Le Hoang Da
Buddhist Scholar
Black and white stones form patterns on a Go board, while two stand apart — a visual meditation on habit, structure, and the possibility of interruption in the Kukkuravatika Sutta (MN 57).
I. A Dangerous Question: Is Destiny Fixed?
“Thoughts lead to actions; actions lead to habits; habits shape character; and character becomes destiny.” This familiar saying is often understood as a simple moral reminder encouraging people to be careful with small choices, since they may accumulate into larger consequences. Yet behind this seemingly simple formulation lies a philosophical assumption worth examining: destiny is not a random event but the outcome of repeated patterns. If this assumption is taken seriously, the question is no longer “What will happen to us in the future?” but rather “What are we gradually constructing through our present repetitions?” Destiny, in this sense, is not a sudden occurrence but the crystallization of patterns of life sustained over time.
At precisely this intersection between everyday moral wisdom and philosophical reflection, the Kukkuravatika Sutta emerges as a particularly revealing case. The discourse does not begin with an abstract thesis but with a concrete question: if someone practices the “dog observance” or the “cow observance” for a long period of time, where will they be reborn after death? What will their destiny be? At first glance this may appear to be a question about metaphysical consequences. Yet what is striking at the outset is not the answer itself but the Buddha’s response: he refuses to reply three times before finally offering an explanation.
This hesitation is methodologically significant. Questions about destiny easily slip into fatalism. When such questions are answered too quickly, they tend to reinforce the belief that human beings are bound by a sentence already determined by their past actions. In that framework, ethics becomes a system of rewards and punishments, and life appears as an irreversible chain of consequences. The Kukkuravatika Sutta, however, does not construct a doctrine of fixed fate. Instead, the Buddha’s caution redirects the problem: the issue is not judgment but formation. What is at stake is not a supernatural verdict but the internal mechanism through which repeated actions gradually structure existence.
Seen from this perspective, the two ascetics in the discourse are not merely asking about the afterlife. Their question inadvertently touches a deeper philosophical problem: if a pattern of living is practiced to its extreme, can it become the very form of existence of the practitioner? And if so, through what mechanism does such a transformation occur? The “dog practice” and the “cow practice” are therefore not simply unusual ascetic disciplines; they function as thought experiments. By pushing repetition to an extreme, the discourse reveals a principle that is often difficult to see in ordinary life: the boundary between behavior and identity is not a fixed wall but a transitional zone.
When an action is repeated long enough, it ceases to be a temporary choice and begins to form a disposition. As that disposition stabilizes, it gradually shapes how a person perceives and responds to the world. Once this pattern of perception becomes habitual, it is no longer merely something one does but a way one exists. In this sense, the deeper issue raised by the Kukkuravatika Sutta is not whether actions will eventually be punished or rewarded. Rather, it is whether individuals gradually become identified with the very patterns they repeatedly enact.
The question of destiny must therefore be reconsidered. It does not primarily point toward a distant future but reflects a process unfolding in the present. Destiny, if the term is to be used at all, need not be understood as a decree imposed from outside. It may instead describe the gradual solidification of patterns of life continually reinforced through repetition. The Buddha’s initial reluctance to answer the question thus functions as a reminder: before asking what we will become, we must understand what we are already becoming.
By shifting attention from verdict to structure, the Kukkuravatika Sutta opens a different way of approaching the idea of destiny. Destiny is not a predetermined decision but a process of formation—one that may harden through repetition but can also be interrupted. From this perspective, the narrative of the dog and cow observances is no longer merely a curious tale of extreme asceticism. It becomes a reflection on the relationship between habit and identity, and ultimately between identity and what is conventionally called destiny.
II. Radical Habit: The Dog and the Cow Ascetics
After raising the question of destiny and the danger of fatalism, the discourse introduces an apparently unusual situation: two ascetics, one practicing the “cow observance” and the other the “dog observance.” They do not approach the Buddha to debate metaphysical doctrines but to ask a very concrete question: if someone lives in this way for a long time, where will they go after death? At first glance this episode may appear to describe little more than extreme forms of ascetic practice. Yet the text does not remain at the level of unusual behavior. What is noteworthy is the way the Buddha describes the extent of their practice. He does not speak only of external imitation but of its completion: completion in conduct, completion in mind, and completion in comportment. This suggests that the “dog observance” or the “cow observance” is not merely a matter of copying a few gestures. Rather, it represents a comprehensive identification with a single pattern of living. The practitioner does not simply eat like a dog or move like a dog; the entire structure of life is organized according to that model. Sitting, walking, receiving food, and appearing among others are all shaped by the same behavioral framework.
