There is no spoon

Our state of mind shapes our experience. Our brain can tell us we're miserable on our birthday, happy in prison, calm during a tornado or stressed out at a knitting club.

For example: My commute to Charan takes a total of two and half hours. I have to walk, good Lordy, in the heat and sometimes the rain and always in the dust past noisy people and the dirt gets up in my nose. Afterwards, I blow my nose and black snots come out. Gross! Holy crap it makes me tired. Then I have to teach screaming kiddos that would rather hang on me like I'm a walking playground than learn squat about maths and English. Look, I can see their lice and scabies and cooties marching right up onto my arm. Get me out of here!!

But what if it was more like this: Damn, I am one lucky duck! My commute to and from Charan is breathtaking. I walk past the freaking Himalayas on my way to work, how neat!! I found a secret mountain path past some little villages; there's lots of rock hopping and steep slip-sliding down the dirt. The only traffic I have to deal with are herds of goats, wayward cows with their pointy horns, and plenty of pups who are happy to tag along, asking only for a brief ear scratching in return. When I arrive in Charan people are happy to see me, and I am happy to see them. My students scream and smile when I arrive, and they pull on my arm when I leave, begging for one more math question (it's true, some do), or one more game of one-legged tag. Sometimes class is chaotic, but I work with children whose parents' would rather they beg on the streets than go to school. I can't expect them to be model citizens. The journey home is physically challenging, but invigorating. I sleep well at night, knowing I did something meaningful with my day. Go me. Listen to me honk my own horn, HONK! Damn it, I love what I do here!

There is no spoon. Woah.