What The Waitress Said

There’s a soft song playing and I can’t make out the words. Ceiling fans moving the air. Am I still on a journey if I haven’t moved in twenty years?

Maybe I’m moving too slow for the eye to catch.

My breath gets pulled up through the blades, along with everyone else’s.

The waitress comes over to refill my coffee. I point to a picture on the wall nearby and I ask her, Is this new? She pulls out a chair and sits down. Don’t get hung up on novelty, she says. You’re watching for change and missing the unchanging. Look again. So I look again, and it still looks new to me and I tell her so. Keep looking, she says. Keep looking until you see that it is the present moment of all that ever was. She gets up, gives the table a wipe and goes back to her work. pink tree

I go this way every day. Today I see a tree covered in pink blossoms. I’m sure the blossoms weren’t there yesterday. It’s as if I’m missing time. I think of what the waitress said, and maybe the blossoms have been there all along. And now they appear as blossoms. The present moment of all that ever was.

We’ve been a long time coming, my friend.

Even forever.


9 responses to “What The Waitress Said

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