It’s 6 AM. Still dark outside. The kitchen is still. I discard yesterday’s filter,
fill the reservoir for eight cups, and carefully measure out eight level spoons
of grounds. I press the button, and the silence is broken by the throttling sound of the coffee machine.

I head to the bathroom to brush my teeth, but my mind has already left my
body. It is sitting at my desk, chasing the thrill of writing the memoir. It
wants the teeth-brushing done. It views it as an obstacle to be cleared.

Just that old noise again.

I consciously slow the rhythm of the toothbrush. I focus on the sharp sting
of the toothpaste against my gums. I run my tongue over a stray piece of
corn shell lodged between a molar and the gum line-—a souvenir from last
night’s popcorn.

I finally sit in my study, and I hear the last breaths of the coffee machine. I
can already taste the brew, the anticipation bubbling up. But
as I look at the screen, the noise returns: Write the
chapter. Check the blood pressure. Research Amazon KDP. Pay the bills.
Meditate. Exercise.

I reach for a pen and write them down. On paper, they seem smaller.

I start with ten minutes of meditation.

Ten minutes later, I open my eyes. The mind is quiet. From that stillness a
thought arrives: I am walking on a seashore, collecting pebbles. Writing the
book and paying the bills are pebbles. The ocean is being here, right now.