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A message from India


I had a strange dream early this morning, about a friend, a man I know only slightly, an artist whose work I admire very much. I was in India, somewhere out in the countryside. I’ve never been to India, mind you, so I don’t really know where this is coming from. But I saw him there. It was early in the morning, as well, and I was brushing my teeth. I was on a beach and he appeared, then said my family were, apparently, spreading rumours saying they didn’t believe he had ever been in Mongolia. That he was lying. He had been there, or course, as it is a major part of his aesthetic sensibility. I started to tell him my family wasn’t here, it must have been someone else, but decided not to be defensive. I had done nothing wrong. I then started talking to some of the tradesmen selling their wares in a carnival atmosphere. I was enjoying the banter. They offered me various kinds of unknown foods, things I had never considered edible before. These delicacies tasted good. I decided then that Atisha is right: “Always rely on just a happy frame of mind.”


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