尊貴

What This Concept Is About

The word 尊貴 (gaurava, "nobility/dignity") in today's Chinese usage almost automatically equates with "honorable," "dignified," "worthy of respect." We call a venerable elder "noble," we address "distinguished guests" at formal occasions, and even in everyday speech the word has been worn smooth into a badge of politeness—pin it on anyone and they shine. But if someone were to tell you that in the context of the Chan school (Caodong/Sōtō), true nobility is precisely that which cannot be touched, cannot be shouldered, cannot be possessed—and that even the 了事人 (liǎoshì rén, "task-completer"; one who has brought every matter to perfect completion and resolved it thoroughly) does not yet qualify as noble—you might well be taken aback: then what on earth is nobility?

Let us first trace the outline of this concept bit by bit.

First, 尊貴 (gaurava, "nobility") has two faces in the Buddhist tradition. One face is represented by the *Lamrim* (《菩提道次第廣論》, *The Great Treatise on the Stages of the Path to Enlightenment*), where the term used is 尊重 (gaurava, "revered teacher")—referring to a teacher who possesses the intention to bring benefit. The treatise defines it explicitly: 「言尊重者，謂欲為饒益。」 *"By 'revered teacher' is meant one who intends to bring benefit."* In other words, the substantive content of gaurava lies in the genuine intention to benefit others, not in status, title, or an external checklist of virtues. In this sense, 尊重 encompasses the meaning of 阿闍黎 (ācārya) and 上師 (guru); it has an object and a direction—it is the object that disciples should faithfully accept, regard, and rely upon. The 福田 (fútián, "field of merit") is different; the treatise specifically distinguishes: though the field of merit possesses virtue, it is not counted among teachers; 尊重 refers exclusively to teachers who possess the intention to bring benefit. This distinction is crucial: not everything worthy of offerings qualifies as 尊重; the core of gaurava lies in the nature of the intention "to bring benefit."

But the Chan school's discourse, as recorded in the *Jingde Record of the Transmission of the Lamp* (《景德傳燈錄》, *Jǐngdé Chuándēnglù*), pushes gaurava to another level. Here gaurava is no longer an exclusive title for a teacher's virtuous station, but refers to a kind of fundamental station that cannot be grasped or claimed (不可着取的本分位). The text says: 「尊貴邊，著得什麼物。」 *"On the edge of nobility—what thing could attach itself there?"* This sentence can be called the general thesis of the Chan view of gaurava: gaurava is not a quality or identity that can be possessed, displayed, or managed; its "edge" (margin, boundary) is empty—nothing can hang upon it.

The *Jingde Record* uses a striking set of contrasts to illustrate this: even if one can expound a thousand scriptures and ten thousand treatises, speak until heavenly flowers fall and stones nod their heads, even to the point of "gathering flowers and clustering brocade" (攢花簇錦)—handling every matter with perfect completeness and elegance—one is at most called a "task-completer" or "one beyond reproach" (無過人), but never "noble." This draws a clear dividing line: all achievements obtained through intellectual understanding, meritorious effort, and fabricated activity—even the most sublime achievements—lie outside gaurava. The task-completer is one who has finished the matters, the problem-solver, the possessor of knowledge; but gaurava does not land on any of these. Nor is what is obtained from outside the gate necessarily the true treasure—what is learned from outside, earned from outside, fought for from outside, may not be the real thing.

What does the one who has embodied it look like? The text says "naturally so" (任運如此)—not forced silence, not affected posturing, not deliberate low-key modesty, but naturally just so. If with a finite mind one forcibly tries to enact the infinite, it is like "a square peg in a round hole" (方木逗圓孔)—there is bound to be distortion. This sentence is of the utmost importance: gaurava is not "made" by a finite mind; it is what the infinite fundamental station naturally reveals. The moment you set about making it, strain to feign it, you have already erred; just as with a square peg forced into a round hole, no amount of effort will make it fit.

