Early morning commuter rush, everybody is moving along focused on their location in mind. Some hustling about at a faster pace, others haphazardly performing a pseudo-balance act: rucksack slung to one side, carrying a large parcel tucked between the crease where bicep and forearm meet, while holding a bag in the opposite hand; and still others casually strolling — they’re seizing the day in a much different way than the one track minded, no room for excess thoughts sort of morning person. Or perhaps they are all operating under the same Hivemind and the casual strollers are riding the same track as the speedier carriages, only set to half speed because half speed is what they are designed for.
I sit across from a young lady gently blowing on her hot tea, taking timid sips from her steaming cup. I wonder if she’s feeling what I’m feeling — a moderate twinge of guilt; a formulaic type of guilt, the one that’s instilled in us by the same Hivemind that created the rules for which tracks we can ride: “you must be five foot four and up to enjoy this ride — caution to those who have some form of arrhythmia — extreme caution to those who do not keep hands, arms, and legs inside vehicle at all times.” I look around, people are hastening about, making moves to advance humanity a millimetre further while I carefully cut away the peel from my citrus fruit, and the lady across from me casually maneuvers herself, getting more comfortable in her chair — arguably in a less than ergonomic manner to thoroughly immerse herself in her book. I always felt that the further away one gets from sitting in a posturally correct way, the more enjoyable the sitting experience gets.
Precepts of the Buddha-nature way of doing things says that equanimity is a valuable asset to peace seekers, and peace is strangely magnified in the morning time — yet here I am watching the calmness of the day being washed out like a windshield that is sprayed on in an automatic car wash; the frequency of droning individuals buzzing towards their seemingly important places deafens my equanimity, imminently pushing forth my baser instinct to feel like I too should be joining the fray — maybe to attend some place that I do not yet know of, but am sure will fill me with a sense of pseudo-importance when all I really want to do is to be sure that the next cut I make into this citrus fruit will cleanly separate the flesh from rind, leaving no excess behind.
I took my time to enjoy the process of slowly separating away the juicy flesh from peel making sure that the pith is minimized as much as possible. There was a YouTube video I watched about the unadulterated flavour of citrus fruits when you consume nothing but pulp. “Citrus supreme,” they’re called — aptly named when you think about it. If the pinnacle of any fruit experience is as good as this method claims to be, where only the raw flavour of the fruit juices gushes out as it hits your tongue — and nothing else — well, I’d like to think “that would be very supreme, indeed.”
I look up from what I’m doing — the young lady sitting across from me had started to slowly pack up — her tea only half finished. She must have received Hivemind’s message. I admired her effort in seizing a moment of quiet solitude, it was an act of unspoken solidarity.