The notion of “completion” therefore shifts the case from a question of morality to a question of structure. When a behavior is repeated only sporadically, it remains a choice. But when it is sustained over time and deeply internalized, it ceases to be merely an action and becomes a mode of living. The Buddha’s response follows this same logic of correspondence rather than punishment. If a person practices the dog observance to its full completion, rebirth will correspond to that pattern. If such practice is accompanied by wrong view—such as the belief that this ascetic discipline will lead to heavenly rebirth—the consequences become even more severe. Nothing in this account suggests the imposition of a supernatural verdict or the intervention of a divine judge. What appears instead is a principle of alignment: when a pattern of living is fully consolidated, it gives rise to a corresponding form of existence.
The crucial transformation occurs between “acting like” and “being like.” At the beginning of imitation, a practitioner may still retain an inner distance: “I am only practicing this discipline.” Yet when repetition reaches completion—when conduct, mental orientation, and bodily comportment are all reorganized according to a single pattern—that distance gradually dissolves. What once functioned as a role becomes an existential framework. Seen in this light, the dog and cow observances should not be understood merely as extreme ascetic practices. They function as limit cases that reveal a more general mechanism: repetition produces resemblance, and resemblance produces existential alignment. When a pattern is repeated long enough, it does not merely shape future actions; it reshapes the very way the world is perceived. A person living like a dog does not simply behave like one. Over time they begin to see, react, and understand themselves within that framework. This transformation does not occur through a single decision but through gradual accumulation.
For this reason, the episode in the discourse should not be read merely as a moral warning against bizarre practices. It serves instead as an extreme illustration of a deeper principle: when behavior is reinforced in a comprehensive manner, the boundary between action and being begins to collapse. At the surface level we observe imitation; at a deeper level we observe identification. It is precisely at this point of identification that the question of destiny becomes intelligible. If a person genuinely assimilates themselves to a pattern of living, then the question of “where they will go” is no longer a verdict imposed from outside but the internal continuation of a structure already established.
The dog and cow observances should therefore not be dismissed as curious phenomena from ancient India. They function as magnifying lenses. By pushing repetition to an extreme, the discourse reveals something that is often difficult to perceive in ordinary life: identification rarely arises through dramatic events. More often, it emerges from small patterns repeated without interruption. From this point onward, the central question begins to take clearer shape. If repetition can lead to identification, what happens when that identification becomes fully internalized? What happens when a pattern is not only practiced but believed, felt, and affirmed as “this is what I am”? To answer that question, the analysis must now move from the level of behavior to the level of identity.
III. From Behavior to Being: Habit as Identity Formation
If Section II has shown that repetition can lead to identification, the next question concerns the mechanism of that transformation: how does repeated behavior become identity? When an action is performed once, it remains a choice. When it is repeated many times, it begins to form a tendency. Yet a tendency is more than a simple inclination to act; it represents a stabilization of the mind. At this point it is helpful to distinguish three levels: behavior, what we do; disposition, the way we tend to respond; and identity, the way we understand ourselves. In ordinary life these levels do not always coincide. A person may react angrily in a particular situation without considering themselves an angry person. But when a pattern of response is repeated long enough, it gradually begins to reinforce the very image one holds of oneself. At first we say, “I acted that way.” Later we say, “I often act that way.” Eventually we say, “I am that kind of person.” This shift in language reflects a deeper structural transition: the movement from behavior to identity.
The Kukkuravatika Sutta illustrates this process in an extreme form. The practitioner of the dog observance does not merely eat like a dog or move like a dog; the entire structure of life is organized around that model. When behavior, psychological orientation, and bodily expression are all aligned with a single pattern, repetition ceases to be a series of isolated actions and instead becomes a stable structure. This process may be described in four stages: repetition produces stabilization; stabilization generates disposition; disposition shapes perception; and perception consolidates identity. Once this process unfolds, behavior is no longer external to the self. It becomes part of the cognitive framework through which experience itself is interpreted. A person who repeatedly reacts to the world with fear does not merely display fearful behavior. Over time the world itself begins to appear dangerous, and within such a world the self emerges as a threatened being. Identity is thus formed not through explicit declarations but through the gradual sedimentation of habitual perception.
