‘There’s a Buddhist image,’ I say, ‘it’s a mural of a snake, huge, lunging out of flames, and on the end of its forked tongue, a monk meditating. It isn’t about peace, a quiet life, not feeling things, not experiencing things. It’s about the shit hitting the fan, and having the courage to sit with yourself, not hide, not deny – to observe the tumult from the end of the snake’s tongue.’ ‘But for me, God is there too,’ says my friend. ‘That’s the difference.’
