By Diana Diaz
In high school in New York City, I had an after-school job at Train, Smith Counsel. The late John Train was a well-known investment advisor, and he was also a pioneering writer. He gave me writing advice and shared some of his more whimsical books with me.
I was paid $5 an hour, which, in the early ‘80s, was awesome. And unlike my prior babysitting gig, I got paid in checks, which made it feel like a real job. Mr. Train and I never talked about finance, but there was a comfortable lightness with money that I had never experienced before, even as the City was in a panic over a sudden flood of counterfeit money. I loved working there.
And I loved the little newsstand in the lobby of the building. I would stop in for a few pieces of Mary Janes or Goldenberg’s Peanut Chews and my afternoon cup of coffee before heading upstairs, or maybe on the way home. The coffee was always freshly brewed. I enjoyed chatting with the owner; his unrushed, genuine attention to preparing the coffee reminded me of my dad. In these few minutes, I learned he was Indian, that this was his stand, and that he didn’t believe in serving old coffee.
One day, I came straight from the bank into the lobby for my coffee, and as we were talking, I retrieved my velcro wallet from my backpack and flipped through the bills from my newly cashed check. It was then I noticed that the bank teller had given me all twenties. I handed him a bill, in sheepish anticipation of him holding it up to the light to examine it for the hidden owl or whatever telltale marking the evening news had taught us to look for that week.
But he didn’t.
“You didn’t inspect it!” I was more shocked than relieved. I asked him why.
He smiled. “When you come in for your coffee in the afternoon, I am here. And if you want another cup after work, I am here. And on the days that you come in the morning, I am also here, correct?”
I hadn’t thought of it, but it was true. He was always there, no matter what time I came by. “Yes.”
“And what am I doing here, all that time? I’m making coffee and I’m handling money. I’ve been doing this for years; for most of your life. When you do something you love regularly for a long time, there are some things that you know. I know when the coffee is done, even if the pot is still brewing. I know the feel of a real dollar bill, and I know the feel of a fake one in my hand. I know the weight of the ink.”
Now, what does this have to do with meditation? Contrary to popular belief, meditation isn’t just sitting still, or even emptying your mind. There are many ways to meditate. My coffee-stand buddy was probably practicing a few throughout the day. One that seems pretty obvious in retrospect is moving meditation.
Moving meditation is being super conscious while engaging in simple movements. It can be as easy as being as mindful as you can of your external surroundings and internal sensations while performing simple, often repetitive tasks, like walking or making coffee.
It is a way of calming the mind and creating awareness. Instead of letting your mind carry you away, you pay attention to where you are, what’s going on around you, and how you feel. When your mind wanders, and it will, just gently nudge it back, without judgement. It dawns on me that my friend was very present whenever we spoke.
Another is “object meditation,” where you concentrate all of your focus on an object. Meditating on an object comes from the Yoga Sutras of Patanjali, an ancient text on the theory and practice of yoga. Patanjali lists many things on which to concentrate that will have different results. In Sutra 1.39, he explains you can meditate on anything that is elevating to you: your breath, a mantra, loving-kindness, body sensations, a candle flame, or whatever’s grabbing your attention right now (that’s Vipassana). Through mindful concentration, my coffee friend was actually meditating on money.
In meditation, you link your mind with the qualities of the object. According to the Sutras, if you do so with wholehearted, enthusiastic, regular practice, eventually you will know all there is to know about that object. Like a super power. In yoga, we call those Siddhis.
Many people pour coffee and handle money every day, yet burn the coffee and can’t tell an arcade coin from a quarter by feel. It’s the intentional mindfulness, the absolute focus and concentration, becoming one with the action, that makes it meditation.
And, like everything else, it can be more easily achieved in the proper environment. Frantic, anxious surroundings are not conducive to steady, easeful focus. What better environment to not worry about money than Park Avenue? It wasn’t just the office where I worked, but the whole building. I smelled it in the fresh brew and tasted it in its richness. I felt it as my pumps clicked across the marble lobby floor, then sank into the carpeting of the office. I saw it in my friend’s entire demeanor.
And perhaps the most important factor: His heart was in his work. I never saw him look like he didn’t want to be there. Mothers can interpret a micromovement in their child. Musicians can hear their instruments speak to them. Skiers communicate with the snow. When your heart is in something, you’re open and receptive to every nuance, and when you add that singular focus, you might find yourself in meditation.
