Mocha in hand.
A guided meditation doing its level best, like a horse hired for speed but bred for patience.
It had been months since I last meditated, which is generally how meditation returns to one’s life: politely, after being ignored, like an acquaintance who keeps forgiving you for reasons you don’t fully deserve. The turning of a year has a way of making a person believe that sitting quietly might count as self-improvement, or at least look like it from a distance.
This was my second attempt. The first ended when I reheated my coffee and retrieved a Cutie orange. Enlightenment was briefly considered, then defeated by the espresso machine.
Eyes closed. Mind wandering. The voice in my headphones assured me this was normal, which was a relief. It’s always comforting to learn your mental shortcomings are widely shared.
Instead of focusing on my breath, I began thinking about the orange.
It was sweet.
It was easy.
It was, according to my earlier judgment, overpriced.
This opinion lasted roughly as long as it took to think about it.
Because this orange had a résumé.
Somewhere, trees were planted by people who would not personally benefit for years. Others tended them daily. Fruit was picked by hand. Packed. Logged. Shipped. Rerouted. Apologized for. Paperwork was filed by people who have never once been thanked for their contribution to my breakfast.
Fuel burned. Machines hummed. Spreadsheets endured quietly, which is their primary virtue.
All of this so I could peel citrus in my living room while a calm stranger advised me to relax.
A few hundred years ago, this would have been an event.
An orange in winter wasn’t nourishment. It was theater. A statement. A polite way of saying, I am doing better than you. Kings received them ceremoniously. Queens posed with them. Empires bent themselves into uncomfortable shapes so the powerful could taste something out of season and feel briefly clever about it.
I was holding mine like it had come free with the furniture.
The mocha joined the inquiry. Coffee beans from somewhere warmer than here. Cocoa from somewhere else entirely. Milk processed so thoroughly that the cow had been written out of the script. Sugar refined until it no longer resembled anything found in nature, history, or good sense.
You could meditate for a week on breakfast alone and still emerge underqualified.
Naturally, the thought spread.
The blanket.
The couch.
The floor that used to be a tree and now supports my feet without complaint.
Walls engineered to keep winter outside, where it belongs.
A machine quietly undoing the weather.
Electricity appearing on command.
Water arriving when summoned.
Information traveling invisibly, instantly, and usually without being asked.
From your fingertips outward, you live inside what earlier centuries would have called a palace and we have decided to call Tuesday, mostly so we don’t get too excited about it.
At some point I realized I hadn’t heard the meditation in a while. Then the voice resurfaced with two words: just observe.
This felt less like guidance and more like an accusation.
Because observation, I’ve learned, is not about calm. It’s about correction.
We are surrounded by things that once defined royalty. Warmth on demand. Food from everywhere. Light at night. Comfort stacked on comfort. The sort of life entire civilizations worked toward and never quite reached.
The miracle is not that we have these things.
The miracle is that we can complain about them with such confidence.
So here is a modest proposal.
The next time you hear the word Tuesday, pause.
Not because Tuesday is important.
But because it isn’t.
Tuesday is abundance without ceremony.
Tuesday is luxury pretending to be routine.
Tuesday is the impossible wearing sweatpants and asking what’s for dinner.
Let it be a private signal.
A reminder that you are living inside outcomes that would have baffled philosophers, unsettled kings, and absolutely ruined the expectations of your ancestors. That the machinery holding your life together is miraculous precisely because it no longer feels like it needs applause.
No guilt required.
No gratitude performance.
Just attention.
Because wonder doesn’t disappear when life improves.
It just gets bored and waits for you to notice.
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