I stared out the window of the coffee shop, a gray overcast blanketing the sky, a brisk wind blowing autumn’s leftover leaves.
To my right, a redheaded woman typed away on her laptop, her hair tied into a long braid that reached down her back. She wore a fuzzy cardigan patterned with stars, paired with teal sweatpants and white Adidas sneakers. Her face was hidden from view, turned away from me, yet I was gripped by an inexplicable urge to see it.
Further back in the shop, a young mother sat with her son, probably three or four years old, who babbled playfully from his stroller. Two baristas worked diligently behind the counter, though few customers were entering the shop. Outside, the passersby looked cold, tightly clutching their jackets. It felt like the very first day of winter.
“I think I’m going to be a monk,” I announced to Mimo, casually, in passing. He sat across from me, legs crossed, with a rather bored expression resting on his face.
“You don’t mean it,” Mimo replied, doubtful, an air of bemusement in his voice.
“But I need to find peace, Mimo. What other way is there?”
“You only say these things because of that book you read. You liked that one character who was a monk. It’s perfectly simple—that’s why you want to be a monk.”
“I don’t think I actually want to become a monk. I think I just want to find peace.”
At this, Mimo threw up his hands, exasperated and incredulous, rolling his eyes dramatically at me. “All you do is whine. It’s Thanksgiving this week, you know. Are you not grateful for anything?”
“Of course I have things I’m grateful for,” I retorted, raising my voice, and then, realizing how noisy I had become, quickly lowering it. “I just feel as if I’ve spent the last year chasing things—really trying to make things happen—and nothing seems to be falling into place. So why keep chasing? Why not stop everything and try to find a little peace of mind? Why not throw away everything and become a monk? It’s rare, I’ll have you know, that I have a day that’s fully good.”
“Is that so?” Mimo looked at me quizzically. “Then I have to imagine it’s rare you have a day that’s fully bad, either.”
I sat upright in my chair, bracing myself for retaliation. “Good, bad—what difference does it make? I reach for one thing, then another, then another. I want and want and want, endlessly, and yet, what do I have to show for it? I have nothing. Nothing!”
“If you have nothing, then perhaps you already are a monk,” Mimo quipped, a sly smirk spreading across his face. “Go on. Make your vows of poverty and chastity. No sex, no drugs, no rock and roll. Throw it all away!” Mimo threw his head back and laughed, a diabolical cackle erupting from his throat.
I pressed my lips together, my chin quivering, and lowered my gaze to the table. “You’re a beast, Mimo,” I said, dejected. “You’re no help at all.”
“What do you want me to say to you?” Mimo snapped, his brow furrowing. “Do you want me to coddle you, like that mother coddles her child in the stroller? Do you want me to tell you that everything will be alright? That there won’t be any bad days? That nothing bad will ever happen? Do you want me to lie to you, straight to your face?”
“No!” I shot back, my voice trembling slightly. “I want to be at peace—with myself—as I’ve already told you.”
Mimo crossed his arms and shrugged, while I kept my gaze fixed on the table. We sat in silence for several minutes, neither of us willing to revive the argument, when the front door suddenly burst open, blown wide by the wind. It creaked noisily, the sound reverberating throughout the coffee shop, as one of the baristas hurried out from behind the counter to shut it.
“Windy day!” the barista called out, smiling at me.
“Yes, it is,” I replied, offering a faint smile in return.
The redheaded woman shifted in her seat, and for a moment, I thought she might be preparing to leave. But then she turned just enough for her face to come into view. She had kind eyes and a quiet, knowing smile, as if she’d been aware of my gaze all along. The sight of her face startled me—she was more beautiful than I had imagined.
I felt the urge to speak to her, to open my mouth and say anything, but no words came. My lips remained still. I glanced over at Mimo.
A mischievous grin was forming on his face. “Are you at peace now that you’ve seen her face? You got what you wanted.”
I leaned forward, hunching over the table toward Mimo. “Should I talk to her? What should I say?” I whispered in a hushed voice.
“I don’t know, monk. You tell me.” Mimo regarded me with a mix of quiet disdain and pity, the way one might look at a stray dog begging for scraps.
I leaned back in my chair, squinting my eyes and biting the inside of my cheek. “Fine. Let’s go, then. You’ve embarrassed me.” I began to stand, but Mimo grabbed my arm and pulled me back into my chair.
“You’ve embarrassed yourself, monk,” Mimo scoffed. “Do you want to be at peace or not? Is the laughter of the child in the stroller not enough for you? Is the warm steam rising from your coffee on a blustery day too fleeting? Is the wind that fills your lungs insufficient?”
“Fine, I get the point,” I muttered, scowling at Mimo. I glanced once more at the woman, but she had turned back to her laptop, her face disappearing again.
“What would we be without our desires?” Mimo mused with a snide chuckle.
I leaned back in my chair, glancing at the ceiling as if the answer might be scrawled above us. “I don’t know, Mimo,” I admitted, my voice low. “Maybe we’d all be monks. Doing monk things and living monk lives.”
“Or maybe,” Mimo said thoughtfully, “you’re not meant to eliminate desire. Maybe you need to find a way to live with the wanting—to make peace with it.”
I lowered my gaze to the table, then back to Mimo. He nodded, a rare trace of understanding flickering across his face.
Outside, the wind howled, sending the leaves into another chaotic spiral. I watched them, caught between their flight and their fall.
That’s it, then, I decided. Peace wasn’t here nor there—it was somewhere in the letting go.
