SAVORING A BEAN CAKE

When I was four or five years old, every time my mother went to the market, she brought me back a cake made of bean paste. While she was away, I would be playing in the garden with the snails and the pebbles, and when my mother came back I was very happy to see her. I took the cake that she gave me and I went off to eat it in the garden. I knew I mustn’t eat it quickly. I wanted to eat it slowly—the slower the better. I’d just chew a little bit off the edge to allow the sweetness of the cake to go into my mouth, and I’d look up at the blue sky. I’d look down at the dog. I’d look at the cat. That is how I ate the cake, and it would take me half an hour to eat it. I had no worries; I wasn’t thinking about fame, honor, or profit, the past or the future. All of us have lived moments like that, when we’re not craving for anything, not regretting anything. We’re not asking ourselves philosophical questions like “Who am I?” Are we able to eat a cake like that now?