I try to do the breathing exercise where you watch your thoughts and emotions and simply label them: “thought…,” “emotion…” I don’t find wise mind, but once again I discover how intensely painful it is to just be with myself. As I try to sit, an image from an old Life magazine takes hold. It’s a Tibetan monk, sitting in his robes, on fire. I remember reading that the monk set himself ablaze to protest China’s occupation of Tibet. I know that my feeling of being burned alive is much less noble, and completely invisible, but that’s how I feel, sitting with myself: on fire.
