Mind

I check the time: 5:13 PM. Chinese class is at 6:00 PM, so I have enough time to brainstorm an idea for my Nonfiction essay. I grab a deep-fried cottage cheese stick from my takeout box and exit my apartment before I realize I don’t have my phone with me, and return. I know it’s ironic for someone who commits to daily meditation, reads the Dharma, and practices Tai chi to be so scatter-brained, but frequently retreating into my thoughts is why I’m determined to continue practicing mindfulness.

A few months ago, I had an insight: I was thoughtful, but I wasn’t mindful. When I told my friend this, she asked me what the difference was. I explained to her all the reasons why to me, thoughtfulness is now inferior, perhaps even defective, when the objective is to be mindful. Mindfulness is practiced. Matured. It’s the absence of any unwanted thoughts. Just imagine — to only think thoughts you want to think! It’s utter mastery of the mind.

At the end of the ground-floor lobby, is a mirror you have to walk towards before turning to exit. I don’t know if anyone has ever walked out of this building without indulging their ego for a few seconds. Through the reflection, I watch myself walk and notice my left hand is tucked in my pant pocket. I like the look of that gesture. In my oversized white utility shirt and black jogger pants, I look easy-going but intellectual, casual but well-spoken as I comically chew on a cheese stick. A caricature of a writer.

I smile at my concierge, Ben. He is about to enter his office, but when he sees me, he pauses, expectant, but I say nothing and leave. He resumes his journey to his office. Why did he pause? Quickly, I replay the chronology of my actions, and I realize I stopped chewing during the smile, which Ben may have understood to mean I had something to say to him. Body language can drastically change the meaning of interactions, and just like the English and Chinese languages, I’ve a long way to go before I master this one.

Right beside my building is the Hudson Bay. Either direction would lead to a beautiful view of the water, but the left view is closer. I start out going left, but then I think, Am I the kind of person who would choose the convenient route, or am I the kind that’s willing to travel just a bit further? I turn around and walk the other way, the only witness to my change of plans being a man in headphones. I feel him absentmindedly watch me. His music is loud enough to travel to me. I try to slow down my pace, but it doesn’t feel natural. I wonder why I’m walking at this pace. Should I walk faster? How would a girl eating cottage cheese on a Thursday afternoon be perceived differently if she walked faster or slower?

By the time I reach the waters, I’ve already finished most of my cottage cheese. I lean against the railings and vaguely look out at the familiar view of the Hudson Bay. Is this the life of a writer? Strolling outside for an idea walk, in an oversized white utility shirt with one hand holding a stick of cheese and another tucked in a pant pocket?

A guy walks by me talking to a woman about how they think they’re making more but they’re actually earning less, and even though I’ve heard nothing else but that tiny snippet, I think to myself, if I were the woman listening, I would roll my eyes and proclaim, Who even cares about money! Even though, just two hours ago, I Googled, “How much does David Sedaris make?” and according to the Business Insider, he’s revealed he earns $2 million a year. Which means $2 million less for the rest of us writers.

Not that the rest of us deserve $2 million. I remember a conversation I had on a date with an Uber computer engineer. How is money created? I don’t know, I said. Banks create money. They create money when they give people loans. Okay. Now, what if corporations also approach banks for loans — which they do? What happens? Commercial banks will obviously give them loans. But let’s say higher-ups get their paychecks first. As you go lower and lower down the food chain, all the way down to those who get paid minimum wage for working the cash register or waitering or whatever — eventually those paychecks will be given through company debt. Everyone expects a paycheck, but if everyone’s getting a paycheck, then the banks are giving out more money than the economy could possibly afford.

I check the time: 5:47 PM. I turn around to go home, but something shiny in the corner of my eye catches my attention. I move towards it and notice goo oozing out of a nearby tree. A huge golden dollop of sap rests precariously on the trunk, waiting for a lucky passerby to come and lick it. On the ground are regretful splatters stolen by gravity. I nearly stick out a finger to taste, but then I catch myself.

The liquid comes out of a large tear in the tree. Ripping open the bark, the tear runs down the length of the trunk, exposing the tree’s dark maroon wood. I walk around its circumference, only to find more wounds with glistening golden sap gushing out. Split open and punctured, the body is ruptured all over. It seems almost eager to torment itself.

Right then and there, I know the tree to be dying. I look around, and a woman walking a chihuahua passes by. A man and a woman in pastel windbreakers intently avoid eye contact with the tree and me. I check the time: 6:01 PM. So many people here, and no one is coming to the rescue. Not even me, the one person who noticed.

Already late for class, I begin to run. Yes, writing that essay by the end of tomorrow will be difficult. I have too many ideas, and I don’t want to write something hackneyed — it’s got to be good.