My daughter was up and ready early this morning so we decided to get her favorite bagels before I dropped her off at school. When we pulled into the parking lot of the strip mall, I noticed a red Ferrari F12 Berlinetta parked by itself away from the other cars filling the spaces in front of the New York Bagel Shop and the Starbucks next door.

Ferrari-F12-Berlinetta-by-SR-Auto-Group-4-1024x682“Look at that…what a sweet car,” I said. My daughter glanced up from her iPhone, shrugged her shoulders and said, “Meh…”

My mind was already concocting scenarios about why it was parked there. Could it be that the owner was getting bagels or coffee? I dismissed that thought and went on to devise that—No, it was the owner of the popular dim sum restaurant on the corner or the owner of the home decor store next to it coming in early to assess things before the employees arrived. It couldn’t be that it was a regular person getting a regular bagel or cup of coffee on the way to work or to drop the kids at school. Not in that car.

I realize how silly that sounds, but that’s how fast the mind works. That’s how well thoughts run through your programmed circuits of belief. Mine being, whoever owns a car like that, is not of this world—clearly it’s someone who wouldn’t buy his own coffee or bagel sandwich. He (yes, the program says “he”) would have an assistant doing such mundane tasks or a personal chef at home preparing coconut milk infused French toast with lemon buttermilk syrup or duck confit benedict.

This thought stream of separation and veneration that runs between me, in my dinged and scratched 2003 blue Honda Accord, and the person in the Ferrari is where envy is born. It is also the birthing ground for my resentment of and disdain for extreme wealth and those who have it. This is something I know well.

In my sporadic and varied encounters with Buddhism, I’ve often heard of what is referred to as “sympathetic joy”—pleasure that comes from delighting in other people’s well-being rather than begrudging it. I meditate. I have the intention to cultivate sympathetic joy, but it never seems to get much farther than my kids or close family and friends, and even then the green bug of jealousy rears it’s head. This is especially true since going through bankruptcy and foreclosure and ironically ending up in the omnipresent opulence and wealth of Marin County, CA.

But for some reason this morning something else arose. Appreciation. Contentment. Pleasure. Maybe even sympathetic joy. Perhaps it was the Jatamansi oil I rubbed on my feet last night because a friend told me it helps release subconscious blocks. Maybe it was seeing two men in jeans, wet with rain, holding coffee cups like mine in their hands, get in the Ferarri and drive off. Perhaps it was the rush of pleasure that went through my body when I heard the guttural rumble of the V-12 engine and then saw its luscious, curvy red profile as it pulled out of the parking lot. My pleasure became the same pleasure I imagined the man inside to be having while he drove it. I didn’t need his direct experience of it in order to have my own.

The same thing happened again on my way home. At a stop sign, I pulled up behind a royal blue Porsche Panamera with a thin spoiler on the back. Just seeing the rich color, the wide curves of the back end, and the fat black tires awakened an appreciation in me—something similar to the feeling I get when I read a touching poem or gaze at an striking painting. The need to own it disappeared. I just let its magnificence touch me before it was gone.

As I made the right turn for home, I passed a new milk white Tesla, the third Tesla of the morning. Again, there was a reverence. Most people will never lay eyes on this feat of electric technology and design. For one more brief moment, I was completely satisfied. The good fortune of those around me was also mine.

This won’t stop me from condemning the realities of economic inequity or coveting a charcoal gray, red accent, cream interior Porsche 911 Carrera S—a desire I’ve had since I was ten and watched the out of this world, Jake Ryan, pick up Samantha Baker in his cherry red Porsche 944 in the movie Sixteen Candles. My husband frequently says he’s going to buy me one. Just like I tell him I’m going to buy him the black Maserati Quattroporte GTS Sedan that he craves.

In the meantime, I will rest in sympathetic joy and know that contentment and pleasure can come from someone else’s realized dream, even if it’s just for a moment or two.

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