet powerful force that is, for better or worse, changeable.
I started to wonder, too, whether all of these diagnoses that belittle and judge our minds’ capacities are really variations from the norm. If the mind is changeable, inherently rajasic and tamasic, then what if our variations in attention, learning, socialization, and memory are all part of one big spectrum? Some might experience a more specific range of these qualities somewhere along the spectrum; some can move around the spectrum more easily; sometimes, we all get stuck in one corner and need help finding our way out. Going back to the original life coaches/therapists of Ayurveda and yoga, routine and ritual are the medicine we all need for a healthy, integrated, nonattached manovaha srotas—and by association, for a healthy whole body. For those who tend to dwell in the extremes of the spectrums, more, and more rigorous, routine is necessary; for those who fall more in the middle, it’s not that we don’t need as much routine, but we can just more easily convince ourselves that we don’t need it, then have to double-down with effort to get back to baseline.
Our mind-diagnosis use standards of speed, productivity, and engagement that are, frankly, inhuman. Maybe the mind isn’t the problem, but rather the expectation that the mind act like a machine. For those of us who can’t meet that standard, our humanity is deemed pathological. For those of us who can (or seem to), our humanity eventually wins and pathology finds us, the Self’s desperate cry that we pay attention to it rather than what’s out there.
Suddenly, I found myself saying the words that all authors want to believe about their books, even when it’s not really true. While the topic of mine is arguably quite niche, and I could list out “target audiences” among the clinical diagnoses I named as well as medical professionals who specialize in them, sense-care, as a tool for tending and building resilience in the mind with ritual attention, is really for everyone.
*
Facing this vast epidemic of challenged attention, I felt both motivated and powerless. Even if all of you reading this, and whomever reads my book, plus all of the millions of people who already practice yoga and meditate, committed to a daily routine for the health of their minds, we’d still have a problem. Because the problem isn’t only us. As Johann Hari writes in his book Stolen Focus, the “system” (and all that that implies) is so entangled with technology and consumption and the economy of attention/distraction that no one can fully escape. Briefly, I considered what it would be like to get a “dumb phone.” In my thought-experiment, I could get away with most things; I don’t have a ton of apps, relatively speaking, and I live in a grid-based city so could always just work harder to remember how to navigate. The biggest obstacle, ironically, was that I need certain apps to check in students for my classes; and to play music for said classes, otherwise I’d need a separate device with downloaded music and a speaker to play it on (since the studios all use bluetooth sound systems). Ahh, the golden handcuffs of convenience!
My astrologer will confirm that I’m someone who always walks their talk, though, so I didn’t give up on this mission even if I had to concede to keeping my iPhone (wah wah). If I was going to teach not just exercises to support the mind, but a lifestyle that supported it, I had to model that behavior. And this newsletter was the first thing that came to mind as teaching tool.
First, if you’ve read my work for any length of time (even if this is your first article, which I primed you for in the subtitle), you’ll know I write long. I always have, and always will. While I’m not about to dig my heels in tamas-style and say I’m incapable of, or refuse to, write short pieces, it’s just not in my nature. It’s not how my mind works. I have complex ideas that flow out in long sentences with many embedded causes that I always (mostly) make sure are grammatically correct. And when they’re not, it’s for “style.”
I realize that these qualities are not super desirable (or, at least, not super popular) in our world of 200 characters and three-second CTAs. In theory, I admire the teachers who are “going with the flow,” “meeting people where they are,” etc., and trying to distill these concepts from yoga and Ayurveda into something more “digestible” for our 2025 brains. In practice, though, this enrages me. Not only does it reduce the integrity of, and contradict the slow-and-steady message of, these traditions, but it feeds into the very problems we are trying to solve. The rajasic and tamasic mind can and will contribute to all of the physical problems you can think of because the mind lives in the body (that is, alas, something that fits in a sound-byte). Feeding people more pieces of bite-sized information, more newsletters and emails and posts, even if the content is arguably more wholesome than videos of hate crimes and racist rantings, the medium is the message (to quote the famous media theorist Neil Postman). Ayurveda and yoga in this form is the equivalent of advising people to consume a “grazing” diet. And not uncoincidentally, when we graze with our food, it has similar effects on our biochemistry—and therefore mental state—as grazing on social media. Like a machine made to work over and over and over in small bursts with no rest, the gears just wear out and we lose our ability to digest, period, turning anything we take into our systems through our senses into ama (metabolic waste).
And so here I am, again, writing long. And I will keep writing long as long as I write. I’m not trying to challenge you per se, or create discomfort. But if you find yourself looking at the “read time” on these or any other articles and flinching, I challenge you to inquire what that’s about. I told a story not too long ago about my own discomfort with long-form reading (do you remember?), so I’m right there with you. But with practice, and in discerning what kind of content is actually nourishing to consume, you might find yourself able to read something for more than ten seconds, retain some of that information, and maybe even look forward to the next dose. Read it in pieces; bookmark it and come back; hey, even print it out.
