Ten friends waded across a stream together, and on the far bank one of them counted heads. He counted nine. He recounted. Still nine. Panic spread: someone had drowned, and no one could tell who. They counted again and again, always nine, mourning the friend they'd lost, until a stranger walking by asked what was wrong. He listened, lined them up, and counted them himself, out loud, tapping each one, until he reached the man doing the counting and said: there, that's your tenth. Nobody was missing. Each counter had simply forgotten to count himself. This is a story from the Advaita (say "ud-vy-tuh") teaching tradition, documented as early as the fourteenth century. Before assuming something is missing this morning, count again, and this time include the one doing the counting.