I saw a small diner near my house. It was lunchtime, but there wasn’t a single customer inside. The owner was just sitting there, doing nothing. The only sounds were the TV and the ventilation fan quietly spinning.
...It scared me a little. Because it didn’t feel like someone else’s story. I imagined myself on that side of the glass someday, just waiting, and waiting.
In the old days, business meant setting up a shop, hanging out the sign, and waiting for people to come. But today, no one “just happens” to drop by. Information and encounters are things we go out and find ourselves.
“It’s easier to wait than to go out and sell.” That comfort can turn into stillness. Before you know it, time is moving — but you are not.
In Buddhism, everything is interconnected through pratītyasamutpāda — dependent origination. It’s not about waiting for connections to come to you, but going out to build them. Even the most beautiful teaching is meaningless if it never reaches anyone.
That’s why I want to write like a food truck. If someone passing by catches the scent and thinks, “Hey, this smells nice,” that’s enough.
The lonely diner owner isn’t at fault. But their figure has become a kind of warning to me.
“If you only wait, no one will come.” So today, I’ll push my little food truck of words out into the world again, hoping that somewhere, someone will stop and read.
Afterword
To “wait” is, in a way, a kind of faith. But there’s a fragile line where faith turns into inertia. Standing still can start to feel safe — and that’s the scariest part.
So I’ll keep choosing to go out, to reach out, to connect.
Japanese original note:
🏮“待つ商売”と“出ていく生き方”──近所の食堂を見て思うこと
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