Empty Canvas
A clean slate, a blank page, tabula rasa. The fires come every year toward my house, ever closer for as long as I can remember, destruction looming over my home, my life, my possessions. A new blank ash-grey surface is all that remains in the sagebrush landscapes.
In my travels through South Asia, large monumental steel billboards are constructed along highways, rivers, and streets. They loom, sometimes left blank and neglected, their structures rusting like large sails in the seasonal monsoon winds and rains. On occasion, they come crashing down onto houses or streets, sometimes killing people. Imagine dying under the latest ad for life insurance.
For the Buddhist practitioner, life starts over again—a new, empty canvas.
In my travels through South Asia, large monumental steel billboards are constructed along highways, rivers, and streets. They loom, sometimes left blank and neglected, their structures rusting like large sails in the seasonal monsoon winds and rains. On occasion, they come crashing down onto houses or streets, sometimes killing people. Imagine dying under the latest ad for life insurance.
For the Buddhist practitioner, life starts over again—a new, empty canvas.