My right hand, which has written hundreds of poems, can also write calligraphy and ring the bell. Yet it is not proud of itself. It never tells the left hand, “You are good for nothing. You don’t write poems or practice calligraphy.” … It knows that it is also my left hand, and it acts according to that wisdom. One day, I held a nail in place with my left hand, my right hand, holding the hammer, missed the nail and pounded my [left] finger instead. The moment my right hand made the mistake and caused me pain, it put down the hammer and started taking care of my left hand. It did not say, “I’m sorry.” This way of behaving is perfect. My right hand considered itself one with my left hand and made no distinction such as, “I am the right hand. I am taking care of you, the left hand. You should remember that.” My right hand practiced the emptiness of loving perfectly. Our body and consiousness have the wisdom of nondiscrimination.