Off work, starving. Just as I was heading out to eat, it started pouring.
I love rainy days. The cool air, the just-right dampness, the sound of rain on an umbrella — it's lovely.
Rainy days are made for hot pot.
The soup was bubbling, tofu and greens rising and sinking. I leaned my phone in close and snapped the scallions, the spoon, the curling steam. For a moment, something from a few weeks back came back to me.
Same story — starving after work, met a friend for hot pot. I'd been in a foul mood for a while, and the moment the pot came out, I dumped every knot in my chest onto the table.
My job is recruiting, and also training.
I want new hires to have clear standards before they start, and once they're in, someone who knows how to guide them, how to hand things off, how to get a task to the person who actually owns it.
I've seen how panicked the person in the middle gets when the message chain breaks, and I've seen people who weren't ready get shoved forward by the moment.
So I started organizing our existing workflows into a handbook, with an orientation for new teammates. Clear order means no guessing; a clear method means the next person doesn't start from zero.
But not everyone I work with sees it the same way.
Some believe in adjusting the moment you spot something; some only deal with it when it lands in front of them. Both approaches have their own pace, their own pressures. I understand how hard operations can be — and still, I kept getting more upset.
The hot pot soup kept boiling, forgotten, getting muddier the longer it went.
I told my friend every grievance, one by one: I'd already thought it through, I'd already brought it up — so why wasn't it moving in the direction I thought was better?
He sat across from me, chopsticks digging through his side of the pot for tomatoes. He'd nod now and then, murmur an "oh," and listen at his own leisurely pace.
"Hey, this tomato broth's good — want a sip?"
"..."
"..."
"Huh?"
"Just try it."
He ladled me half a spoonful. I picked up my bowl and took a sip.
The soup was hot, the tomato's sweet-sour flavor slowly surfacing. I'd meant to keep talking — ah, forget it, drink the soup first.
So I kept going. He kept eating, kept listening. Every so often he'd look up and wait for me to finish. I turned the same grievances over and over, while the soup on the table kept boiling and the greens in the pot turned to mush.
I was so right!
Everything I'd done was so right.
So right that...
I was full of sorrow.
In every sentence, I'd already assigned everyone their place: who should notice, who should catch it, who should follow which order.
Using my carefully nurtured method.
The best method.
The most correct method...
Was it really right?
The greens had already turned to mush, and I hadn't even noticed.
"Perceiving that all five aggregates are empty"
I took another sip of soup. The tofu, the greens, the broth, the flame — none of it was made by me. I just put it in.
Even the method I thought was most correct had been cooked up, not something that was simply there from the start. The recruiting, the training, the handbooks, the orientations — this place is what let me do them.
This place gave me enough chances and enough patience, waiting for me again and again.
When I arrived, I didn't know how to do any of it.
Who I am today is a rich broth, carefully simmered through this place's long patience and care.
And my troubles are just the flame of the mind burning hot, boiling up a surface of foam. Skim the foam off, and the broth underneath is still clear to the bottom.
"Delivered from all suffering and hardship"
Do what needs doing when it needs doing. Sleep when it's time to sleep. Eat hot pot when it's time to eat hot pot.
Do what can be done. Then, wait.
Rainy days! Made for hot pot. The rain was still the kind I love — cool, damp.
I put the greens into the pot.
And waited for them to rise.