My Dear United States of America,

We've gotten our wake-up call. A nation obsessed with being the best and made up of rugged individuals striving to win doesn't work forever. There are serious repercussions. There are always losers. And in the end, we all lose. We lose ourselves.

I'm not happy with what is taking place around me. It's difficult to think about anything else. But I do sincerely pray, this is only what's needed to wake us up from our slumber. Our sense of false security. Our illusion that if our own quality of life is not terribly affected, then what happens out in the world is disconnected from us.

I was walking up the stairs from the F train platform at 2nd Ave., when a young woman skirted down past the throngs of us ascending. As she squeezed by, I promptly heard a guttural “Ugggh!” and saw exactly the face I imagined to accompany. The woman brushed by this commuter turned around to face the rushing culprit who’d just invaded her sacred space. And she evidently wanted to ensure that the offender was not in too much of a rush to see the full extent of her facial wrath, in case she could have possibly missed the auditory displeasure. At that time, I felt an ache in my heart. Could we not have one moment of empathy?

This evening’s special feature of the F train was a brand new makeshift diaper-changing station. A young-looking woman and an older-looking woman were partnering up to take care of three babies with two strollers. On the knee of the young-looking woman was a miniature buttocks, smooth as silk. The usual makeshift eating stations were disturbed by the sharply competing aroma. Most people did not wish to observe the hijinks on the diaper-changing side of the F. And innovative as it was, I confess that I wondered about the hygiene of such a situation.

On assignment for my mentor, I marched determinedly through the West Village avenues, having performed the full crosstown commute on foot. It was 9 a.m. and the streets were barren in the calm after the storm of another Friday night in Manhattan. The mission: Seize and send a “Miracle Mouthwash” overseas…It is apparently difficult to procure a bottle of the apparently covetous Uncle Harry’s hygienic product outside its native home of the brave…

According to my rough calculation, only one store in the city carries the mouthwash, and that’s precisely where I was headed! I was delighted to be of simple service for someone who has done more for me than I can hope to repay. I just wished I’d slept a little sounder the night before and had a little more free time at my fingertips. As I entered the Elm Health Chelsea location, I was overcome with a sense of existential dread. Running a startup doesn’t treat monastic practices kindly, I’ve come to realize… Since leaving the monastery and aspiring to carry its work to the outside world the best I can, I’ve noticed my sacred habits are hard to uphold. Not that they were ever easy, but just more within control via the freedom to make them the focal point. Now, when I need it most, life has a way of getting the best of my meditation… Within the aisles of the matchless grocery store, my meditation sustained from the morning… There was an old sadhu who used to chant his mantras in the blaring streets of Bombay.