The *Transmission of the Lamp* also contains three dialogues that each point, in a different way, to the unfabricatable nature of gaurava:

新羅臥龍和尚 (Monk Wollong of Silla): A monk asked, 「如何是大人相」 *"What is the appearance of a great person?"* He answered, 「紫羅帳裡不垂手」 *"In the purple gauze tent, the hand is not lowered."* When asked again why the hand was not lowered, he answered, 「不尊貴」 *"Not noble."* This exchange is very subtle. The purple gauze tent is a symbol of splendor; not lowering the hand is non-action, non-grasping. But "not lowering the hand" itself can become a posture—a posture of "I have already transcended all action." So when the student presses further as to why the hand is not lowered, Wollong directly says "not noble": even the very posture of "not lowering the hand" is not noble. This is a negation within a negation, striking down any attachment the student might generate to "I have attained some state."

新羅大嶺和尚 (Monk Daeryeong of Silla): A monk asked, 「其中事如何」 *"What about the matter within?"* He answered, 「不作尊貴」 *"Do not make nobility."* Earlier he had also said, 「體即得，當即不得」 *"To embody it is attained; to appropriate it is not attained"* and 「體是什麼人分上事」 *"Embodying is a matter for what kind of person?"* This "do not make nobility" is extremely terse: the point is not to establish a mark of nobility, but to not turn oneself into a noble one. Gaurava is not a goal you strive to reach; it is what naturally appears after you cease making and cease possessing. The moment you "make," you fall into fabrication; the moment you "appropriate" (承當), you fall into a self-image.

眉州黃龍第二世和尚 (Monk Huanglong II of Meizhou): A monk asked, 「忽遇尊貴時如何」 *"What if one suddenly encounters the noble one?"* The master answered, 「不遺」 *"Do not let it pass / do not miss it."* Here "the noble one" may refer to a person encountered, or to a situation encountered. The response rests solely on the two characters 不遺—not losing, not omitting. The original text does not specify the noble one's identity, appearance, or virtues—and that is precisely the point: when nobility comes, you neither cling to it nor miss it; you simply do not let it pass. This "not letting pass" is neither grasping nor releasing, but facing it as it is, without falling to either side.

The *Mahāyānasūtrālaṃkāra* (《大乘莊嚴經論》, *Ornament of the Great Vehicle Scriptures*) provides yet another dimension: in this treatise, 尊重 (gaurava, "reverence") is listed among the "eleven attentions" (十一作意, *ekādaśa-manaskāra*)—"seeking," "observing," "single-taste," "the path of calming," "the path of insight," "both," "lifting the sinking," "restraining the restless," "abiding correctly," "uninterrupted," and "within all these, also reverence"—summarized as: 「置心一切緣，作意有十一」 *"Placing the mind on all objects, there are eleven attentions."* This shows that reverence is not only an attitude toward teachers, but also a mode of attention within the operations of mind-cultivation—an attitude the mind holds toward its object of focus. Its placement alongside "abiding correctly" and "uninterrupted" shows that reverence is a psychological posture the practitioner can actively deploy and cultivate. This may seem to contradict the Chan school's "unfabricatable," but in fact the two are complementary: at the level of expedient means in practice, we need 尊重 as an attention to purify the mind and give rise to virtues; at the ultimate level, true gaurava cannot be grasped or fabricated. This is precisely the wisdom of "using a wedge to remove a wedge"—using one expedient to dissolve attachment, and finally letting go of the expedient itself.

Taken together, the concept of gaurava has a two-layer structure:

Layer one (the conditioned layer, 有為層): the virtuous station of a teacher whose essence is the "intention to bring benefit," regarded by disciples through the condition of faith (信) and with the Buddha as the standard, from which Mahāyāna virtues arise. This is the 尊重 of the *Lamrim* system—it has an object, a path, and is cultivable and realizable.

Layer two (the unconditioned layer, 無為層): the fundamental station that cannot be grasped, fabricated, or possessed. This is the 尊貴 of the *Transmission of the Lamp* system—it transcends all intellectual understanding, meritorious effort, and fabrication, and even transcends the perfect achievements of the task-completer. The one who embodies it is "naturally so"—not made, but originally so.

These two layers are not opposed but progressive: first use 尊重 as an expedient to establish the correct object and attitude of practice; then transcend the fabricatedness of 尊重 and return to the unclaimable fundamental station. In Chan terms, the former is 功勳 (gōngxūn, "meritorious achievement")—the accumulated skill and accomplishment of practice; the latter is 及盡 (jíjìn, "utter exhaustion")—that which remains after all meritorious achievement has run its course and entirely dissolved. Gaurava is the fundamental station after merit and achievement are exhausted; even "having finished all matters" is not enough to name it.

