I find it tough nowadays to write for the fun of it. Words
overwhelm me. They make my eyes water and my brain shudder.
For the last three months, I have been
burning the midnight oil reading and writing. I wonder where I would be if I
had spent my five years at university with such dedication.
With family and a kid, some things become a
luxury. For me it is time. And the harder to get it acts, the harder I work - juggling
being me, momma, wifey and a museum guide. I never knew it was in me to be
interested in history. But here I am, furiously absorbing in the 32 signs by
which to identify the Buddha. I love the musty silence of my museum. I am at an
age where I accept my failings and my strengths. I am comfortable among the
sentients of the past. Their silent demeanour draws me. They stir up my
dried-up muse. I could not be a professor, but I am confident of being a
history teacher – and a mighty good one.
Back to reading Buddhism’s esoteric form.
