Vachon Imagined

Attachments are mental chords we create with the world. Something feels good, and suddenly the mind says: we live here now.

Take, for example, my relationship with coffee.

I look forward to that first cup in the morning—what I can only describe as God’s nectar, delivered to earth for the purpose of reminding me that consciousness is, in fact, worth participating in.

It’s not just coffee. It’s a lifestyle announcement.

Even during meditation, I try to be present. I really do. But somewhere between “observe the breath” and “notice sensations in the body,” my brain has already left the building and is negotiating terms with the kitchen.

There I am, sitting in stillness, and suddenly my mind goes: what if we just lightly thought about coffee… not too much… just enough to maintain spiritual integrity?

And then I’m gone.

Is it an intrusive thought? Yes.
Is it a spiritual experience? Possibly.
Is it caffeine dependency disguised as enlightenment? I refuse to answer that on legal grounds.

Mental clarity is often described as the absence of thought. In practice, it’s more like noticing thought without immediately handing it the keys, the wallet, and emotional custody of your entire morning.

Some thoughts are loud. Some are persuasive. Some show up like they’ve been invited.

And there is this quiet realization that everything happening through you is also being processed through you first. Ah yes—accountability. That gentle reminder that you are, unfortunately, the one operating this entire system.

Attachments are not inherently the problem. They are more like enthusiastic notifications from life: this matters to you. Coffee. Approval. Comfort. Control. A sense of meaning before 9 a.m.

They are informative.

Occasionally embarrassing.

And letting them go is not really a dramatic spiritual event. It’s more subtle than that. It feels like realizing you’ve been gripping the steering wheel while insisting you’re not driving.

Even when we understand impermanence, the body still reacts like, “Absolutely not. We have built identity around this preference. Please advise.”

So instead of trying to eliminate attachment, we begin to notice it.

Not fix it. Not fight it. Not spiritually declare war on coffee at dawn.

Just notice it.

There is a small gap between stimulus and reaction. Between “I want coffee” and “I must become coffee.” And in that gap, something interesting happens: we remain present long enough to choose whether to follow the thought or simply watch it pass.

That is the real practice.

Not the absence of desire.

But the presence of awareness inside desire.

So yes, enjoy the coffee. Enjoy the wanting. Enjoy the ridiculous seriousness with which the mind treats a morning beverage.

Just don’t disappear into it so completely that you forget you’re the one noticing it all in the first place.