The Path to the highest View of Emptiness: Dr. Thupten Jinpa

I wonder can there be anyone incarnate who can interpret Mahayana Buddhist Ontological View known as Emptiness in the alien medium, modern English language, with such sense of security because of one's self-reliant hold on the two domains--the enlightening content and the means of expression--like Dr. Thupten Jinpa himself who we call Geshe la, and that on professional level. I know there was the artistic, dreamy, creative figure of a being, Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche, but he was not on that stringent level known as 'academic', 'professional'. Geshe la had worked so hard, like his own version of 'six years of ascetic life', and has continued to do so that he can present himself as what he is now, a great medium, a great practitioner, a down-to-earth creature. 

When I leave, I want to let go of everything and that with a sound preparation in advance

When I leave and let go of, I do so with a prior notice in the form of a long silence, the lacuna that you can't get hooked onto in any ways whatsoever, a secrecy, a mystery that I want to keep sequestered even from myself sometimes. That's what I want to add as a form of obituary to the loss of thee, His Eminence Ngari Rinpoche chok, the younger brother of His Holiness the great 14th Dalai Lama of Tibet.  Two elder brothers and one elder sister of thee already passed along the path that way..., my ultimate Guru, and now thy younger brother, your childhood playmate back then against a background looming with great uncertainty or human-created-doomscape.

After all, how possible that we can lie to ourselves: this life-supporting blue earth itself isn't as we think it's

After all, it's all about having a pithy knowledge of any in a nutshell. Here, it's about getting in the same way Tibet's history as an independent nation state as per both the ancient and modern convention of presenting as a doing, groundbreaking narrative. So it goes on so well with an ontological finding in terms of observer and matter, and that, so unconventionally, of both being there in a dreamy, sensitively wavering state cast forth by the observer's own caprice, delusive way of seeing and rating as otherwise, so reliable, concrete, uncompromising, sort of eternal... Yes, you should be able to put anything in a nutshell to be able to grasp, mind, coax over as you wish. Here, I want to remind you that if you've finished reading Voice for the Voiceless by His Holiness the Dalai Lama and Tibet Brief 20/20 by Michael Van Walt Van Praag, move on to reading Tibet was never Part of China since Antiquity by professor Hon-Shiang Lau. So we can sieve the gist into a nutshell, the mundane side for the world at large. The other side isn't for a commoner but for an eligible receptacle.

Arunachal woman detained, taunted 18 hours at Shanghai airport for her Indian passport

The question is about her name, namely that's Tibetan by origin and can be connoted in Tibetan only. As we have heard about a Tibetan named Penpa Tsering from the states detained at a Chinese airport and repatriated to the states, for they, the officials, had only the name to zero in on..., the name of the political leader of Tibetans in exile. So, as per the case, they, those robotic officials, might have thought that she is a Tibetan living in exile, namely in India and holding an Indian passport. By and large, it can be gauged what can be the case of being a Tibetan in Tibet under the totalitarian rule of CCP: the bigger picture that encompasses the serious, forced, systematic Sinicization of Tibetan children and youths in those 'boarding schools'. The treatment of her for her name can reflect a heinous abyss and that of the obliteration of a unique racial identity from the surface of this life-supporting, blue planet.

Read:

https://www.tibetanreview.net/arunachal-woman-detained-taunted-18-hours-at-shanghai-airport-for-her-indian-passport/?fbclid=IwY2xjawOS5FpleHRuA2FlbQIxMQBzcnRjBmFwcF9pZBAyMjIwMzkxNzg4MjAwODkyAAEeQymUdywzc_wj-mKOMpGm4d8UGJKi9wc8z-Qhj0509ZI14RE5l1GMktPfB58_aem_0DHlRfFSDGJe74deUybA9g

Mind Mapping: A personal approach toward finding out the prime causes of an ugly emotion like Jealousy to its corresponding reactions: Bodily, verbal, mental

Click the link below for a clearer pdf format of the above: 

https://acrobat.adobe.com/id/urn%3Aaaid%3Asc%3AEU%3Adcecda92-38c7-48d1-a1e8-82baf89fa9e6/?filetype=application%2Fpdf

In memory of a childhood friend, Tashi Dorjee

Rather than letting myself get shattered by the staggering fact of the lacuna whereupon I can't let myself get stumbled very often (thanks facebook here), it's better to fill the long period of oblivion with something so worth-doing like 'being the change myself' in his memory despite its being latent so far. So read Marcel Proust, if you really want to write that's so laborious and that isn't for 'money'. Thanks Tashi la for coming into my life! 

