The Whisper of What Is
Wednesday, I go to a coffeehouse.
I order hot tea and honey from the woman behind the counter. It is nourishing, warming, excellent.
That evening, I decide I'll go back tomorrow for more of the same.
Thursday, I return to the coffeehouse. I order my hot tea and honey toast. It was terrific yesterday, I tell the man behind the counter.
But today, the tea is in a smaller mug. The honey is watery.
I ask for more hot water, different honey. Yesterday, I explain to the patient man at the counter, it was much thicker. He checks the kitchen. That's the only honey we have, he says apologetically.
I'm disappointed. I'm disappointed I'm disappointed. How privileged to get worked up over tea and honey.
And a little insight arrives: I am grasping for yesterday and this patient man keeps on serving me today. As long as I yelled for what was, I'd never hear the whisper of what is.
I look at my plate. I decide I will enjoy it without comparison, as if yesterday never happened, as if this was the first tea and honey I had ever had.
And so I feed myself what is. Which, unlike what was, is always available to us.