Walking It Through in Daily Life

Let us bring gaurava into the everyday life of a contemporary person and walk through it step by step. Suppose you are a professional in your thirties, working at a technology company, capable and widely recognized.

Scenario one: the "task-completer" in the office.

You may well have such a colleague: every project that reaches him gets done, every difficult client he can soothe, every complex technical problem he can untangle. In meetings he always produces the most thorough solution; in presentations he always speaks with perfect coherence. In everyone's eyes, he is the very definition of "reliable." In the language of the *Transmission of the Lamp*, he is the standard "task-completer"—handling every matter with completeness, none surpassing him.

But note: the *Transmission of the Lamp* says such a person "is never called noble." Why? Because everything he does—solving problems, producing solutions, soothing clients—is 功辦 (gōngbàn, "meritorious management"), the fabrication of a finite mind. These achievements are admirable, but they are all things that "attach to the edge of gaurava": every achievement has a specific landing point, can be measured, compared, surpassed. And on the edge of gaurava, "what thing could attach itself there?"—nothing can hang. True gaurava is not in the sum of these achievements, not even in the sense of completion that comes from "having handled everything."

Scenario two: the moment of trying to appear noble.

Let us walk through another scenario. You are invited to speak at an important industry forum. You carefully prepare your slides, rehearse your tone and gestures, even pick out a dark suit that "looks substantial." On stage, you strive to appear "composed," "confident," "visionary." People in the audience nod, applaud; afterward someone comes to exchange business cards and says, "That was a great talk."

What are you doing in this scenario? You are "making nobility" (作尊貴). You are using a finite mind—preparation, rehearsal, design—to "produce" an appearance of nobility. This is not to say that giving a talk is itself wrong; rather: the moment you strive to "look noble," gaurava has already left you. Because all your effort is "attaching things"—attaching to image, to evaluation, to the thought "I must become a person of substance." This is exactly what the *Transmission of the Lamp* calls "a square peg in a round hole": the harder you push, the more awkward it becomes, the more the traces of fabrication show.

What does the truly substantial senior figure look like? He may not speak the most floridly, may not be the most thoroughly prepared, but when he stands on stage, he is "naturally so"—not forcing silence, not striking poses, not chasing effects, simply presenting what he knows as it is. He does not need to "look noble," because he is not "making." This is not to say he does not care about preparation—of course he prepares, but preparation is a natural thing for him, not a prop for "posing." His gaurava is not in the preparation, not in the stage presence, but in that fundamental station where nothing attaches.

Scenario three: the "nobility performance" on social media.

Let us walk through a more contemporary scenario: social media. Open any platform and you will see every kind of "nobility performance": people posting photos with celebrities, check-ins at high-end restaurants, newly purchased luxury goods, gym results and meditation check-ins—each post transmitting the same message: "I am a person of value; I deserve to be respected."

What is most worth pondering here is: the harder these performances push, the more they expose an inner "lack of nobility." Because the truly noble person does not need to prove their nobility—they are "naturally so"; they already are. And the "nobility" that requires constant display, constant emphasis, constant maintenance is precisely the proof that it is not a fundamental station but a fabrication. It is like someone who keeps telling you "I am an honest person"—you begin to suspect the opposite.

A common misunderstanding needs clarifying here: gaurava does not mean "don't post on social media." Deliberately not posting, deliberately keeping a low profile, is equally a form of "making"—you are making the posture of "not lowering the hand." Monk Wollong said it plainly: even "in the purple gauze tent, the hand is not lowered" is not noble. Whether you post or do not post, neither is noble; if you do not post because "not posting" makes you feel more profound, then that "not posting" is another form of possession. True gaurava is: posting is spontaneous, not posting is also spontaneous—in neither case does it attach to the thought "this makes me look noble."

Scenario four: "nobility" and "reverence" in intimate relationships.

Let us walk through one more scenario: intimate relationships. You love someone; of course you want them to do well. But often our "being good to you" is mixed with many other things—control, expectation, self-gratification. "I have given so much for you, you should be grateful." "I am so considerate of you, how can you not listen to me?"—these words may not be spoken aloud, but they play on a loop in the mind.

