Imagine you’re crossing a river in a boat, and another empty boat emerges from the thick fog and rams into you.

Someone wants something.

Something gets in their way.

We’d all like to live fulfilling, enjoyable, meaningful lives. The problem is, if that’s the goal, the way to get there is not at all obvious.

We aren’t stuck in traffic--we are traffic.

We often hear the Buddhist sentiment that we should live in the present. It’s problematic advice.

There’s a longstanding debate about whether humans are inherently cruel and violent or innately altruistic and kind. The short answer, of course, is both, but that isn’t all that helpful.

It’s an interesting quirk of human nature that sometimes we are the most confident about the things we understand the least.

When something passes from one person to another, it does so in one of two ways. Either it’s a transaction or it’s a gift.

Who are the people who really know how to push our buttons?

The idea that we “make” decisions is misleading. We are complex systems. No decision we make reflects all of us.

Over the last few months, I’ve developed a meditation practice that I do everyday. It’s something that I’ve tried to establish, unsuccessfully, for many years. I’m not entirely sure why, but this time it seems to be sticking.

A little while ago, I got to attend a week-long gathering with some people who have been meeting like this for over 50 years.

So many people look back on their average childhoods, where they were cared for and protected and given everything they needed, and still feel that they weren’t well-loved.

Who are we? It seems like a simple enough question, but as soon as we try to answer it, things get complicated.

Every argument or conflict is like an onion--it has multiple layers.

It’s spring, and pretty soon everyone’s garden will be erupting in bloom. That includes our neighbor’s camellia tree, with which I have a deeply ambivalent relationship.

Sometimes, in relationships, people say that they want to be known. They also say that they want to be seen. It’s worth considering whether those two wishes are not the same.

When I heard that the path of the solar eclipse was going to arc right through Cleveland, I called up an old friend who lives there part time and asked if I could crash with him that weekend. He said yes.

If you wander around downtown Berkeley, with your gaze turned downward rather than trained on the always colorful local inhabitants, you’ll soon run across one of several dozen metal medallions that have been fixed to the sidewalks in seemingly random spots.

It’s not in our nature to be stagnant.