Like a lovely flower full of color but lacking in fragrance, are the words of those who do not practice what they teach.

There is, Oh Monks, a not-born, a not-become, a not-made, a not-compounded. Monks, if that unborn, not-become, not-made, not-compounded were not, there would be no escape from this here that is born, become, made and compounded.

All compounded things are subject to decay. Strive with diligence!

Whatever the hateful do to the hateful, or an enemy to an enemy, worse is the harm of a misguided mind directed at oneself.

From a withered tree, a flower blooms

Release old concepts and energies that keep you in self-punishment patterns. Release old stories and create from a place of love and self-validation. You are worth it!

Wish I am free from barriers when I die, and Buddha will welcome me from far away.