The *Lamrim* says: 「言尊重者，謂欲為饒益。」 *"By 'revered teacher' is meant one who intends to bring benefit."* This "intention to bring benefit" is pure—genuinely wishing the other to receive benefit, without mixing in one's own expectations. If we hold our "good intentions" in relationships against this standard, we will find that a great deal of "good intention" is actually "intention to benefit oneself" (欲為自益)—hoping the other will live the way I want, hoping the other will be grateful to me, hoping the other will make me feel I am of value. This is not reverence; this is possession. Not nobility; it is "making nobility."

What is truly noble love? It is 不遺—"not letting pass." When the other comes to you, you face them as they are: not missing them, not fleeing from them, not remodeling them into what you want. This does not mean having no demands and no boundaries; it means your care is not centered on "I" but on the other's real needs. This kind of love does not advertise, does not extract, does not perform—yet it carries a certain weight. And that weight is not manufactured; it comes from its essential nature of "intending to bring benefit."

Scenario five: the trap of self-improvement.

Let us walk through a final scenario: self-improvement. You may be learning meditation, reading Buddhist scriptures, taking psychology courses, attending various workshops—in short, you are striving to "become a better person." This is of course a good thing. But there is a hidden trap: when you strive to "become better," you are "making" a better self. This "better self" is an image, a goal, a blueprint to be realized. The harder you strive, the more you judge "the present self" as "not good enough"; the more you want to become noble, the more you confirm that you are currently not noble.

What the *Transmission of the Lamp* calls 「不作尊貴」 *"do not make nobility"* is precisely a blow to the head for this trap. Gaurava is not a goal to be achieved; it is what you already have once you put down fabrication. You do not need to "become" noble; you only need to stop "making" the things that make you ignoble—stop performing, stop possessing, stop projecting the self onto everything. Just as when the clouds disperse the sky naturally reveals itself; the sky does not need to "become" the sky—it already is.

This walk-through tells us: gaurava is misunderstood, performed, and managed in every corner of contemporary life. We exhaust ourselves "making" nobility, not knowing that true gaurava appears only in the moment we stop "making."

Why Contemporary People Need It

If gaurava is so elusive, so unfabricatable, why do contemporary people need it at all? Should we not pursue more practical things—wealth, status, skills, relationships—instead?

Precisely because we live too "practically" that we need gaurava.

First, gaurava is an antidote to the "performative personality."

One of the predicaments of contemporary people is that we are performing almost all the time. Social media has turned each of us into our own public-relations team: we must carefully craft an image, maintain a persona, respond to feedback. In the workplace we must appear professional; in social settings, interesting; in family settings, considerate. Over time, we can no longer even distinguish which is "performance" and which is "the real self"—or rather, we have grown accustomed to the idea that "the real self" is a product that can be edited and optimized.

The concept of gaurava says a harsh word to this predicament: the harder you try to perform nobility, the less noble you are. The sentence is jarring, but it is a sobering slap. It makes us stop and ask ourselves: if I did not need to prove anything to anyone, how would I live? The answer to that question may be closer to "the real self."

Second, gaurava is a healing for "achievement anxiety."

Another predicament of contemporary people is the anxiety of the "task-completer." We always feel we are not enough—not excellent enough, not successful enough, not valuable enough. So we keep doing things: getting certificates, seeking promotions, founding startups, investing, learning new skills. Each thing is done beautifully, but once it is done, emptiness immediately wells up, and so we go looking for the next thing. This is what the *Transmission of the Lamp* calls "gathering flowers and clustering brocade"—gather the flowers, cluster the brocade; beautiful as it is, these heaps of flowers and brocade pile up "on the edge of gaurava," and nothing can attach there.

Gaurava tells us: completing tasks is not the end. When you have finished all your tasks, you are still only a "task-completer"; when you have solved all your problems, you are still only "one beyond reproach." True gaurava is not in the achievement of "tasks done," but in the open space "after the tasks are done"—that fundamental station where there is no task to be handled, no problem to be solved, no goal to be reached. This is not telling us not to do things; it is telling us not to make doing things the only way to prove our value. Gaurava is what comes after "merit and achievement are exhausted"—not that merit is unwanted, but that when merit reaches its end, you are not bound by it.

Third, gaurava is a release from "recognition anxiety."

Contemporary people live in an age of being evaluated. Your appearance is evaluated, your income is evaluated, your marriage is evaluated, your parenting is evaluated, even your "practice" is evaluated—how many minutes of meditation, how many scriptures read, how many meditation retreats attended. We crave recognition and fear being ignored, and so we live as "objects awaiting evaluation."

