The monk who trained me would sometimes draw in the air as he spoke, as if painting invisible strings that shimmered before my eyes.“Everything,” he said, “is on a karmic journey. You are not one journey but many intersecting.” He would trace the lines between them — body, mind, world — like constellations that only the quiet-hearted can see. The Streams That Flow Through Us The body, he said, began as a single cell that learned to breathe, to feed, to adapt. It has wandered