Trees, smoke: An optical illusion

One drowsy morning, with the sky overcast but showing no signs for a shower of drizzle, I got up earlier than usual, for I had an appointment concerning my search for a 'job', namely to be within the tide of the fray, to present myself as 'doing' something or something more than myself, the norm now. But it turned out to be a 'collective' reunion or meeting, with some eight heads like myself and a presenter or an instructor, who was all set for touting to us what she had been instructed, to let us follow the pattern of how we should present ourselves before a recruiter and so on... Within not more than half an hour, except the pre-rites of setting oneself as stilted and knowing among us and the presenter's own fusses before getting into her business, the reunion happened to be animated with some sort of mutually shared catharsis being taken advantage of marked by issuing strange cries and hissing and slackening into oneself. And at such a point, when I was sort of jaded but receptive so far, I had an optical illusion. Through the wide glass of the window just before me, as it was on the third floor, my tired eyes, always eager to identify a plant or a tree, happened to roam beyond the dancing leaves of acacia trees presenting themselves before me. The topography being a vale with a range of low wooded eminences on its either side, the land undulates here and there creating an abrupt bump before one’s eyes. And in a comparatively far distance within my ken, with a row of planted trees alongside a track, I found something gray or whitish with a wide strip of bright green moving one after another, like a snaking trail of something. And, in no time, I somehow took it for a RER train running on its track to Chessy. So I assured myself that it was. But, as my tired eyes happened to roam a bit to one corner of the view framed by the window, to my surprise, I found a rising shaft of a shiny steel chimney, maybe of a factory of the sort, with a grayish trail of smoke issuing from its top. The languidly undulating trail of it like blown by a zephyr of balanced force, its wavy form and motion kept in a steady horizontal position just at the level of trees heads, my tired eyes, the distance, the noises around me, the chimney edged away to one corner of my view, the resemblance of colors, etc. facilitated in my having such a pleasant optical illusion that was itself so soothing even after its having been debunked by myself. So, rather unsuccessfully, I made an attempt or twice to reconstruct the first illusion.  

A Sister's Love to Her Younger Sister, More Sublime than of a Carnal One: A Comment of Mine on A Concerning Post on 14th Febuary, 2023

For the day, despite not being of ours, if there still exists what's called 'love' in spite of being narrowly-centered, like here of a sister to her younger sister, the recipient should, I think, regard such as a thing not to be taken for granted, for it matters for you even now. A gone awry sort of a love, namely sort of availed oneself of someone else's tender sentiment of such in the name of it and gone so unceremoniously, can't, I think, overweigh what you have now, the filial one of a sister with such a great heart. But it takes time, as per the nature of our life and the span of time that can be taken in our being able to come to an inference to a perception, to figure oneself out of such entanglement of a 'love', the same selfish sentiment, the only fuel that turns the cogwheels of the cyclic movements of our conventional way of life, the same treadmill, the endless, banal story ever. 

Tsanglha is a Tibetan dialect: Take it and learn about its history

My comment on this edition: 

The great thing is that you can still speak Tsanglha dialect so fluently, like your Tibetan and Hindi. And the way you guys live there surrounded by botanical wonders is so organic, and the dishes. I can understand your in-laws can't feel or understand, or see through your eyes, the things there, the changes taken place but there still being the vestiges for you to construct on, to claim who you're. But you can see through their eyes as well that is the wonder in your person. So lovely! Yes, a Bhutanese run-of-the-mill one wondering about how Tsanglha dialect corresponds to Sharchokpa dialect should study about Sharchokpa Bhutanese migration into Tibetan territory, known as Pemakoe, when Tibet was independent, and how we, Tibet and Tibetan, let you dwell there. And now, when we are exiled, political refugees, by the illegal occupation of our country by Red China, how we treat you as ourselves, not like those a few remaining Tibetans in Bhutan by Bhutan. So, by and large, Tsanglha is a Tibetan dialect.

The three-pronged approach to deal with our hardiness

The immaterial concept 'time'-- the conceptualizer, the act itself, what conceptualized, namely as per the change (from its subtle to gross level) of what is inherent to be changeable, the measuring pendulum we ascribe to it with our own designations but not being able to be pinpointed at as we fancy that we can, like the 'present' time of any as 'walking' that gets untraceable if traced to its infinitesimally changing nature. And, yes, what I want to come to is about the wonder of Madhyamaka philosophy, for it propounds on yet another daring finding that the subject, the conceptualizer, and the predicate, the act itself and what conceptualized are all as we project them out to be, in other words, as Proust's own in Swann's Way, seeing as we want them to be, namely not out there so in reality if traced for but out there just if not traced for.