When you are thwarted, it is your own attitude that is out of

Host: The evening unfolded with a kind of muted melancholy, the kind that belongs only to winter. Streetlights flickered against the fog-drenched cobblestones of an old European town, their amber halos pulsing through the mist like weary hearts. Inside a small bar, all brick and wood and smoke, two figures sat opposite each other in a corner booth: Jack, with his collar undone, a half-empty glass of whiskey before him; and Jeeny, her hands folded, a cup of tea cooling in the shadow of her thoughts.

A fireplace crackled faintly near the back wall, throwing shadows that moved like ghosts of memory. Outside, a violinist played somewhere down the street — a slow, aching tune that slipped through the cracks of the windowpane.

Host: In that dim, smoky light, Jack spoke first, his voice low, his tone edged with exhaustion.

Jack: “When you are thwarted, it is your own attitude that is out of order. Meister Eckhart said that. A nice spiritual slogan. But honestly, Jeeny — try telling that to someone who’s been kicked down by life more times than they can count. Sometimes it’s not your attitude that’s broken. It’s the world.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes lifted from her cup — deep, brown, and steady like still water. She didn’t speak right away. The silence stretched, filled only by the soft hiss of rain outside.

Jeeny: “The world may strike, Jack. But the wound stays open only if you feed it. That’s what Eckhart meant. It’s not about pretending life’s fair — it’s about realizing that peace starts where blame ends.”

Jack: “Peace?” He gave a short, bitter laugh. “Tell that to a factory worker who loses his job after twenty years because the company moves overseas. Or a mother whose child dies because a hospital didn’t care enough to act. You think their problem is attitude?”

Jeeny: “No,” she said softly. “Their pain is real. But so is their power to choose what that pain becomes. Some drown in bitterness. Others turn it into compassion, action, even beauty. Isn’t that what Viktor Frankl said? That even in Auschwitz, the last freedom was to choose one’s attitude?”

Host: The flames flickered higher in the fireplace, casting fleeting light across Jack’s face — the sharp lines, the shadow under his eyes, the faint twitch in his jaw. He took a sip of whiskey, letting the burn linger.

Jack: “Frankl was exceptional. That kind of resilience — it’s rare. Most people aren’t built like that. We’re creatures of reaction, not reason. When you’re hit, you flinch. When you’re betrayed, you break. That’s not attitude — that’s anatomy.”

Jeeny: “And yet,” she replied, “the soul isn’t muscle and bone. It can choose to bend instead of break. That’s why some people survive storms that others never escape. Because they learn that the world’s cruelty doesn’t define their inner weather.”

Host: Her words hung between them, like smoke caught in light — soft, visible, yet untouchable. Jack leaned back, staring at her with the kind of skepticism that hides a secret admiration.

Jack: “You talk like you’ve never felt helpless, Jeeny. Like you’ve never cursed at the sky for what it took from you.”

Jeeny: “I have,” she said quietly. “When my father died, I cursed every god I could name. I hated everything — the doctors, the night, the air I breathed. But eventually, I realized I wasn’t fighting death. I was fighting my own refusal to accept it. Once I stopped, the pain didn’t disappear — it changed. It became tender instead of poisonous.”

Host: A log cracked in the fire, sending a brief shower of sparks upward. The sound startled Jack just enough to pull him from the weight of her confession. He looked at her differently now — not as an idealist, but as someone who had seen the same dark he’d walked through.

Jack: “So you’re saying if I feel angry, if I feel cheated, that’s just my fault?”

Jeeny: “No. I’m saying it’s your responsibility. There’s a difference. You can’t control what happens — but you can control what story you tell yourself about it. Every event has two authors: fate and attitude.”

Jack: “And you think attitude rewrites fate?”

Jeeny: “Not rewrites — translates it. Turns chaos into meaning, injustice into fuel, heartbreak into wisdom. You can’t change the storm, Jack. But you can learn how to stand in it.”

Host: Jack’s hand rested on the table, fingers tapping lightly against the wood — a nervous rhythm, like rain on metal. His eyes softened, but his mouth held defiance.

Jack: “You make it sound like surrender is strength.”

Jeeny: “It is, sometimes. Because real strength isn’t about control. It’s about clarity — seeing that the fight isn’t with the world, but with your own resistance to it.”

Jack: “That’s easy to say when you’re not the one losing everything.”

Jeeny: “And yet,” she whispered, “the ones who’ve lost everything are often the ones who learn it best.”

Host: The rain picked up again, a hard, insistent patter against the windowpane. Somewhere outside, a car splashed through a puddle. The bar lights flickered, dimming as if to give space for the weight of their words.

Jeeny leaned forward slightly, her voice tender, but unflinching.

Jeeny: “Jack, maybe the problem isn’t that the world’s cruel. Maybe it’s that we expect it not to be. We build our hearts around an idea of fairness that never existed. So when we’re thwarted, we feel betrayed — not by fate, but by our own illusion.”

Jack: “So the cure is what — no expectations?”

Jeeny: “No. The cure is right relationship with reality. To see things as they are, not as you wish they were. Eckhart called it detachment. It’s not indifference; it’s freedom. The moment you stop demanding life to behave, you start hearing what it’s really saying.”

Host: Jack looked away, his reflection trembling faintly in the window glass, distorted by raindrops. He watched the world beyond — the street, the passing figures, the blur of headlights. His voice, when it came, was quieter now.

Jack: “You know, when my mother died, I spent a year angry at everything — God, doctors, myself. I thought if I stopped being angry, I’d stop loving her. But maybe that was the real illusion.”

Jeeny: “Yes,” she said gently. “Because anger is love that doesn’t know where to go. When you stop fighting the loss, you don’t lose the love — you let it rest.”

Host: The flame in the fireplace burned lower now, smaller but steady, like the pulse of something that refused to die. Jack’s shoulders eased, and Jeeny’s eyes softened, her breath calm, her presence quiet but immense.

Jack: “You ever think Eckhart was saying that the universe doesn’t punish or reward — it just reflects? That maybe when we feel thwarted, it’s life holding up a mirror we don’t want to see?”

Jeeny: “Yes,” she replied. “The mirror doesn’t judge. It just shows what’s there. The rest is ours to face — or flee.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked steadily, each second a reminder of impermanence. The bar had emptied; the bartender yawned, wiping down glasses. The air smelled of smoke, rain, and quiet revelation.

Jack smiled faintly, a rare crack in his armor.

Jack: “So maybe attitude isn’t about pretending everything’s fine. Maybe it’s about remembering that I’m not separate from what happens to me — that how I meet it decides who I become.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The world is the same. The only thing that changes — is how deeply you see it.”

Host: Outside, the rain stopped. The violin from the street had gone silent. Only the faint hum of lamps remained, casting a last circle of light around them.

Jeeny reached for her tea, cold now, untouched for half an hour. Jack watched the faint steam curl up — thin, beautiful, fleeting.

Jeeny: “Eckhart once said, ‘If the only prayer you ever say in your entire life is thank you, it will be enough.’ Maybe that’s what he meant all along. Gratitude isn’t denial — it’s acceptance dressed in grace.”

Jack: smiling faintly “Then maybe I’ve been praying wrong.”

Host: She smiled too, the kind of smile that carries both sorrow and peace. The firelight flickered once more, then dimmed to a slow, rhythmic glow.

And as the night pressed softly against the windows, the two of them sat in the silence that follows understanding — that rare moment when attitude, at last, falls in order with the soul.