This morning I washed the dishes without thinking of anything else

6:40 — Washing the dishes

This morning I washed the dishes.

Nothing special. Last night's rice bowl, two small cups, a spoon, a little pot. Everything had been sitting in the sink since the night before — I was lazy, as usual.

But this morning, when I turned on the faucet, I didn't pick up my phone. Didn't play a podcast. Didn't think about today's schedule.

I just... washed the dishes.

Warm water ran through my fingers. Soap foam, pure white on the surface of the bowl — tiny bubbles catching the light from the window, glinting for a second before bursting. The bowl, smooth under my hands. The steady sound of running water — not loud, but not silent either.

And I realized: I've washed dishes thousands of times. But this was the first time I was truly here while doing it.

Thich Nhat Hanh once wrote: "Wash the dishes to wash the dishes." I read that line years ago and didn't understand it. Of course you wash dishes to wash dishes — what else would it be for?

Now I understand: most of the time, I wash dishes to be done. To move on to the next thing. Hands are in the water but the mind is already at the 9 o'clock meeting. Body in the kitchen but mind in the future.

This morning, hands in the kitchen. Mind also in the kitchen.

That's all. And it was different — very different.

7:15 — Making tea

I make tea every morning. But usually: drop a tea bag in a cup, pour boiling water, walk away to do something else while it steeps. Come back to cold tea. Gulp it down. Can't remember the taste.

This morning I tried it differently.

Boiled the water. Listened to it begin to hum inside the kettle — from a soft hiss to a rolling boil. Poured it into the cup — steam rising, carrying the scent of jasmine tea, faint and familiar yet somehow new.

Then I sat down. Held the cup with both hands. Felt the warmth spread through my palms, through my fingers, up to my wrists.

Took a sip.

Slightly bitter. Then sweet. Then something at the back of my throat I can't name — but it was there, and I felt it.

Usually I drink tea without knowing I'm drinking tea. This morning I knew. And the tea — same kind, same cup — tasted noticeably better.

Not because the tea was better. Because I was more present.

12:30 — Eating lunch

Lunch at the office. A boxed meal. Braised pork, boiled greens, soup — nothing special.

On a normal day, I eat in front of a screen. Chopsticks in one hand, eyes on emails. Finish without remembering what I ate. Mouth chewing but mind processing an entirely different problem.

Today, I closed the laptop. Placed the meal box in front of me. Looked at it — truly looked.

White rice grains, faintly glossy. Braised pork in a dark caramel hue, translucent fat along the edge. Morning glory, green, slightly wilted from the steam. Tomato soup — red, tiny specks of oil floating on top.

Picked up a bite of rice. Chewed slowly. Rice has a sweetness — a very faint sweetness I'd never noticed, because I'd never chewed long enough.

I didn't eat the whole meal this way — honestly, by the third minute I'd picked up my phone again. But those first three minutes — I was here. And three minutes is more than zero.

17:20 — Walking home

Afternoon, walking from the bus stop home. About 10 minutes. On a normal day: earbuds in, podcast on, scrolling, walking fast.

Today, I took the earbuds out.

So strange — the first 10 minutes without any sound in my ears, only the sounds of the street. Motorbikes. Someone calling out at a rice shop. The rustle of leaves in the wind — I didn't know the trees along this road were this big.

I walked slower than usual. Felt my feet touch the ground — heel first, then toes. Left step. Right step. Steady.

Looked down: my shadow stretched long on the sidewalk, late sun slanting across my back.

Looked up: sky still blue, a thin streak of cloud trailing across it, like someone drew a brushstroke.

10 minutes. But I arrived home feeling as though I'd just taken a walk in a park.

21:00 — The balcony

Evening. Sitting on the balcony. Doing nothing.

Meaning: not holding a phone. Not reading. Not listening to anything. Just sitting.

The street below, alive. Yellow streetlamps. The occasional motorbike passing. The smell of someone's cooking — warm, familiar, comforting.

A light breeze. Cool enough to feel pleasant, not enough to feel cold.

And I sat there, not knowing for how long. Maybe 5 minutes. Maybe 15. It didn't matter.

A thought drifted through: nothing special happened today.

Then another thought: and that is the most special thing of all.

I washed dishes. Made tea. Ate lunch. Walked home. Sat on the balcony.

Everything ordinary. But today, I was here when they happened. And that "being here" — it turned an ordinary day into a day I want to remember.

I hope tomorrow, you try it too — just one moment — of truly being here.

This article was created with AI assistance.