When his son died, Emerson looked hard at grief. He later recalled it as a shallow emotion, depthless and unreal. No stoic lives far from the fact that we are born to die.
Ultimately, nothing is mine, and everything I call “mine” is even now in the process of going back to where it came from. Spiritual maturity is our readiness to let go of everything.
Time is a thief. It robs us blind. I wasn’t born with glasses.
The enlightened worker is not trying to make a profit. He’s not even trying.
We die as we live. It cannot be otherwise.
Every loss, every mishap and diminishment, is a mini-death. How do we respond?
The way we do anything is the way we do everything.