The Unique Secret to Activate Your ‘Aha’ Moments
Make it satori time
We all experience disappointment — unfulfilled expectations. Sometimes, later down the line, however, we experience moments that are greater than the expectations we initially set. If this doesn’t happen to you enough, or at all, please take note of the beautiful Japanese word, satori.
Satori is a Buddhist concept that refers to, according to Rev. Dr. Michael Beckwith, ‘a sudden inexpressible feeling of inner understanding or enlightenment.’ It is the spontaneous ‘aha’ moment that you thought was eternally evasive. It is the blast of inspiration that, in a moment, guided me to become a writer. It is the same blissful energy that we as writers feel when we taste a new creative juice. It is an unexpected revelation, but we can fertilize our very own satori-growing soil through greater spiritual awareness. The term itself is relatively new to me, yet my first real satori moment, in hindsight, occurred under unusual — and ironic— circumstances. This story begins on a cold night with my best friend, a physical rehabilitation facility, and a saintly bunny.
My (now ex-)girlfriend and I were packed up and ready to head to the airport. We were taking advantage of her teacher calendar and taking a two-week spring break in Thailand. But, before calling the Uber to JFK, I had one last stop to make. I went crosstown to visit my best friend, rehabbing after a successful operation to remove a tumor that coiled his spine. Is there anything more heart-wrenching than sticking a visitor’s tag to your coat at a medical facility?
When I arrived, my friend’s father was in the kitchen area, sarcastically guilt-tripping me about my imminent trip to Thailand. Little did he know — or maybe he did — that the guilt I felt about taking this trip was overwhelming. Hearing footsteps approaching, I turned towards the corridor in anticipation that it would be my friend (let’s call him David). It was David — walking, but more like limping, a rabbit on a leash. Before having a chance to learn what the fucking rabbit was all about (cutting-edge “technology” in physical therapy), we looked at each other and grinned. It was hysterical, but I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.
To take our minds off his fledgling Kilimanjaro-style trek to recovery, we began discussing the Thailand trip. He already knew all about it because we traveled the world together, and I sought his advice for some restaurant recommendations. He didn’t care about the rest of the itinerary. In Bangkok, I was already on the books of what was, at the time, one of the most elusive tables in the world, a progressive Indian restaurant. I was excited because of its madras-hot publicity and my love for Indian food, yet skeptical about eating anything in Thailand other than the native cuisine, with which I am obsessed. Within those few minutes, David convinced me to keep the Indian booking. I told him that if it lived up to the hype, I’d promise to take him there one day.
It was one of the best meals of my life. The flavors, ingredients, and theatrics — it had it all, except a written menu. Instead, each dish was indicated with a single emoji. We dedicated the meal to David, and he was the first person with whom I shared its brilliance. Now, I had a promise to keep.
Less than two years later, after intense physical therapy on top of his demanding career, so remarkable was David’s progress that we planned a trip together. His wife and my then-fiancé were not invited. Vietnam was the destination. Bangkok was close, but the opportunity to keep my promise was distant. We had one night to make it work within our intricately crafted itinerary. With my laptop locked and loaded, the seconds ticked down until our narrow window of availability began accepting reservations. Like many global gastronomes, I was risking sleep deprivation, carpal tunnel syndrome, and worst of all: disappointment.
My vociferous “BOOM” from receiving the confirmation email was equal parts excitement and relief. To any neighbors I may have woken, my sincerest apologies. We adjusted our itinerary to incorporate Bangkok. The first person to whom I reached out was a colleague and friend of mine who lives there. A longtime expat, he built one of the most reputable touring companies in Thailand. Suffice to say, he is hooked up as one of Thailand’s most recognizable Farang (Thai for ‘white dude’), hosting his own travel program on Thai network television. He is also one of the nicest guys you’ll ever meet (because he’s Canadian). After sharing my story with him, let’s just call him Farang, he was generous enough to clear his schedule for the less-than-24-hour Bangkok encore.
Farang knew what we liked because he shared our same interests: street food, narrow alleyways, social outreach, spirituality, and drinking, to name a few. Isn’t that how friendships are forged in the first place? He showed us the other side of Bangkok, the side where Farang remains in the singular because they stand out like smiling albinos.
Daytime was turning dark, not because of the retreating sun but of clouds that were prepared to announce Songkran¹ on their own terms. Stranded between two points of interest, Farang suggested we seek shelter immediately. As the devas² would have it, the skies opened as we reached the thatched entrance to Farang’s favorite temple in the city. The modest covering had no chance of keeping us dry — and we knew it.
Pellets of rain were bouncing off the stone courtyard that separated us from the temple. Never did precipitation feel so life-endangering before those few minutes. Our dinner reservation was approaching when higher energy mercifully decided to break up the celestial water fight. When the violent sounds of nature became blurred by the comforting drone of Buddhist chanting, we knew the coast was clear to finally enter the temple. Patience is indeed a virtue and one that you will need in copious supply if you are to capture the fleeting beam of satori.
We removed our shoes and entered the small temple. The cool air inside shocked our bodies and souls. The activation of satori was underway, only we didn’t realize it quite yet. We were only focused on silence and dryness. There was a handful of chanting monks, utterly oblivious to our presence.
Once we were settled on the carpet, there was only one thing to do: nothing. The three of us were scattered across the back of the temple, unwittingly approaching sudden enlightenment in our collective state of meditation and exhaustion. That is when the skies opened back up, and the unforgiving symphony of nature reduced the fervent chants to a soft hum. How on earth did we get here?
In that moment, I realized satori. The word here meant many things. The carpet beneath me, this temple, this city, this planet, with these people, on the cusp of a promise kept. The span of two years in the scheme of our universe is infinitesimal, but in the order of our physical incarnation, it can feel like a large chunk. It started there, a sterile house of pain. Now we are here, a spiritual house of enlightenment. Without everywhere and everything between there and here, it wouldn’t be worth a story. In fact, there wouldn’t be a story. Satori, and the soil that cultivated it, would remain foreign in my consciousness.
The journey is what matters — not the perceived endpoint. We arrived at the restaurant and promptly made a toast. I told David and Farang that it was a transformative day. They both agreed.
References
- Songkran is the Thai New Year, in alignment with the Buddhist calendar. Water fights are amongst the most popular form of celebrating due to water’s symbolic representation of purity in Buddhism.
- Buddhist “God-like” beings
