I am very cautious of people who are absolutely right, especially when they are vehemently so.
The Buddhist version of poverty is a situation where you have nothing to contribute.
Once the travel bug bites there is no known antidote, and I know that I shall be happily infected until the end of my life.
It was a strange feeling going into a church I did not know for a service that I did not really believe in, but once inside I couldn’t help a feeling of warmth and security. Outside there were wars and road accidents and murders, striptease clubs and battered babies and frayed tempers and unhappy marriages and people contemplating suicide and bad jokes, but once in St. Martin’s there was peace. Surely people go to church not to involve themselves in the world’s problems but to escape from them.
Contrary to what the politicians and religious leaders would like us to believe, the world won’t be made safer by creating barriers between people. Cries of “They’re evil, let’s get ’em” or “The infidels must die” sound frightening, but they’re desperately empty of argument and understanding. They’re the rallying cries of prejudice, the call to arms of those who find it easier to hate than admit they might be not be right about everything. Armageddon is not around the corner. This is only what the people of violence want us to believe. The complexity and diversity of the world is the hope for the future.
One of the difficult things of so much travelling is to say goodbye.
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