Mindfulness

During lunch break at work, the Mullah was getting exasperated.  Every time he opened his lunchbox, it was a cheese sandwich.  Day after day, week after week, it was the same - a cheese sandwich.

"I am getting sick and tired of this lousy cheese sandwich," complained the Mullah repeatedly.  His co-workers gave him some advice; "Mullah, you don't have to suffer through a cheese sandwich over and over again.   Tell your wife to make you something different.  Be firm with her if you have to."

"But I'm not married," replied the Mullah.  By now, puzzled and confused, his colleagues asked, "Then who makes your sandwiches?"

"Well, I do!" replied the Mullah.

Once upon a time a man was journeying far from his home when he came to a small house in a deep forest. The winter night was fast approaching, the temperature was falling fast, and dusk was setting in.

He knocked at the door, and hearing no answer, entered. No one appeared to be living in the house, though it seemed to have been prepared for guests. The single bed was comfortably outfitted with sheets and pillows and a warm down-filled comforter. A reading lamp hung over an overstuffed couch. A black iron wood stove settled on its hearth, accompanied by a few sticks of kindling, newspaper sheets ready for the crumpling, a handful of kitchen matches, and a couple of perfectly-sized logs.

The man lit the lamp and made a fire; soon the room warmed up and the sound of the crackling fire made its way deep into his bones. He sat on the couch eating his dinner of bread and cheese, washing his meal down with a bit of red wine left from lunch. Outside he could hear the sound of an owl calling from a tree overhead.

When he went to bed he lay awake for several minutes, moving deeper into the comforter, burying his head in the pillow, smelling the smoke of the wood fire and digging his way down through layers of consciousness. In his dreams, he was a child again. He moved through the corridors of a large house full of people and their voices, the smell of food being prepared in the kitchen, the hum of conversation in the living room, the sound of someone playing hymns on the piano. He went through a door leading to stairs down into the basement and closed the door behind him.

Abruptly, the sounds of the house died down and the darkness enveloped him. He stood for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the dim light, and then continued down the stairs. At the bottom, he went on past the hulking shape of the furnace, past the coal pile, past the piles of boxes and the workbench and the plywood board with its miniature train tracks and bridges, tiny trees and tunnels.

He went all the way to the back of the basement where there was a small unpainted door in the darkest part of the basement. He opened the door and went down and into bright sunlight, blue skies, and green meadows.

In the days when an ice cream sundae cost much less, a 10 year old boy entered a hotel coffee shop and sat at a table. A waitress put a glass of water in front of him. “How much is an ice cream sundae?”

“Fifty cents,” replied the waitress. The little boy pulled his hand out of his pocket and studied a number of coins in it. “How much is a dish of plain ice cream?” he inquired. Some people were now waiting for a table and the waitress was a bit impatient. “Thirty-five cents,” she said brusquely. The little boy again counted the coins. “I’ll have the plain ice cream,” he said. The waitress brought the ice cream, put the bill on the table and walked away. The boy finished the ice cream, paid the cashier and departed. When the waitress came back, she began wiping down the table and then swallowed hard at what she saw. There, placed neatly beside the empty dish, were two nickels and five pennies - her tip.