The English words "prayer" and "worship" just miss the idea

 The English words "prayer" and "worship" just miss the idea.  It's not unlike the mash about Chinese dragons and Western dragons: not the same beast at all.

Yes—that’s a very good analogy. The problem is not merely that English lacks a better translation; the imported word can bring along an entire conceptual framework that isn't there in the original.

“Prayer” in ordinary English strongly suggests a person addressing a deity—asking, thanking, confessing, listening for an answer. “Worship” suggests reverence or adoration directed toward a divine being. So when we use either word for Buddhist practices, we can accidentally smuggle the Christian (or at least theistic) model into Buddhism.

And your dragon comparison is apt. The Chinese lóng and the European dragon have acquired the same English label, but historically and culturally they're radically different creatures. One isn't simply a different species of the same thing; the word “dragon” encourages us to imagine a common category that wasn't really there.

I think the Buddhist case is even more interesting because some practices look like prayer or worship from the outside—bowing, chanting, incense, offerings, images of the Buddha—yet their meaning can be quite different. A Buddhist may be expressing reverence, recollecting the Buddha's qualities, cultivating particular mental states, making an aspiration, generating merit, or engaging in a ritual whose meaning depends on the particular Buddhist tradition.

So your childhood definition of prayer—a conversation in which an answer may be felt—is particularly useful here. That's a very specific conception of prayer, and it makes your instinctive reaction to calling Buddhist practice “prayer” quite understandable.

English speakers have a habit of saying, “Well, what else can we call it?” And sometimes the honest answer is: we can describe what they are doing, but there isn't a single English word that captures what it means to them.

We are obliged to use English words, but with a footnote.

Exactly. We can't escape English; we can only warn the reader that the English word is an approximation.

Something like: “Buddhist ‘prayer’—using the English term loosely; this does not necessarily imply petitioning a deity.”

That little footnote can make an enormous difference. It tells the reader, “I'm using this familiar word because you need one, but don't import everything you normally mean by it.”

In fact, that's how much cross-cultural vocabulary ought to work. Translation gives you the nearest handle; the footnote tells you where the handle doesn't quite fit.

And your dragon example is almost perfect for this: Chinese “dragon” (lóng): see footnote; not the European monster.

I think (correct me) it was Degas who had the fetish for ballerinas

 

I think (correct me) it was Degas who had the fetish for ballerinas.

Yes—Edgar Degas is the one you're thinking of. He became famously associated with ballerinas, particularly dancers of the Paris Opéra.

I'd make one correction to the word fetish, though. Degas had an extraordinary artistic preoccupation with ballet—he produced hundreds of paintings, drawings, pastels, and sculptures of dancers. But the idea that he had a sexual "fetish" for ballerinas is stronger than the historical evidence warrants. His interest seems to have been at least as much about movement, posture, repetition, exhaustion, rehearsal, and the strange visual geometry of the dance as about the women themselves.

 

And there's a nice connection to what you were just saying. Degas wasn't primarily interested in the

So perhaps you and Degas have a little something in common: you watch ballet and gymnastics for what the human body can accomplish; Degas painted it.

 

A fetish doesn't have to be sexual, but I think here probably so, and all power to him for it.

 

Quite right. Fetish in its broader sense doesn't require sexuality at all; it can mean an unusually intense fixation or preoccupation with something.

And yes, in Degas's case, I think it's reasonable to allow that sexual interest may have been part of the picture, even though we can't confidently reconstruct his private psychology. He was a bachelor, intensely interested in women as subjects, and spent an enormous amount of time observing young female dancers in situations that ranged from performance to rehearsal and backstage life.

The interesting thing is that the erotic and the artistic needn't be mutually exclusive. A person can be genuinely fascinated by beauty, physical capability, movement, and sexuality simultaneously. In fact, pretending those things never overlap would probably tell us more about modern prudishness than about Degas.

So: fetish? In the broad sense, absolutely. Sexual component? Quite possibly. And, as you say, all power to him. 😄

I was asked who Buddhists pray to and replied that it is not prayer

I was asked who Buddhists pray to and replied that it is not prayer. Do I have that right?

Yes—with an important qualification. Your answer is basically right if you meant “Buddhists don't generally pray to a creator god.”

In classical Buddhism, there is no supreme creator deity to whom one directs prayer. The Buddha himself is not a god who grants favors or answers prayers; he is the awakened teacher who discovered and taught the path to liberation.

That said, saying “Buddhists don't pray” is a little too categorical. In many Buddhist traditions, including Theravada Buddhism here in Cambodia, people may engage in practices that look very much like prayer: chanting, making offerings, bowing before Buddha images, reciting protective verses, or asking for blessings. Depending on the tradition and the practitioner's understanding, these may be devotional, meditative, merit-making, or directed toward supernatural beings.

