many years. In some buried, secret, papered-over place inside myself, from the hour of Grandma May’s death, I had wanted that. And I knew, sitting there, that if I had the courage to reach down beyond all my strategies, my pride, my clever humor, my busyness and wants and penchant for distraction and judgment, my resistance to Cecelia’s odd enthusiasms, and arrive at the place where intuition and intellect joined forces—the place where a person came as close as humanly possible to seeing the world as it was—in that place I would have to admit to myself that Volya Rinpoche knew a secret about
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