It is at this point that a well-known statement from the Buddhist tradition gains particular depth: “Beings are the heirs of their actions.” If interpreted superficially, this phrase may appear to describe moral consequences. Yet within the structural perspective developed here, it can also be read as a description of internal inheritance. What one inherits does not come from outside; it arises from the patterns one has continually reinforced. Inheritance, therefore, is not merely the reception of a future result. It is the continuation of a structure already formed. Identity, in this sense, is not a fixed entity standing behind behavior but the product of patterns that have been maintained over time. When someone says, “This is just who I am,” what they often mean is simply that a particular pattern has been repeated long enough to become their default mode of being.
Seen in this light, the emphasis on “completion” in the Kukkuravatika Sutta becomes more intelligible. If behavior is imitated only briefly, identification does not occur. But when conduct, mental orientation, and bodily comportment are all reorganized around a single model, that model becomes an internal environment of existence. Identity, therefore, is not an immutable essence; it is the crystallization of internalized habits. This also explains why the discourse does not rely on the language of punishment. Nothing needs to be imposed from outside. Once a pattern has become identity, the question of “where one goes” follows the internal logic of that structure. If someone has fully assimilated themselves to a particular pattern of living, rebirth corresponding to that pattern is not a reward or punishment but an expression of structural consistency.
The dynamic can be summarized succinctly: habit shapes disposition, disposition shapes perception, perception shapes world, and world reinforces identity. When this cycle closes upon itself, identity stabilizes and begins to appear as if it were an essence. At this point the danger of fatalism arises. When identity is mistaken for essence, the possibility of transformation seems to diminish. Yet if identity is understood as a structure formed through repetition, it can also be dismantled. The Kukkuravatika Sutta does not explicitly discuss the doctrine of non-self in this passage, but its description of beings as heirs to their actions implicitly suggests that the “self” does not stand outside behavior. Rather, it emerges through patterns of action that are repeatedly enacted and internalized.
This insight leads to a crucial conclusion: destiny is not a decision written in advance. It is the gradual solidification of an identity reinforced through habit. When we ask, “Where will I go?” the more precise question may be, “What structure am I reinforcing?” The dog and cow observances therefore should not be dismissed as merely strange historical phenomena. They function as magnified examples of processes that occur every day in subtler forms. One need not imitate an animal in order to become identified with a pattern. Repeating a way of seeing, reacting, or defining oneself is already sufficient to construct identity. And when identity is constructed through repetition, destiny begins to take shape.
IV. When Destiny Hardens: The Four Types of Kamma
Having seen how repeated habits can gradually transform into identity, the Kukkuravatika Sutta shifts the analysis to another level through its well-known classification of four kinds of kamma. This passage is not a secondary addition to the discourse but rather the conceptual framework that explains what has been illustrated through the example of the dog and cow observances. The Buddha speaks of four kinds of kamma: black kamma leading to a black result, white kamma leading to a white result, black-and-white kamma leading to black-and-white results, and kamma that is neither black nor white leading to the cessation of kamma. Read superficially, this may appear to be little more than an ethical taxonomy—bad, good, mixed, and transcendent. Yet within the broader argument of the discourse, the fourfold scheme functions as a map of how existential structures become consolidated.
Black kamma does not merely refer to immoral actions in a conventional sense. The discourse describes it as bodily, verbal, and mental conduct that produces harm. When such actions are repeated and reinforced, they gradually generate a corresponding environment of experience—a world structured by suffering. This “world” should not be understood only as a metaphysical realm awaiting the individual after death. It also refers to the structure of experience formed through repeated patterns of behavior. When a person repeatedly acts within frameworks of harm, they do not simply create external consequences. They simultaneously reinforce patterns of perception, feeling, and reaction that correspond to those actions. Through repetition, suffering becomes familiar and structurally embedded. Destiny, in this case, is not punishment imposed from outside; it is the continuation of a pattern that has been stabilized through repetition.
White kamma operates according to the same structural logic but with a different content. Here the actions are free from harm and therefore give rise to an experiential environment characterized by the absence of harm and often by refined forms of pleasure. Yet the mechanism remains identical. Repeated actions stabilize patterns, and stabilized patterns produce corresponding experiential worlds. The difference between black and white kamma lies not in the process but in the quality of the patterns being reinforced. One consolidates suffering, the other consolidates pleasant experience. Both remain forms of structural continuation.
