There is a koan about a Zen master who was being chased by a hungry tiger. He ran for his life with the big cat swatting at his heels until he reached the edge of a cliff. With nowhere to go, he lowered himself over the brink using a vine that grew from the soil near the lip of the wall. As the tiger sniffed and prowled from above, two mice appeared above the dangling master’s hands and began to gnaw their way through the base of the vine. Impossibly stuck now, if he climbed back over the edge, he’d be eaten, and if he did nothing, the mouse-chewed vine would break, and he would fall. And yet without panic, he gazed to the side of the wall where a few green stems and leaves had produced a single, ripe, alpine strawberry. He reached out, plucked the whole plant, roots and all, from the small three-finger pocket in which the plant clung to a slim existence, blew out the remaining dirt with a quick puff, and said, “Huh, with a bit more work, a pry bar, and some bolts, this thing might clean up nicely.”