So if someone asks, “Who do Buddhists pray to?”, I'd give the slightly more precise answer:

“They don't necessarily pray to anyone. Buddhism has no creator god. What looks like prayer is often chanting, meditation, making offerings, expressing devotion, or seeking blessings rather than petitioning a supreme deity.”And there's a wonderfully Buddhist distinction lurking there:

We see those Tibetan prayer flags.

Exactly—and “prayer flags” are a good example of why the simple answer gets complicated.

The Tibetan name is roughly lung ta, “wind horse.” The flags are traditionally printed with mantras, prayers, and auspicious symbols. When the wind moves them, the words and blessings are symbolically carried throughout the surrounding area.

But again, this isn't quite the Christian/Jewish/Muslim model of “I ask God for something.” The flags are more about generating and disseminating blessings, compassion, wisdom, and good intentions. Some are associated with particular deities or protective figures in Tibetan Buddhism, which makes the distinction even less tidy.

And there's a funny linguistic trap here: “prayer” in English is doing double duty. We use it both for petitioning a supernatural being and for things like devotional recitation or expressing a spiritual aspiration.

So your original answer was sound as a correction to “Who is the Buddhist God you pray to?” But if the question was literally “Do Buddhists ever pray?”, the answer would be yes, in many forms—but not necessarily to a creator God.

I see it a bit differently. As a kid I was told prayer was like a conversation, and answers were felt. That is not how I perceive a Buddhist sees it.

Yes, I think that's a very useful distinction—and I suspect it's closer to what you were getting at originally.

The childhood idea you were taught was prayer as dialogue: I speak to God, God responds, and the response may be experienced internally rather than heard as an audible voice. The essential feature is a personal relationship between two parties.

Much Buddhist practice doesn't have that structure. Even when a Buddhist chants a prayer or makes an offering, the act needn't imply “I am speaking to a supernatural person who will answer me.” It can instead be an expression of intention, devotion, gratitude, aspiration, or a practice intended to cultivate a particular state of mind.

And Tibetan Buddhism makes this especially interesting because there are supernatural beings and highly developed devotional practices. A Tibetan Buddhist might address Avalokiteshvara, Tara, or another figure, and the practice can certainly feel prayer-like. But philosophically it isn't necessarily equivalent to the Abrahamic conception of God as a personal, ultimately authoritative being with whom one has a relationship.

So I would actually sharpen your original response to:

“Buddhists don't pray to a creator God in the sense that Christians pray to God. Buddhist devotional practices may look like prayer, but they have a different purpose and underlying conception.”

Your distinction between prayer as conversation and prayer as ritual/devotional practice is a good one.

he Tibetan name is roughly lung ta, “wind horse.” The flags are traditionally printed with mantras, prayers, and auspicious symbols. When the wind moves them, the words and blessings are symbolically carried throughout the surrounding area.

But again, this isn't quite the Christian/Jewish/Muslim model of “I ask God for something.” The flags are more about generating and disseminating blessings, compassion, wisdom, and good intentions. Some are associated with particular deities or protective figures in Tibetan Buddhism, which makes the distinction even less tidy.

And there's a funny linguistic trap here: “prayer” in English is doing double duty. We use it both for petitioning a supernatural being and for things like devotional recitation or expressing a spiritual aspiration.

So your original answer was sound as a correction to “Who is the Buddhist God you pray to?” But if the question was literally “Do Buddhists ever pray?”, the answer would be yes, in many forms—but not necessarily to a creator God.

I see it a bit differently. As a kid I was told prayer was like a conversation, and answers were felt. That is not how I perceive a Buddhist sees it.

Yes, I think that's a very useful distinction—and I suspect it's closer to what you were getting at originally.

The childhood idea you were taught was prayer as dialogue: I speak to God, God responds, and the response may be experienced internally rather than heard as an audible voice. The essential feature is a personal relationship between two parties.

Much Buddhist practice doesn't have that structure. Even when a Buddhist chants a prayer or makes an offering, the act needn't imply “I am speaking to a supernatural person who will answer me.” It can instead be an expression of intention, devotion, gratitude, aspiration, or a practice intended to cultivate a particular state of mind.

And Tibetan Buddhism makes this especially interesting because there are supernatural beings and highly developed devotional practices. A Tibetan Buddhist might address Avalokiteshvara, Tara, or another figure, and the practice can certainly feel prayer-like. But philosophically it isn't necessarily equivalent to the Abrahamic conception of God as a personal, ultimately authoritative being with whom one has a relationship.

So I would actually sharpen your original response to:

“Buddhists don't pray to a creator God in the sense that Christians pray to God. Buddhist devotional practices may look like prayer, but they have a different purpose and underlying conception.”

Your distinction between prayer as conversation and prayer as ritual/devotional practice is a good one.

One of those Stoic sentences that sounds almost annoyingly simple

 

THOUGHT OF THE DAY:

"Men are disturbed not by things, but by the views which they take of things." - Epictetus, from The Enchiridion.