Which brings me to another insight about how I might contribute to our collective attention problem—and its resolution. I regret that I’m not able to spend time with all of you in person, practicing yoga and taking walks and drinking coffee together while discussing these themes. Technology is a gift in allowing widespread connections, and yet we are all at a saturation point (including me). When I joined the Substack platform this year, I hoped to join a community of readers and writers committed to long-form writing, to serious ideas, to art and thinking. Unfortunately, the platform (like all of them!) is changing rapidly, and my expectations haven’t been exactly met. I myself resisting logging in to post my own articles, intimidated by the “feed” and provoked into anxiety and judgment when I don’t see the “numbers” I want. Since I don’t want to engage with it myself, why would I ask you to? So I’m taking my words—all of them—back over to my website. So far, I don’t have as structured of a “curriculum” for 2026 (I mean, I wrote a nearly 500-page book and enough newsletters to fill a smaller book; manas needs a rest . . .), so when and what I share next year is TBD. I promise, though, it will be worth your while to open those emails when they arrive.
If you’re still reading, you found your way to my website, so that’s a good first step. Next, make sure you add your email to the pop-up box or field at the top of the screen so you’re on my email list.
*
It’s December, and so along with my personal P&L and bulk spices and sweaters, I’ve been taking an inventory of this past year—the challenges, the wins, the insights, and the questions. Teaching the way I do is a useful tool for this kind of self-reflection, since I have multiple snapshots of the state of my body-mind from throughout the year. As I spiraled backward through the srotamsi, I recalled—with sukha and dukkah—a whirlwind of changes in my body (thanks, hormones!) alongside a blessed lack of injury and illness; a state of satisfaction and joy in my life choices alongside major punctuation marks of acute, existential anxiety and fear; a mixed bag of yes’s and no’s that were sometimes the right decisions, and sometimes the (very) wrong ones. When I approached these last two months of srotamsi, all of this accumulation suddenly felt very heavy. I found myself at a personal edge, wondering if anything I was doing was worth it and how I could possibly make the impact I genuinely, desperately, wanted to make if not on the world, than the few dozen people I interact with regularly (worthy considerations, but also signs that my tired, sensitive, human-baby mind just needs little break—right on time for hibernation season). I journaled about it, meditated on it, emoted and strategized about it in therapy.
And then I took my pulse.
I was observing a lecture on pulse-taking during a clinical training in Ayurveda, which I had the privilege to assist this fall. While I admit I’m not a regular pulse-taker, even on myself, I was familiar enough with the concepts that my attention floated in and out during the teacher’s explanations. Still, I participated each time she instructed the students to wrap their fingers around their own wrists and feel.
The pulse can support the diagnosis of doshic imbalances (vikrti) as well as constitution (prakriti) in Ayurveda. But as the teacher wisely noted, it’s also a very deep reflection of a person’s capital-S Self. It may reveal something that’s not on the surface, something that isn’t said but is known. Having your pulse taken is one of the most intimate forms of connection, which is why it must be given and received judiciously. You are feeling someone’s heart—the root of the mind, as well as of rasa, prana, and ojas. You are feeling the meeting point of all the substances and energies that sustain and enliven life—a microcosm of our macrocosm.
What I felt in my pulse that day was new (to me). It sparked a re-investment in the practices that give my heart the rhythm, tempo, and texture I would recognize as mine even if they were in a different wrist. In that moment, all of the questioning and burnout and doubt and emoting and strategizing—the vrttis my mind had attached to, and was being weighed down by—were gone. I knew what I wanted out of my life, out of my business, out of my relationships. So why settle for anything else? With that, my manovaha srotas returned to its True Nature: Sattva. The guna we haven’t talked about yet, but has been underlying it all as the North Star we all orient toward because it is really the Only Way. Sattva guna refers to a state of harmony, equanimity, and contentment—one of the states the mind can occupy. But it is also synonymous with the mind itself. When we look at the manovaha srotas as a strotas—an empty space, which actually comprises many other srotamsi and nadis—we see it as merely the field through which attention, and all its objects, moves. Such objectivity is not usually associated with our feeling minds, but it’s an option we can choose to engage with and cultivate. My ability to detect something in my field—in my pulse—that I didn’t want there, and realize that something I did want was missing, was enough to help me break through the survival-based story my thoughts were hooked on.
After a whole year of intentionally clearing the channels—week after week and month after month; pose after pose and breath after breath—lo and behold, clarity had arrived in my manovaha srotas.
When we give our attention to what our heart knows to be true and satisfying—that which allows the mind to spiral back in to its root and resist unnecessary distraction—sattva is what we get. You can’t get math simpler than that. If, like me, you’re in the process of inventorying your year, I encourage you to feel into what belongs and what doesn’t in the beautiful, spacious field of your mind. As the yogis teach, prana follows attention, so even without a pulse reading you’ll know you’ve landed in the right spot when things aren’t just clear, but prana-fied—imbued with energy, vitality, and an irresistible movement, like the deepest current of the ocean longing for the shore where breath and sky are always waiting, just so it can get pulled back under and do it all again.
As we prepare ourselves for a new year, I encourage you to keep going in the direction of clarity and prana—even if it means changing course mid-way. Hopefully, my writing and teaching will be part of your journey and occupy a meaningful place in your attentional field. But even if not, I’ll have done my job as a teacher if, instead of reading a lot of words on a screen, you are out hiking. Or dancing. Or volunteering. Or cooking. Or reading The New Yorker on a park bench. I’ve got a few issues stacked up myself, so I might see you there.
