So I’d been all week seeking some pathway out of the chaos and rancor, some mode of reconciling the angers, shoutings, the sneerings with the longings for some sense, some refuge of comity and just plain normal. A retreat to the shelves for daily visitations with old friends D.T. Suzuki and Thich Nhat Hanh. With my now broken-binded and discolored edition of “The Dhammapada,” supposedly the Buddha’s very own words, purchased in the University of Redlands bookstore on October 26, 1977 for the princely sum of $3.45.  (The date had helpfully been stamped on the opening page.) Took an extended…