If you never change your mind, why have one?

Host: The sky above the harbor was iron-grey, heavy with pending rain. The wind came in from the sea, tasting of salt and memory. Down on the pier, gulls screeched and circled, their cries mingling with the groan of ropes and the distant hum of a ferry engine preparing to leave.

Inside a small café near the water, steam rose from chipped mugs, and the smell of burnt coffee clung to the wooden beams. The radio murmured a soft jazz tune, lazy and melancholic.

Jack sat by the window, his coat damp, his grey eyes reflecting the restless movement of waves outside. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her coffee slowly, eyes thoughtful, her hair loose, a few strands clinging to her cheeks from the mist.

Between them lay a folded napkin, where someone — perhaps her — had written the words:

“If you never change your mind, why have one?” — Edward de Bono

Jack: “It sounds clever, I’ll give him that. But I don’t buy it.”

Jeeny: “Of course you don’t.”

Jack: “People change their minds all the time, and half the time it’s not out of growth — it’s weakness. Fear. We change because we’re uncertain, not because we’re wise.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe uncertainty is wisdom. Maybe the moment you stop questioning, you stop being alive.”

Jack: “There’s a difference between thinking and flip-flopping. You can’t build anything if you keep tearing down your own beliefs.”

Jeeny: “And you can’t evolve if you never look at your own walls.”

Host: The rain began, soft but deliberate, tapping on the window glass like a quiet audience applauding truth from a distance. The ferry’s horn sounded — long, mournful, full of departure.

Jeeny watched it drift into the fog. Her voice, when it came, was soft but edged with conviction.

Jeeny: “Do you know why de Bono said that? He was talking about creative thinking — about the courage to let go of your own certainty. Most people cling to their opinions like lifeboats, but they forget — lifeboats aren’t homes.”

Jack: “Maybe not. But some people drown waiting for a better boat.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe they were never really sailing — just floating, afraid to move.”

Jack: “And what if moving means wrecking everything you’ve built?”

Jeeny: “Then you rebuild better. That’s the whole point of having a mind — to renew, to reimagine, to admit you were wrong without dying from it.”

Host: The light shifted, the room glowing gold as the sun briefly broke through the clouds, a fragile moment of warmth before disappearing again. Jack’s expression softened, the sharpness in his gaze turning reflective.

Jack: “You make it sound easy — as if change doesn’t hurt. But it does. Every time I’ve changed my mind about something I believed in, it felt like betrayal. Like amputating a piece of myself.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not betrayal. Maybe it’s growth pains — the mind stretching into something new.”

Jack: “You talk like certainty’s the enemy.”

Jeeny: “It is, when it blinds you. The moment you decide your truth can’t be challenged, you stop using your mind and start worshiping it.”

Jack: “And what if your new truth is worse than the old one?”

Jeeny: “Then you change again. That’s the beauty of it — you’re never trapped. Change isn’t failure. Stagnation is.”

Host: The radio crackled, the song fading, replaced by a weather update: “Light rain continuing through the night. Expect clear skies by morning.”

The words drifted through the air like prophecy.

Jack: “You sound like every motivational speaker I used to ignore.”

Jeeny: “Because you think growth is about comfort. It’s not. It’s about surrender — letting go of the illusion that you’re finished.”

Jack: “Finished?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Finished learning. Finished feeling. Finished questioning. The moment you think you’re done — you’re done for.”

Host: The rain picked up, streams running down the window like translucent rivers. The harbor outside blurred, as though even the world had changed its mind about how it wanted to look.

Jack: “You ever change your mind about someone?”

Jeeny: (quietly) “All the time. It’s how I stay honest.”

Jack: “Doesn’t that make you unreliable?”

Jeeny: “No. It makes me human. People change. Situations change. My understanding changes. The mistake is thinking loyalty means staying blind.”

Jack: “So love changes too?”

Jeeny: “Love changes most of all. It’s the most adaptable thing we have. It survives by evolving — not by pretending it’s permanent.”

Host: A pause. The clock above the counter ticked slowly, like a reminder that even time has the right to shift its rhythm. The barista wiped the counter, glancing at them — two people lost in thought, in language, in the quiet war between certainty and doubt.

Jack: “You know, I used to think changing your mind meant losing conviction. Now I think maybe conviction’s just the art of staying curious long enough to get it right.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Conviction without curiosity is just arrogance.”

Jack: “And curiosity without conviction?”

Jeeny: “Is chaos. That’s why we need both — tension and trust, question and anchor.”

Jack: “You always balance everything like that?”

Jeeny: “Not always. But I try to remember that being wrong today doesn’t mean I was foolish yesterday — it means I’m alive now.”

Host: The rain slowed, turning into a fine mist. The ferry had vanished into the fog, leaving behind a faint wake that rippled through the grey water, widening, then fading.

Jack looked out, his reflection merging with the moving sea beyond.

Jack: “Maybe that’s why we resist change so much — it reminds us we’re temporary.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s why we need it — because it reminds us we’re alive.”

Jack: “So every time I change my mind, I’m... what? Reborn?”

Jeeny: “Not reborn. Just redefined. A little closer to the truth — or at least to humility.”

Host: The rain stopped, leaving only the sound of water dripping from the café awning. A patch of sunlight broke through the clouds, sliding across their table, warming their hands.

Jeeny picked up the napkin, folded it neatly, and slid it toward Jack.

Jeeny: “Here. Keep it. A reminder.”

Jack: “Of what?”

Jeeny: “That your mind’s meant to move — not just to defend its ground.”

Jack: “And if I forget?”

Jeeny: “Then I’ll remind you — until you change your mind again.”

Host: He smiled, a rare and unguarded thing, the kind that carried the weight of years and the release of understanding.

Outside, the harbor light caught the edge of the water, turning it silver — reflecting sky, sea, and possibility all at once.

And as the ferry disappeared into the horizon, leaving only ripples behind, the café grew quiet —
the kind of quiet that happens when two minds, once stubbornly still,
begin — finally, gently —
to move.