I stared out the window of the coffee shop, a gray overcast blanketing the sky, a brisk wind blowing autumn’s leftover leaves.
To my right, a redheaded woman typed away on her laptop, her hair tied into a long braid that reached down her back. She wore a fuzzy cardigan patterned with stars, paired with teal sweatpants and white Adidas sneakers. Her face was hidden from view, turned away from me, yet I was gripped by an inexplicable urge to see it.
Further back in the shop, a young mother sat with her son, probably three or four years old, who babbled playfully from his stroller. Two baristas worked diligently behind the counter, though few customers were entering the shop. Outside, the passersby looked cold, tightly clutching their jackets. It felt like the very first day of winter.
“I think I’m going to be a monk,” I announced to Mimo, casually, in passing. He sat across from me, legs crossed, with a rather bored expression resting on his face.
“You don’t mean it,” Mimo replied, doubtful, an air of bemusement in his voice.
“But I need to find peace, Mimo. What other way is there?”
“You only say these things because of that book you read. You liked that one character who was a monk. It’s perfectly simple—that’s why you want to be a monk.”
“I don’t think I actually want to become a monk. I think I just want to find peace.”
At this, Mimo threw up his hands, exasperated and incredulous, rolling his eyes dramatically at me. “All you do is whine. It’s Thanksgiving this week, you know. Are you not grateful for anything?”
“Of course I have things I’m grateful for,” I retorted, raising my voice, and then, realizing how noisy I had become, quickly lowering it. “I just feel as if I’ve spent the last year chasing things—really trying to make things happen—and nothing seems to be falling into place. So why keep chasing? Why not stop everything and try to find a little peace of mind? Why not throw away everything and become a monk? It’s rare, I’ll have you know, that I have a day that’s fully good.”
“Is that so?” Mimo looked at me quizzically. “Then I have to imagine it’s rare you have a day that’s fully bad, either.”
I sat upright in my chair, bracing myself for retaliation. “Good, bad—what difference does it make? I reach for one thing, then another, then another. I want and want and want, endlessly, and yet, what do I have to show for it? I have nothing. Nothing!”
“If you have nothing, then perhaps you already are a monk,” Mimo quipped, a sly smirk spreading across his face. “Go on. Make your vows of poverty and chastity. No sex, no drugs, no rock and roll. Throw it all away!” Mimo threw his head back and laughed, a diabolical cackle erupting from his throat.
I pressed my lips together, my chin quivering, and lowered my gaze to the table. “You’re a beast, Mimo,” I said, dejected. “You’re no help at all.”
“What do you want me to say to you?” Mimo snapped, his brow furrowing. “Do you want me to coddle you, like that mother coddles her child in the stroller? Do you want me to tell you that everything will be alright? That there won’t be any bad days? That nothing bad will ever happen? Do you want me to lie to you, straight to your face?”
“No!” I shot back, my voice trembling slightly. “I want to be at peace—with myself—as I’ve already told you.”
Mimo crossed his arms and shrugged, while I kept my gaze fixed on the table. We sat in silence for several minutes, neither of us willing to revive the argument, when the front door suddenly burst open, blown wide by the wind. It creaked noisily, the sound reverberating throughout the coffee shop, as one of the baristas hurried out from behind the counter to shut it.
“Windy day!” the barista called out, smiling at me.
“Yes, it is,” I replied, offering a faint smile in return.
The redheaded woman shifted in her seat, and for a moment, I thought she might be preparing to leave. But then she turned just enough for her face to come into view. She had kind eyes and a quiet, knowing smile, as if she’d been aware of my gaze all along. The sight of her face startled me—she was more beautiful than I had imagined.
I felt the urge to speak to her, to open my mouth and say anything, but no words came. My lips remained still. I glanced over at Mimo.
A mischievous grin was forming on his face. “Are you at peace now that you’ve seen her face? You got what you wanted.”
I leaned forward, hunching over the table toward Mimo. “Should I talk to her? What should I say?” I whispered in a hushed voice.
“I don’t know, monk. You tell me.” Mimo regarded me with a mix of quiet disdain and pity, the way one might look at a stray dog begging for scraps.
I leaned back in my chair, squinting my eyes and biting the inside of my cheek. “Fine. Let’s go, then. You’ve embarrassed me.” I began to stand, but Mimo grabbed my arm and pulled me back into my chair.
“You’ve embarrassed yourself, monk,” Mimo scoffed. “Do you want to be at peace or not? Is the laughter of the child in the stroller not enough for you? Is the warm steam rising from your coffee on a blustery day too fleeting? Is the wind that fills your lungs insufficient?”
“Fine, I get the point,” I muttered, scowling at Mimo. I glanced once more at the woman, but she had turned back to her laptop, her face disappearing again.
“What would we be without our desires?” Mimo mused with a snide chuckle.
I leaned back in my chair, glancing at the ceiling as if the answer might be scrawled above us. “I don’t know, Mimo,” I admitted, my voice low. “Maybe we’d all be monks. Doing monk things and living monk lives.”
“Or maybe,” Mimo said thoughtfully, “you’re not meant to eliminate desire. Maybe you need to find a way to live with the wanting—to make peace with it.”
I lowered my gaze to the table, then back to Mimo. He nodded, a rare trace of understanding flickering across his face.
Outside, the wind howled, sending the leaves into another chaotic spiral. I watched them, caught between their flight and their fall.
That’s it, then, I decided. Peace wasn’t here nor there—it was somewhere in the letting go.
