Sluggish mondays

On Mondays we're usually pretty slow. We were overstaffed by one at least. When my mornings start off properly, my light is on. This doesn't happen everyday. I need to wake up at 7, bathe, and get to work by eight oclock in the morning which gives me sufficient time to sit and have a pot of tea.

10:55 AM: The young Chinese man of about thirty years old was walking down the street with my favorite Chinese chef who's probably fifty years old. When I see them walking across the street I prepare two cups of tea for them. The cups of tea that they get are usually hearty breakfast teas, because at 11 in the morning that's what I usually prepare for the tea of the moment.

Sometimes they'll get Hao Ya B, which is a Chinese black Keemun tea that is rich, hearty, smoky, malty, and a bit chocolaty. It's kind of like a chocolate mousse. Hao Ya B is delicious but you don't want to have it all of the time because who would want to eat chocolate mousse all of the time? Don't get me wrong, it's really good but also really rich. Or sometimes they'll just get a blend... a nice breakfast blend.

I handed them each a cup of tea. My chef always has this grateful look on his face and the light in his eyes really exude conviction of some sort... He just knows, what does he know? He's a knower... he has faith, in what? Maybe it's the moment, nothing less, nothing more... They both finished their tea and shook my hand. Off they went to work, caffeinated and ready to rock n' roll.


Twice a week I challenge my chef to an arm wrestling match on the front counter by the register at the Chinese take-out spot. The whole family gathers around and they all giggle, probably asking themselves what the hell is this skinny, crazy, Mexican-Jew doing? I'll walk up to the register and rattle off a "NiHAO!" which means hello in Chinese. My chef will walk towards me about two steps and look at me as if to say, "are you serious man? You're no match for me!"...

The whole family starts giggling and the match starts. He has an advantage right off the bat. He has much bigger hands than I do and he is able to twist my wrist a little bit to get an advantage. I usually last for about a minute and this is with my strong hand, my right hand. Game over, I lose.

But it's not about winning or losing, it's just the experience... The experience of sharing a unique experience with someone who's so different, different culture, different person... language barrier. There I am, speaking in English and he obviously can't understand a word that I say but he understands something much more substantial. We have an understanding. It's a common level of respect. He just looks at me, gives me a little nod, and we walk off to our own separate yet connected realities.

Sometimes I even think he and I share something deeper and more beautiful than some of my friends that I talk endlessly to... It's no judgment upon him or them, there is just this level of depth that I express to him. I look up at the sun, point up, and smile... then I hand him his tea and he's so happy.

11:30 AM: It was just about to rain and I saw my friend from the other night. He's a performer and a poet... wonderful man. He was visiting some friends down the block when I screamed out his name. He approached me and shook my hand. I told him to come and join me for a cup of tea. He did... and it made perfect sense. He started speaking in Arabic to a beautiful woman who was coincidentally there at the same time. Her name was the same name of his ex-wife. You could see the emotion and the level of transformation that he was going through... at first he was shocked, how could this be?

He was just coming in to get a cup of tea and now he's speaking in full-blown Arabic to a woman who's beautiful and shares the same name of his ex-wife who he still feels for...

This was a great experience to be a part of... because they shared so much in common. In Morocco, there's a patriarchal stronghold on women... as in many Arabic countries. You could see that they were understanding some things on a level that no American could understand... I saw it all unfold, and he was happy to have by chance seen me and come in.

Life seems to make sense all of the time. Even when life doesn't make sense the only reason it doesn't make sense is because one is judging it. If each and every experience is just felt without a right or wrong attached to it, it makes sense because it's just pure... It's pure of judgment, it just is... it's seeing things as they unfold and they make sense because it's just felt.