Between these two poles stands the third category: black-and-white kamma. Here harmful and non-harmful actions coexist, producing experiences that oscillate between pleasure and suffering. The significance of this category lies in the fact that mixture does not imply freedom. Even inconsistent behavior forms a pattern. Many lives unfold within this oscillating configuration, where contradictory tendencies coexist without fully canceling one another. The resulting destiny is therefore neither purely painful nor purely pleasant but fluctuates according to whichever tendencies temporarily prevail.
The decisive shift appears with the fourth type of kamma, described as neither black nor white. This expression does not designate a neutral midpoint between the previous categories. Rather, it refers to a form of action that leads to the cessation of kamma itself. Whereas the first three types reinforce particular structures, the fourth interrupts the very process of reinforcement. The discourse speaks explicitly of the intention to abandon black kamma, to abandon white kamma, and to abandon black-and-white kamma. What is described here is therefore not the replacement of one structure with another but the cessation of structural reproduction altogether.
Seen from this perspective, the fourfold classification of kamma reveals a dynamic model of destiny. Destiny hardens only when patterns are reinforced repeatedly until they become stable defaults. The first three types of kamma differ in moral content but share the same mechanism: repetition produces stabilization, and stabilization produces continuation. When identity becomes consolidated through this process, it begins to appear as though it were an intrinsic essence. Yet the discourse simultaneously introduces the possibility that this process may be interrupted. The fourth type of kamma represents precisely this interruption—the refusal to continue reinforcing any established pattern.
Within the broader framework developed in the discourse, the four types of kamma can therefore be understood as stages in the formation—or dissolution—of existential structures. Black kamma corresponds to the consolidation of destructive identity, white kamma to the consolidation of refined identity, and black-and-white kamma to a fluctuating identity shaped by competing tendencies. The fourth category points toward the deconstruction of identity itself by bringing the cycle of reinforcement to an end. Destiny, in this sense, is not a supernatural verdict but the continuation of patterns stabilized through repetition. When repetition ceases, continuation itself loses its foundation.
From this point onward, the discourse moves naturally to a deeper question. If destiny is the continuation of reinforced structures, what happens when reinforcement itself stops? The answer leads directly to the next stage of the analysis: the logic of interruption.
V. The Logic of Interruption: Beyond Black and White
If the first three types of kamma in the Kukkuravatika Sutta reveal how structures are reinforced, the fourth type introduces an entirely different dimension: interruption. The “kamma that is neither black nor white” is not described as a neutral or morally indifferent action. The discourse explicitly speaks of the intention to abandon black kamma, to abandon white kamma, and to abandon black-and-white kamma. This point is crucial. The issue here is not to choose the best option among the existing structures, but to bring the entire logic of reinforcement to a halt.
The first three types of kamma operate according to a common mechanism: action gives rise to repetition, repetition produces stabilization, and stabilization leads to continuation. The fourth type operates according to a different logic altogether. It begins with recognition, followed by non-continuation, and ultimately leads to the dissolution of structure. At this point it becomes necessary to distinguish between two common interpretations. One interpretation assumes that “neither-black-nor-white kamma” refers to actions that are morally superior, purer, or more refined than the previous categories. The other interpretation understands it as the cessation of identity-production itself. The Kukkuravatika Sutta strongly suggests the second reading.
If black kamma is simply replaced with white kamma, the process of reinforcement continues. Identity is refined but not dismantled. Harmful habits may be replaced by beneficial ones, yet the underlying structure—“I am the one who practices these habits”—remains intact. The kamma that is neither black nor white is therefore not a moralized version of identity. It represents the refusal to continue identifying with any structural pattern at all. Interruption, in this sense, is not opposition. It is non-repetition. A pattern persists only as long as it continues to be enacted. When repetition ceases, the structure loses the very foundation that sustains it. No violent destruction is required; it is enough that the pattern is no longer reinforced.
To understand this logic of interruption more clearly, it is helpful to recall the process analyzed earlier: habit gradually forms dispositions, dispositions shape perception, and perception consolidates identity. When this sequence continues long enough, identity begins to appear natural. A person no longer experiences themselves as choosing a response; they simply feel that “this is how I am.” It is precisely at this point that destiny begins to harden. Not because some supernatural force intervenes, but because the structure has reached a high degree of stability. That stability creates the illusion of essence. Once identity is interpreted as essence, change becomes difficult to imagine. Yet if identity is understood instead as a reinforced structure, it becomes possible to weaken it simply by ceasing to reinforce it. The kamma that is neither black nor white expresses exactly this logic of cessation.
