And I think I keep learning on

A pergola of stone beams with corniced ends supported by slim, quadrangular stone stilts was draped in thick trailing mantles of ivy and convolvulus plants. The white flowers of the latter peeped out here and there through the thicket of foliage leaning on trellises, which made the proper place within, one level above another like two wide steps, shady, cool and secluded, like a strip of flowerbed and a lonely malus tree with its brushy branches and twigs bearing such an aesthetic touch like from an art book next by a road didn't seem to exist. And, rather as self-flattering, this is how I regard myself as trying to get myself adapted to an adventitious environment, with the above two sentences.

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.

To conform to or to leave forever

March 12, Tibetan Women's Uprising Day against the illegal, inhumane Chinese occupation of Tibet. But for me, who cares about it now? I mean within our own narrow circle, Tibetans diaspora, with its exiled polity now sort of crippled so far by the same schism, sort of older than of Stone Age, when it was all about seeking for some comfort to later on for protection to much later on for more complex protection, for a thinking human mind's mental constructs are endless, once the basic needs are met. (I wonder why human kinds can't live like animals?) Now, a thinking living being is nothing other than of a selfish disposition like of a cat. And, yes, Tibetan women, like U-Tsang Wa, should rise up to the understanding of their own values and guts, to be able to face any challenges ahead, even to be able to have such a volition (I don't say 'do or die'.) to conform to, if circumstances permit, or to get completely detached, for we don't have any such unavoidable bondages like 'commensalism' and 'symbiosis' of organisms to be met. If you're against His Holiness the great 14th Dalai Lama's far-reaching, humane guidance, then you've the complete right to get yourself weaned of it and find your own destiny. Such sense of narrowness within is, for me, far more wounding than what others (Mongols, China, English, Bhutan, Nepal) did to us by availing themselves of our weakness or situations then. 

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.  

Distance does matter

Distance does matter both in space and time for cherishing the trope of personal events, sadly in snippets, etched on to the mental screen of ours as evoked by our memory, not so much the doings of our habitual cognitive inertia as of something phenomenal quirk or odd we are endowed with as of our mental capability in reflecting and sorting and calculating and toning with vividness and sharpness where it's left blurred and burred, with much more expressions and gestures chiseled out as of the adrenalines running through our veins by the doings of the paroxysm of emotions now. It does matter even more for noting them down in the form of an artistic creativity through shedding more tears or chuckling deep within. And for the capitalistic fray of a race of now, the modern world, it does for estranging two lovers within the span of a short period of time--more needs of now than the bygone mountain of promises and tender words, more forms of casuistry out there to absolve ourselves of our misdeeds. And it does for romanticizing the pale reality of our present life with something to hold on to, something out there but not there, something telegenic or photogenic like Kpop stellar gloss and resplendence on the iridescent TV screen at anyone's home among us--like the one who has not caught up yet in the whirlwind of the same chasing fray of a yonder world's tenseness and reality but looking at it with the safe but taken for granted buffer of distance, like reading a novel or watching a movie, with the coveted, self-created images flickering on the other part of one's mental screen. 

Don't ignore a moment of mindfulness that can let you be able to try to have a glimpse through someone's else eyes

"One thing at a time, and that done well." It counts, really so much, but we know what we are. It doesn't matter after all, for it's really interesting to learn about a character, a real person, being there before my own eyes whose pupils react how I have no idea during the real time moment, a character, someone more or less close to me, whose some certain mannerisms, like his idiosyncrasy of the sort much well attempted to keep hidden from me but there as scattered, fleeting sparks from a brand of smoldering wood, relate that much about what I have been reading. What I've been reading? What else but Marcel Proust's Cities of the Plain (Sodom and Gomorrah) and The Captive whereof the latter is just at its close. I am very much sure his sixth one, Fugitive, will broach over it as well. Time Regained, his seventh or the last one, I wish can be of some use for me as well, to be able to let myself hit the way, namely wrap up the circus-stages of words into something readable ones.

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Such histrionic talents by the Tibetan youths in Leh, Ladhak, such a crowd-pulling act of resistance that stirs up the same emotion from its depth in each and every Tibetan within Tibet and without. And the means remains the same, the most powerful of all, ahimsa or non-violence that means the acme of delicacy, sense of respect to others' concern, choice, wish, rights, happiness, 'the solution through dialogue', 'the century of dialogue, the 21st century' as per His Holiness the great 14th Dalai Lama's vision and dedication for the wellbeing of human kind in this epoch of 'emotional crises' as conditioned by ambivalence, the state of being scattered, not collected in channeling and modulating one's internal movements or thoughts and emotions. And their voice is also for those under the same downtrodden situation like in Mongolia under PRC, Hong Kong, Taiwan, East Turkestan--not only for Tibetans in Tibet. Bravo, the Tibetan youths in Leh, Ladhak!!!