Outside the window the air machine hummed and swooshed and I felt the same small irritation inside me that I’d felt listening to Rinpoche give his talk. Or a cousin of that feeling, at least. I suppose it came simply from the world not being exactly the way I wanted it to be—my sister’s quirks, my own moods and failings, the harsh laws of business, the sting of seeing real poverty and knowing I was not doing much to fix it. It occurred to me that, if I made it to old age, the chances were good that these kinds of irritations would assume a larger role in my life. The teeth, the joints, the
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