Interruption itself is subtle. It does not manifest as a dramatic act of resistance, but as a shift in the way one relates to emerging patterns. When a tendency arises—anger, craving, or even pride in one’s spiritual practice—there are two possible responses. One may identify with the pattern and affirm it as “this is me.” In that case the structure is reinforced. Alternatively, one may observe the tendency without continuing it, recognizing it simply as a passing inclination. In this second mode the structure is not nourished. Interruption therefore does not require a moral condemnation of the pattern. It requires only that the pattern not be enacted again. Destiny dissolves not through opposition, but through non-enactment.
This perspective also reveals a deeper dimension of Buddhist ethics. Moral reform is often understood as the effort to perform more good actions than harmful ones. Such an approach belongs to the logic of replacing black kamma with white kamma. Yet the Kukkuravatika Sutta points beyond this framework. Even white kamma, when reinforced as an identity—“I am a virtuous person”—remains part of the same cycle of structural continuation. This insight does not deny the value of wholesome action. Rather, it shows that if goodness itself becomes a hardened identity, the structure of identification remains intact. Kamma that is neither black nor white therefore represents not moral neutrality, but ethics freed from identification. Actions may still occur, yet they no longer serve to construct a fixed sense of self.
Within this framework, freedom acquires a different meaning. If destiny is the continuation of structures stabilized through repetition, then freedom does not consist in choosing a better destiny. Freedom lies in the capacity to stop reinforcing the structure itself. Freedom, in this sense, is not an act of self-assertion but the gradual loosening of identification. As identification weakens, patterns lose the energy required to reproduce themselves. Tendencies may still arise, but they are no longer affirmed as expressions of a solid “I.” Without that affirmation, the cycle of reinforcement begins to fade.
Seen from this perspective, the Kukkuravatika Sutta is not concerned only with consequences after death. It describes a transformation that can occur in the present moment. When the will no longer reinforces black, white, or mixed kamma, the continuity of those structures begins to weaken. Destiny therefore loses its apparent inevitability. It hardens only when energy continues to be invested in the structure. Once reinforcement ceases, the structure gradually dissolves.
The turning point of the discourse lies precisely here. The dramatic statements about rebirth as a dog or a cow are not the true climax. The real climax is the introduction of the fourth type of kamma. By placing the cessation of kamma within the same map that describes karmic formation, the discourse undermines any deterministic interpretation of destiny. If destiny were a fixed decree, interruption would be impossible. But if destiny is the continuation of stabilized structures, interruption becomes a genuine possibility. At this moment the discourse shifts from structural analysis to the possibility of transformation—not by replacing one model with another, but by refusing to perpetuate any model as a fixed identity. From this point onward, the text prepares the way for its final movement: the demonstration that such structures can indeed be completely dismantled.
VI. The Proof Against Fatalism: Seniya’s Awakening
Up to this point, the Kukkuravatika Sutta could be interpreted in two different ways. One reading treats the discourse as a map of destiny: repeated behavior gives rise to stabilized structures, which in turn lead to corresponding rebirths. Another reading understands it as an analysis of how identity is formed through repetition. If the discourse ended with the first three types of kamma, it could easily be interpreted as describing a rigid system of correspondence between conduct and destiny.
Yet the conclusion of the text itself dismantles any possibility of such fatalism.
After hearing the Buddha’s explanation of the consequences of the dog observance and the cow observance, both ascetics begin to weep. What is significant is not merely their sorrow, but what follows immediately afterward. They abandon their former practices, take refuge, enter the monastic life, and before long one of them—Seniya—attains arahantship.
This episode is not simply a narrative detail appended for dramatic effect. It functions as a practical argument embedded within the discourse. If destiny were a decree, if identity were a fixed essence, and if structures consolidated through repetition were irreversible, such a transformation could not occur. Seniya does not merely replace one pattern of conduct with a better one. He does not move from “dog practice” to a morally superior discipline as a simple substitution of habits. Rather, he enters the process described earlier as the cessation of kamma itself—the fourth type of kamma introduced in the discourse.
