Reading The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying While Tending to a Sick Cat

I was sitting here, reading. My friend’s cat, who is recovering from an illness, is sleeping on my lap. I’m writing now, but will resume reading soon.

I don’t know why I was frantic earlier today. I don’t know why I wanted traffic to go faster. I don’t know why I wanted a car with a 250 horsepower engine. Why I wanted the construction noise two blocks away to stop. Why having two million dollars is better than one million dollars.

I don’t know why it was difficult to be comfortable in an air-conditioned house. I don’t know why the hum of the refrigerator was annoying then, but not now. Why 72 degrees is better than 73 degrees. Why stereo is better than mono, or 1080p is better than 1080i resolution.

I don’t know why sushi is better than a five-dollar chinese lunch special, and why a five-dollar chinese lunch special is better than a piece of bread. I don’t know why having HBO, Showtime, and Cinemax is better than not, or the other way around.

I don’t know why curse words exist. I don’t know why they’re inherently bad.

I don’t know why I run diagnostics on my computer once a week. I don’t know why I worry about my running shoes.

I don’t know why some parts of the lawn are more important than others. I don’t know why Christmas is so regarded.

I don’t know why I choose to take medicine when I do. I don’t know why I sometimes forget to drink water.

I don’t know why I prefer some cloud formations to others.

I don’t know why museums exist. I don’t know why people pay so much for everything.

On page 53 of Sogyal Rinpoche’s The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying, he writes, “Sometimes even when the cell door is flung open, the prisoner chooses not to escape.”