The walls were lined with old menus and a framed painting of Kramer. The deli case was packed with roast beef and pickles. I might have thought I was in the nineties, but the radio was playing Maroon 5 and Ariana Grande. I was in Kornblatt’s, one of the only Jewish delis in Portland. It was closing the next day after thirty years–that part I knew. What I didn’t know was that I was about to have one of the most transcendent experiences of my life.

Waiting in line, I took in the scene: a couple eating breakfast, a kid bouncing up and down on a chair, an old man with a newspaper. A busboy rushed by me with plates of bagels and cream cheese. I felt at home in my dirty jeans and wrinkled tee. The mood seemed jovial and unconcerned, until the two women before me got up to the counter to order. They listened as the cashier nearly teared up explaining the closure; they gave empathetic smiles and nodded periodically. They seemed to be regulars–and all three clearly shared each other’s pain.

I ordered a pastrami sandwich and a latte. I sat down at a table with my mug of coffee, uncomfortably close to two noshing neighbors deep in conversation. Taking my first sip, a strange thought crossed my mind.

I love this mug.

It was a ceramic behemoth with a handle that fit four of my fingers. It held what seemed like a tureen of coffee, and it said “Kornblatt’s: shut-up and eat” on the side.

I realized the mug would soon be a piece of history that would forever hold meaning to those with a long enough time horizon. As a Portland transplant, I frequently wonder if I can call this metropolis home; I decided at that moment that this mug would be my status signal that broadcasts to everyone just how tuned in I am to the pulsing nerve center of the city. “Oh, this mug? You can’t get these anymore.” This would be my shred of PDX carpet.

And just like that, I was ripped out of the present moment and thrust into a far-flung mental Shangri-la where I lived a sun-soaked life of espresso martinis and French tucks, using my mug nonchalantly every morning for some non-caffeinated concoction. I’d use my crown jewel casually, and that would show everyone that I was hip enough to know the value of the mug yet cool enough not to care.

Shaking my head to wake from my daydream, I thought about slipping out of the deli with the mug wrapped in my sweatshirt. It would be the perfect crime. But I found myself plodding up to the twenty-year-old who had brought me my pastrami sandwich ten minutes earlier.

“Excuse me–I’m in a predicament that I need some help with.”

Taking a breath, I began to say the first word of a semi-rehearsed speech about my emotional attachment to this mug. That’s when the landline next to him punctured my momentum with a sharp ring. He told me to hold my thought. I weakly said I would and leaned against the wall, waiting for him to finish.

I watched him scribble down an order on a waiter’s pad with the phone pressed between his ear and his shoulder. He hung up the phone and turned to me.

I started again.

“I know that Kornblatt’s’ last day is tomorrow, and it would mean so much to me if I could take my mug home.”

He paused and gave a slight wince.

“I think they’ll be selling them tomorrow. I don’t know when, but that’s what I heard.”

I thanked him and left. In the Oregon sunshine, I resolved to buy a mug. Even if they said no, I’d be prepared for a heist. I’d burn off all my fingerprints and pay in cash. I’d wear running shoes so I could escape quickly. I’d leave my apartment unlocked so I wouldn’t have to struggle with keys. I would be free and the mug would be mine.

The next day was a repeat of the day before. I walked up to the counter and ordered eggs Benedict on an everything bagel and a latte from the same cashier who was tearing up yesterday. I tried to act casual.

“I also noticed from that sign that you have 14 oz. cups for sale. Are those the ones that say Kornblatt’s on them?”

The cashier squinted over the cash register, spotting the yellow sign I was referencing that was hanging by the bagels.

“Oh, we gave those to employees,” she stated plainly.

A cook behind her–a gargantuan man with a red bandana wrapped around his head Rambo-style–hustled up to the counter and chimed in gruffly.

“Those are for employees and they’re not for sale.”

I took my latte–this time in a nondescript paper coffee cup– and sat down, surprisingly crushed. I wanted a relic to remember the deli, and that opportunity was just snatched out of my hands. The dream of being a cool Portlander never seemed so far away. I felt like I was going to cry, partly from a poor night of sleep, but partly because my two day quest ended flatly with a no.

That’s when it started.

Initially, it was a passing thought.

I’m going to use this disappointment for my spiritual growth.

I didn’t know what that would mean in this context, so I started searching for reasons why I was so crushed. In doing so, I discovered that part of me was completely at peace with the situation. There was a deep joy in the sadness. I had stumbled into the eye of the hurricane, watching the swirling maelstrom hurl houses and cars around me with pure clarity. Why did I feel so calm at the height of my discontent?

I started consciously observing my disappointment like someone might gaze at a trinket from across the room. I felt the icy clouds of melancholy roll in and take residence in my chest, but watched from the next valley over. I listened to my mind thunder on about what it wanted, but I didn’t hear a word. I let a monsoon of sadness sweep over me, but I never felt a drop. I knew without language or thought that the outcome wouldn’t affect my inner peace.

Seeing as I wasn’t going to get the mug, I began to want what I didn’t want. Life made the choice for me, so wanting what what was going to happen was the only way forward. If I was going to be joyful either way, the mug no longer mattered. In fact, the mug never mattered.

The mug was an anchor that would have bound me tighter to the world of appearances–not just of the world of appearing as a hip Portlander, but also the world of seeing everything as gain or loss. As Jiddu Krishnamurti says, “There is only the problem; there is no answer; for in the understanding of the problem lies its dissolution.” When joy transcends your daily life, that’s freedom.

When Buddhists talk about seeing through things to grasp their true nature, this is what they are talking about. Lama Tsongkhapa said “One who sees the infallible cause and effect of all phenomena in cyclic existence and beyond and destroys all false perceptions…has entered the path which pleases the Buddha.” I thought the mug would make me happy until I tapped into an inner peace that thrives no matter the external circumstances. I saw through my perceptions.

The mug was a chase for stability in an ever-changing world. I wanted the mug because I wanted security and fuel for my ego. I tried to hold onto what Portland was: a city with a thirty-year-old Jewish deli. Yet change is the only constant; there is no stability in the cosmos. To wish for something different is to bet against the laws of the universe and the predilections of every human on Earth. That’s not a wise gamble. In life, the house always wins.

And so I released attachment to all those possible futures: life in the sunshine with a casual treasure, an ego burnished, a tidy yet ephemeral victory against entropy. The path I have is the path I want. If external events can’t touch my internal joy, the outcome makes no difference. In the end, looking at your cup of coffee can wake you up infinitely more than drinking it.