Gaurava's response to this anxiety is: 「尊貴邊，著得什麼物。」 *"On the edge of nobility—what thing could attach itself there?"* Everything about you that can be evaluated cannot attach to gaurava. Others may evaluate your appearance, your achievements, your words and deeds, but they cannot evaluate your gaurava, because gaurava is not in any of these things. This is not to say gaurava is some "mysterious thing beyond evaluation," but rather: gaurava is simply not within the category of evaluation at all. Evaluation is finite; gaurava is infinite. Evaluation requires an object; gaurava has no object to attach to. When you abide in this fundamental station, others' evaluations are like wind blowing across the sky—the wind can blow, but it cannot blow the sky away.

Fourth, gaurava is the root of reverence (尊重).

The *Lamrim* emphasizes that faith in the revered teacher is the fundamental support for a disciple's accomplishment. Why? Because without the vision of gaurava, you cannot truly revere anyone—including yourself. If you see everyone with "ordinary-person thoughts," if you feel everyone is just so-so, then your mind is closed and no virtue can arise. The Venerable Atiśa (阿底峽尊者) put it directly: 「汝藏地人，於尊重所，僅凡庸想，由何能生？」 *"You people of Tibet—toward the revered teacher you hold only the thought of an ordinary person; from what could [great virtues] arise?"*

Contemporary people do not fail to respect others; rather, our "respect" is often built on evaluative criteria: he has money, status, learning, so I respect him; he has no money, no status, no learning, so I look down on him. This kind of "respect" is actually a transaction, not reverence. True reverence—the vision of gaurava—is seeing the dignity of each person's fundamental station, seeing each person's potential for "intending to bring benefit." This does not mean unconditionally tolerating bad people and bad deeds—the *Lamrim* also has its analysis of whether to see faults—but rather that our default is not "this person is just so-so," but "this person has something worthy of reverence; I will train myself to see it." This is precisely the contemporary application of the practice principle "take the virtue, not the fault" (取德不取過): not blind worship, but the deliberate training of one's own mind to see what is worthy of gaurava.

Common Misreadings and Clarifications

Misreading one: gaurava means "aloof," "silent," "not associating with others."

This is mistaking "not lowering the hand" for gaurava. Monk Wollong's exchange precisely demolishes this: a monk asked, "What is the appearance of a great person?" and he answered, "In the purple gauze tent, the hand is not lowered"—"not lowering the hand" seems to be a posture of transcendence; but when asked again why the hand was not lowered, he answered, "Not noble"—even not lowering the hand is not noble. If you take "not lowering the hand" as a mark of gaurava, you are "making" gaurava; and any posture that is "made" is not noble.

Gaurava is not not-speaking, not-socializing, not-participating. The truly noble are "naturally so"—speak when speaking is called for, act when acting is called for; neither forcing silence nor forcing activity. It does not fall on either side of "doing" or "not doing."

Misreading two: gaurava means "keeping a low profile"—not flaunting, not showing off, not displaying.

This is a more hidden misunderstanding. "Keeping a low profile" itself can become a kind of high profile—a posture of "I am more advanced than all of you, because I do not even need to flaunt." Monk Daeryeong's "do not make nobility" has its emphasis precisely on "do not make"—you should not even make the act of "not making." If you deliberately keep a low profile, you are "making low profile"; you are still fabricating, still occupying some position of "I am superior to you."

Gaurava is not "not flaunting"; it is that the question of "flaunt or not flaunt" simply does not arise. It is not on that axis at all.

Misreading three: gaurava is "cultivated"—as long as I practice diligently and accumulate merit, I can attain gaurava.

This is the most common and the most dangerous misunderstanding. The *Transmission of the Lamp* states clearly: the task-completer—one who has handled all matters perfectly—is not called noble. The effort of practice, the merit, the realization—all are "matters"; however beautifully these matters are handled, one is still a "task-completer." Gaurava is "the exhaustion of merit and achievement"—that which remains after the effort has reached its end and everything is put down. It is not the result of cultivation; it is the end of cultivation.

