Daily: Today Is the Day You Have
A small instruction.
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A small instruction.
An anniversary note. A year of small letters, slow walks, and a quiet writing room.
A small practice for the changing season.
How to take the practice out of the bedroom and into the world that is, after all, the actual point.
A republished Sunday Stillness letter, from a winter morning.
A meditation for those who have outgrown breath-counting and want to just be present, without an object.
A small instruction for the noisy mind.
A short story about effort, expectation, and the difference between trying hard and trying well.
The book that translated Buddhist practice into the plain language most of us could finally hear.
A small year-end exercise for the people who keep saying the year went too fast.
A short practice for the days when something heavy has come.
Once you have practiced for a while, this is the sit you grow into. No instructions during. Just presence.
A small refusal of urgency.
A defense of the hour you keep almost feeling guilty about.
A short, practical book about saying less and listening more, by the Vietnamese teacher who taught me to wash dishes.
A small instruction for the people you talk with today.
The form of love we are most short of, mistaken for the form of speech.
An old story for a person who has been working hard and getting less done.
An attempt to defend the most maligned and most necessary feeling of our time.
One small change in the architecture of an ordinary day.
The shortest meditation in this archive. Fifteen seconds. Use it forty times today.
How to bring some of the practice into the eight hours that pay for everything else.
A teaching from the Buddha about the suffering we add to the suffering we cannot avoid.
A small practice for the moment something is happening inside you.
A different way of meeting the feeling that has been visiting you since you were small.
A short story about a young monk, an old monk, and a long path.
The cheapest, oldest, most reliable mindfulness practice — and you do it three times a day.
A small instruction for someone trying to do too much.
A short, no-incense version for those of us who get bored at the elbows.
Before the mind has a story, the body has a feeling. Listen to the body.
Productivity culture sold us a faster horse. Sometimes the answer is fewer horses.
It is not because you are weak. It is because the phone was built by people who were paid to make sure of this.
A small story about Epictetus, a missed bus, and a man on his phone.
The little book that has stayed on my desk for ten years and still has more to give.
It is not focus. It is not concentration. It is the most ordinary thing you have, and the rarest.
A small instruction for the moment between sleep and the day.
A short, plain-language guide for the third attempt. No incense required.
A small note on the moment between sleep and the day.