At the diner

At the diner, i close my eyes to bring mindfulness to my food and I find that I am thinking, instead, about the man at the next table. He is facing me, staring either at me, or over my shoulder.

I wonder if he is watching me, judging me or the way that I eat, or whether he is judging the food items I’ve selected.

I catch myself now, judging him! (For how could HE, a man in a shirt like THAT, be judging me?) But of course, the poor man is just sitting there, not looking at me, not judging me, eating his sandwich and fries!

I am relieved that he is having fries – as I am having fries, too (And here, concerned that YOU will judge me for this unhealthy choice, I must explain that I ordered them only after the waitress informed me that they no longer had any oatmeal, my first choice, or baked potato, my second.)

I see that I am judging even my food. I see that this has taken from me the simple pleasure of eating these fries.

With dismay, I see that judging and being judged permeates my every thought. I seem to have judged every person in the room, and sorted them into categories – wealthy or working class, sophisticated or simple, educated or slower-witted. I see that these categories – which no longer reflect who I am or what i believe is important – are inside of me, ancient architecture built into my psyche during my early life as an aspiring princess in a Long Island suburb.

Oh, and then, did you see it? Did you notice how, as I realized I was judging them I began to judge myself for doing so?

Judging. Catching myself judging. Feeling badly about judging. It’s insidious. It takes me out of my life – and it certainly removes all hope of mindfulness.

I will try again…

Here is this pen, this paper place mat where I have been recording these thoughts as I slowly  - and unconsciously – eat my two poached eggs, my fries.

Though the food is almost gone, I have not until this moment experienced the creamy yellow yolks of these eggs. I have missed the savory salt crunch of these fried potatoes. My tea has gone cold and too strong, the tea bag left soaking in the cup too long.

Realizing this, I stop writing and attempt to be fully present with this food, this body and the diner in which I sit.

This doesn’t last long. My thoughts drift…

• To this blog post and how to finesse it
• To the waitress, attempting to refill my cup with coffee even though (she should remember!) she served me this tea
• To the man at the other table in his green button down shirt, either judging or not judging me.
• To YOU, reading this, judging, not judging.

I push my plate away. I see, in this moment, that all of this matters and does not matter to me.

I see how this diner, festooned with red paper hearts and huge red plastic lips – in honor of Valentine’s Day – has become an ashram. That man at the next table a guru. These third choice French fries, a gift.