This is not to say practice is unimportant—quite the contrary, without practice you cannot even become a "task-completer"; but when practice reaches its end, you must also put down the identity of "practitioner." This is like the *Vajracchedikā Sūtra* (《金剛經》) saying 「應無所住而生其心」 *"One should give rise to the mind without dwelling anywhere"*—not that no mind arises, but that the mind does not dwell anywhere, including on the thought "I am practicing." Likewise, gaurava is not the rejection of merit, but that when merit is complete, you are not bound by it.

Misreading four: gaurava means "having status"—the exclusive preserve of teachers, leaders, authorities.

The 尊重 of the *Lamrim* does indeed refer to teachers who possess the intention to bring benefit, but the key lies in the nature of "intending to benefit," not in the teacher's status. A person of status without the intention to benefit is not called 尊重; a person without status but with genuine intention to benefit is, on the contrary, 尊重. Gaurava is not a title; it is a resolve.

This is especially important today: we are accustomed to equating authority, status, and titles with "worthy of respect," while forgetting that the precondition of reverence is "intending to benefit." Is a person with a doctoral title but no care for students worthy of respect? Is a person without any title but genuinely considerate of others not worthy of respect? The concept of gaurava reminds us: look at the essence, not the label.

Misreading five: gaurava means "not having to do anything"—passivity, apathy, not caring about anything.

This is the greatest misunderstanding of "do not make nobility." "Not making" does not mean "not acting"; it means "not fabricating"—not using a finite mind to "produce" an appearance of nobility. The one who embodies gaurava is "naturally so," and this "natural" is precisely alive, present, encountering everything. Monk Huanglong said, "when one suddenly encounters the noble one," "do not let it pass"—not missing, not erring, not fleeing. How is this passivity? It is total presence.

Gaurava is not withdrawing from life, but living within every detail of life without possessing, without fabricating, without performing. Work overtime when overtime is needed, take care of the kids when they need care, attend the meeting when there is a meeting—but you do not treat these as material for proving your nobility, nor as evidence for belittling yourself. You simply do them, and when done, put them down, without attachment.

Misreading six: gaurava is the exclusive preserve of Buddhas and bodhisattvas—ordinary people have no share.

The Chan school calls gaurava the "fundamental station" (本分位), which means precisely: it is everyone's original condition, not the exclusive preserve of Buddhas and bodhisattvas. You do not need to "become" noble; you only need to stop "making" the things that obscure gaurava—performance, possession, grasping, self-aggrandizement. Just as when the dark clouds disperse the sun naturally appears—the sun does not come out because you strove to "become the sun"; it was always there.

Monk Daeryeong said 「體即得，當即不得」 *"to embody it is attained; to appropriate it is not attained"*—the essence (體, the fundamental) is attained in the immediate present; it is not something you "take on." You do not need to go and receive a "gaurava certificate"; you only need to recognize that the fundamental station—which attaches to nothing, fabricates nothing, possesses nothing—has always been there. The reason you feel ignoble is that you have been "making" all along—continually turning yourself into some kind of thing. To stop is not to stop doing, but to no longer use "doing" as a means of "becoming." Things still need to be done, but the doer is no longer bound by the doing.

Gaurava, in the final analysis, does not teach us "what to become"; it teaches us to "recognize what is originally there." It is like a mirror, reflecting all our fabrications—all those efforts we make to prove ourselves, to occupy a position, to perform value. The mirror does not say "you are wrong"; it simply reflects as it is: look, you are "making." And when you finally stop—stop making, stop feigning, stop possessing—that unclaimable fundamental station, which has always been there, is right there: it has never left you, just as the sky has never left the clouds.

The *Jingde Record of the Transmission of the Lamp* says: 「尊貴邊，著得什麼物。」 *"On the edge of nobility—what thing could attach itself there?"* This sentence is not a negation—it is not saying gaurava has nothing at all; it is saying: gaurava is not a container, it needs nothing put into it; not a position, it needs nothing to occupy; not an image, it needs nothing to maintain. It is that fundamental which remains after "merit and achievement are exhausted"—when all merit, achievement, and fabrication have come to an end and been put down, what remains. It refuses nothing, and it clings to nothing. It simply—is.

Much of contemporary anxiety comes from the effort to "become noble." But gaurava is not the result of "becoming"; it is the manifestation of "putting down." May you, after reading this, occasionally stop—do nothing, become nothing—and simply take a look at that fundamental station where nothing attaches. Perhaps that is the gaurava you have been looking for all along.