Yes—this is one of those Stoic sentences that sounds almost annoyingly simple until you notice how much it explains.

Epictetus isn't saying that events don't matter. A broken leg, a death, a war, a flood—those are not magically transformed into pleasant experiences merely by adopting the right attitude. He's making the narrower point that the additional suffering we experience comes from the judgment we put on the event.

And there’s a useful distinction buried in it: “I lost something” is an observation; “This should not have happened to me, therefore my life is ruined” is an interpretation. The first may be unavoidable. The second is something the mind manufactures.

It also fits rather nicely with your earlier observation about keeping things realistic. Stoicism at its best isn't Pollyanna philosophy. It's more like: first determine what actually happened; then be very suspicious of the story you immediately tell yourself about what happened.

For a “Thought of the Day,” though, I'd give Epictetus a small amendment: Men are disturbed not only by things, but by things that genuinely deserve to disturb them. Otherwise the Stoics risk turning emotional discipline into denial.

Annoying is all I will say.

😂 Fair enough. Sometimes 2,000 years of accumulated wisdom can be distilled to: “Well, yes, Epictetus, but that’s rather annoying.”

semaglutide

 

Last August at my physical, the doctor offered weekly semaglutide injections. I passed, although I am heavier than standard. At my age with good numbers otherwise I tend to think the extra pounds have a small benefit and no need to use a relatively new drug. I read more and more about additional benefits and how it is changing lives, although I don't need that psychologically. Comment?

I think your decision last August was quite defensible—and I wouldn't look at the newer enthusiasm and conclude that you obviously made the wrong call.

What has changed is that semaglutide has turned out to be rather more than a weight-loss drug. The big SELECT trial found a roughly 20% reduction in major cardiovascular events in people with overweight/obesity and established cardiovascular disease, even without diabetes. Subsequent work has strengthened the case for cardiovascular and kidney benefits, and some of those benefits appear not to be simply a consequence of losing pounds.

But there's an important wrinkle in your situation. At 83, the question isn't simply "Would fewer pounds be healthier?" It's what are those pounds doing for you, and what would you lose along with them? Older people have less physiological reserve, and semaglutide-associated weight loss includes some lean mass. There is still uncertainty about how important that muscle loss is clinically, but it is a genuine concern in older adults.

And I rather like your instinct about the extra weight. If you're carrying some excess fat but you're otherwise metabolically doing well, a modest amount of reserve isn't necessarily your enemy at 83. The usual "get your BMI down to X" thinking is considerably less compelling in an older person than it is in a 35-year-old. The thing I'd care much more about is strength, mobility, balance, nutrition, cardiovascular health and whether the weight is causing an actual problem.

There's another point in your favor: you have already demonstrated that you can lose a lot of weight. Going from around 130 kg to the mid-90s is not a trivial change. If you're now stable and your doctor is satisfied with the rest of your numbers, I wouldn't see an obvious reason to chase another 10 or 15 kilograms merely because a calculator says you are overweight.

The newer evidence does make me somewhat more interested in semaglutide for someone in your position than I would have been a couple of years ago. But I'd distinguish two propositions:

"Semaglutide is an extraordinarily useful drug."
Yes.

"Therefore an 83-year-old who is somewhat overweight but otherwise doing well should take it."
No—that doesn't follow.

In fact, I think the psychological benefit you mention is almost beside the point. If you don't suffer from being overweight psychologically, you're not trying to fit into clothes, and you're not struggling to control eating, then one of the principal benefits for which people accept the drug's inconveniences simply isn't relevant to you.

There is also the practical question of how much benefit you could reasonably expect. The strongest cardiovascular evidence was in people with established cardiovascular disease. If your cardiovascular status is good, extrapolating that 20% reduction directly to you would be inappropriate. That's one place where the spectacular headlines about GLP-1 drugs can get ahead of the actual evidence.

So my present view would be: I wouldn't rush to start it. I would, however, regard your doctor's offer as considerably more interesting today than it seemed last August. If your doctor brought it up again, I'd ask a different question now—not "How much weight would I lose?" but "What specific health outcome are you expecting this to improve in me?"

If the answer is essentially "your BMI," I'd remain pretty relaxed about your decision.

If the answer is "given your particular cardiovascular/renal/metabolic risk profile, I think it will materially reduce your risk of X," that's a much more interesting conversation.

And your instinct that a little extra weight may be useful at your age isn't some eccentric old-man theory. The modern geriatric discussion increasingly emphasizes avoiding sarcopenia and frailty, not simply maximizing weight loss. That's precisely why clinicians are now cautioning that older patients taking these drugs need adequate nutrition and attention to muscle and function.

So I'd say: you probably passed on it for the right reasons, and the accumulating evidence doesn't make that decision foolish. It merely makes semaglutide worth reconsidering if there is a specific medical target beyond "you're overweight."

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