I am sitting at my desk, eating my lunch – Garden Vegetable soup, a small Chef’s Salad, Orange Juice (Tropicana, 100% pure, no less). And I’m reading the SDMB,using up valuable bandwidth otherwise needed by my colleagues to check their portfolios, bet on the Michigan-Ohio State game, and download p*rn.
As I briefly consider replying to a post that desperately needs the benefit of my wisdom, I reach for my juice and – CRASH! BANG! Oh, the humanity! – I spill my juice.
I knock it over with my own hand in a moment of un-mindfulness. Me, a practicing martial artist with catlike reflexes and Kung-Fu grip!
I, who can don my socks and tie my shoes balanced on one leg while simultaneously watching the CBS Morning News, can not stem the tide of Vitamin-C enriched golden goodness rushing toward my Application Analysis report.
I, who can sidestep sword-wielding attackers, disappearing and then re-appearing again behind them with ninja-like stealth, can only watch helplessly as minutes worth of work soak up the sun-kissed flood (though not a significant source of dietary fiber, vitamin A, and iron).
I, who can meditate for hours, fast for minutes, and wait for seconds, am reduced to a mere 148 of the promised 296 ml of concentrated citrus succor.
Any other man would question his life’s calling. Any other man would wonder, “why have I devoted my life to the discipline of my mind and body, only to so easily fall prey to the vagaries of chance, distraction and, most tragically, gravity?”
Any other man would. But not I. For I have just noticed the instruction on the wayward bottle to “shake well for best taste”. And I realize that I had not shaken the bottle before reaching for it. Had I taken that first sip, I would have deprived myself of the promised and well-deserved Best Taste. I realize further that my mind, operating in a Zen-like state below the level of consciousness, knew that I was about to subject myself to a sub-optimal juice-drinking experience, and caused my hand to knock the bottle at exactly the correct angle to interrupt the impending moment.
I smile. My training has not gone for naught. I silently tip my cap to my subconscious mind, and to my teachers who have honed me into the Mindful-after-all Buddha that I have evidently become. I lift the bottle and shake, vigorously.
Now if only I had remembered to replace the cap . . .