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daily lessons in pursuit of full life

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Indian Passage | Mussoorie, India
On my way into the village’s market, I always pass this door. It belonged to the same man who carved wood on his porch and next to the children who always played under the colorful lines of laundry. I never learned where it went or what the chalked markings were left on its surface. But I imagine it leads to something mysteriously India, or a moment unique only to this place, or to people who would welcome me as family if only I would step through its door.