This shift reveals something crucial: structures reinforced through repetition are not essence. They are maintained patterns. When the maintenance ceases, the pattern loses its foundation.
In this sense, the Kukkuravatika Sutta does not merely present a theory of interruption; it provides a concrete demonstration of its possibility. The very individual who once embodied one of the most extreme forms of identification—complete assimilation to the pattern of the dog observance—becomes living evidence that no structure is beyond dismantling.
This realization transforms the way the entire discourse must be read. Rebirth corresponding to a pattern is not a final sentence pronounced upon an individual. It is the continuation of an ongoing process—and any process, by definition, can be interrupted.
The conclusion of the discourse therefore carries structural rather than consolatory significance. It shows that identity is not essence, destiny is not decree, and structure is sustained only through continuation. When continuation ceases, what appears as “destiny” loses the very conditions that allow it to harden.
Seniya does not escape destiny by opposing it. He escapes it by refusing to continue the structure that produced it. In that refusal, the entire logic of reinforcement collapses. The Kukkuravatika Sutta, therefore, is not only an analysis of habit and identity; it is an analysis of the possibility of freedom. Freedom does not appear here as the assertion of a new self, but as the dismantling of identification itself. At precisely this point the discourse moves beyond both moralism and fatalism.
VII. Beyond Moralism and Fatalism: Re-reading Destiny
The Kukkuravatika Sutta is often remembered as a curious discourse about ascetics who imitate dogs and cows. Yet when the structure of the text is examined carefully, it becomes clear that the story is not primarily about eccentric ascetic practices. It is an analysis of how destiny takes shape.
The discourse does not construct a simple system of reward and punishment, nor does it present a closed universe in which every action inevitably leads to an unalterable verdict. Instead, it describes a process: what is repeated becomes stabilized; what stabilizes shapes identity; and what is structured continues according to its own internal logic. In this sense, destiny is not an external judgment imposed from beyond. It is the continuation of a pattern consolidated through repetition.
Habit shapes identity.
Identity sustains structure.
Structure continues as destiny.
Yet within this very map the possibility of deconstruction is already present. The four types of kamma do not merely classify behavior; they reveal that a pattern persists only when it continues to be enacted. When continuation ceases, destiny loses its foundation.
This insight allows the discourse to move beyond two common interpretations. The first is moralism, which reads the discourse simply as an instruction to perform good deeds and avoid bad ones. Ethical conduct certainly remains important, but if the interpretation stops there, a deeper layer is overlooked. Even wholesome action, when solidified into a rigid identity—“I am a virtuous person”—still operates within the same logic of reinforcement.
The second interpretation is fatalism, the belief that repeated action inevitably produces an irreversible outcome. The conclusion of the discourse directly undermines this possibility. When Seniya abandons the structure that once defined him and proceeds toward the cessation of kamma, the text demonstrates that no identity is immutable. Structures persist only so long as they continue to be maintained.
The discourse therefore does not affirm a rigid destiny; it describes a mechanism. And every mechanism, by its very nature, can be interrupted.
This perspective carries broader philosophical implications. In everyday life people often understand themselves as collections of stable traits—“this is simply who I am.” Yet if identity is formed through repetition, it cannot be an intrinsic essence. It is the result of patterns reinforced over time. When viewed in this way, the question of destiny shifts from a distant metaphysical speculation about the future to an existential inquiry about the present: which structures are we continuing, and is it possible not to continue them?
The Kukkuravatika Sutta does not present a modern psychological theory, nor does it appeal to neuroscience. Its insight is both simpler and deeper. It observes how behavior, when repeated and identified with, gradually produces a form of existence.
Destiny, in this reading, is not a decree.
It is a habit hardened by repetition—
and therefore open to interruption.
At this point the discourse moves beyond an anecdote about extreme asceticism and becomes a reflection on freedom. Freedom does not consist in asserting a new identity, but in refusing to treat any pattern as an immutable essence. When identification softens, destiny no longer appears as a fixed line extending into the future. Instead, it becomes a process that can be understood, observed, and—at its deepest level—dismantled.
Seen in this light, the initial question about dog and cow observances is no longer strange. It becomes a metaphor for something that occurs constantly in everyday life. Each time a pattern is repeated without awareness, it hardens slightly. Each time it is not continued, a space opens. And within that space destiny ceases to function as a sentence and begins to appear as possibility.
Related Studies:
Bibliography
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