using the arrow buttons.
by clicking on the page.
the page around when zoomed in by dragging it.
the zoom using the slider when zoomed-in.
by clicking on the zoomed-in page.
by entering text in the search field, and select "This Issue" or "All Issues"
by clicking on thumbnails to select pages, and then press the print button.
displays sections with thumbnails and descriptions.
displays a slider of thumbnails. Click on a page to jump.
allows you to browse the full archive.
about your subscription?
Lions Roar : January 2011
SHAMBHALA SUN jANUAry 2011 25 I never read weather forecasts. as soon as I read one, tomorrow is clouded for me, even if it is sunshine that’s predicted. a part of me is making plans, or second-guessing the heavens; a part of me is saying, “I should be able to get in a second walk to- morrow, though by sunday night it’s going to be cold again.” when it turns out different, as it often will, all my thinking is in vain. It isn’t that weather forecasts mess with my mind. It’s that the mind is so ready to mess with everything it touches—to make theories around it, to draw fanciful conclusions from it, to play distorting games of projection and miscalculation—that even the elements are not safe from it. I never look at my wife’s schedule for the month. I’ve learned not to read the jacket synopsis of any book I pick up. I don’t read reviews till after I’ve encountered the movie or book. It’s not that I don’t trust them; it’s that I don’t trust my mind to make good use of them. It has a supreme gift, I’ve found, for complicating the simple and muddying what could and should be transparent. It can take the tiniest detail and turn it into a drama or a uni- verse of needless speculation. I don’t want to hear about anne’s life before I meet her, because then I’m meeting someone else’s subjective image of anne, or my agitated response to someone else’s subjective response, and not the wondrous and confound- ing reality of anne herself. all Buddhists know this, I think, but it took me the longest time to learn. I remember, years ago, inviting an old friend up to a beautiful retreat house I had found. as soon as you get there, I told him (violating my own rule, and possibly spoiling the ex- perience in advance for him), all thoughts of past and future fall away. You’re entirely in the moment and in a great bowl of ocean and stars, in which you disappear and become as large and spa- cious as the universe around you. You can’t fret in such a place, I said, and you can’t play neurotic games. It’s as if a filter is placed in your system, and all impurities dissolve. needless to say, he was intrigued by my description and want- ed to try it for himself. he made a reservation, months in ad- vance, for a time when I would be there. every day when I woke up in the silence, awaiting his arrival, I saw things with his eyes. I prayed—as I never would usually—for the days to be cloud- less and warm. I worried—though worry was nearly impossible here—that it would be louder than usual when he came, or the wrong monk would be on duty in the bookstore. I fretted that the road would be closed off, or a group of raucous schoolchil- dren might be visiting. I even began to fear that it would not be the place that he’d imagined from my accounts. for day after day of radiant silence, I threw myself out of para- dise by living inside his possible responses and not inside the transparent moment. I corrupted my own paradise while wor- rying it would not be his. so of course there was a poetic justice when, near the end of my two-week stay, he called up to cancel— and I realized that my invitation had not deprived him of his selfless calm (since he never came up to the monastery at all), but me of mine. a trivial example, but it’s through trivia that I experience my follies and learn to correct them. Most times that I fret and chafe about an upcoming engagement, someone cancels; most times photoBYdougfogelson The Folly of the Weather Forecast Not knowing the future helps Pico iyer keep his hyperactive mind at bay. Then, whether it snows tomorrow or dawns radiant, every moment is a happy surprise. Pico iyer is the author, most recently, of the open road: the global Journey of the fourteenth dalai lama.