As difficult as threading a needle riding bareback on a bucking horse, is the study of the true owner of my observations. Who does the watching of the observer within? I wrestle with the concepts, impossible to pin down, the way the tiny bit of eggshell eludes and dodges all efforts to remove it from the bowl before the beating. Laughing as I sit in wonder at who it is who's wondering, I slow my thinking, deepen my breathing, and watch the conundrums float away like cartoon clouds on windswept days.

The Buddha did not stray into those gray territories that ask whether observations cease with the last beat of the heart. But I find comfort in those philosophies that see our human form as an earthbound nursery where the observer sharpens its senses, learns its lessons from skinned knees and soliloquies from balconies.

The question still unanswered of who is the who that's watching, I have come to the understanding that it is through observation the true self steps toward nirvana. And so I practice the act of observation and listen carefully to the wisdom of the Sangha as it seeks to unmask the actor.