A few days ago, I got a little reminder from the universe.

I’ve been using fountain pens for years. Decades, even. Filling them is second nature. You open the bottle, dip the nib, twist the piston or whatever fill system you’re using, suck up the ink, loosely place the cap back on the bottle just to prevent too much dust from getting in, wipe the excess ink off the nib, then once everything’s done and tidy, then you screw the ink bottle lid shut tightly and put the bottle away.

That’s the ritual. That’s what I always do. It may sound like a lot, but it’s only a minute or two.

But on this particular morning, something changed.

I had an appointment and was rushing to get out the door. As I was grabbing my things, a stray thought popped into my head:

Maybe I should refill my pen.

Now, if you’ve ever refilled a fountain pen, you’ll understand why that’s a dangerous thought to entertain when you’re in a hurry. It’s like deciding to iron a shirt while holding a cup of coffee and talking on the phone. Best left for a quieter time when you can focus. But yet on this morning, for reasons I can’t explain I listened to the thought. I even congratulated myself: “Good job! Stay prepared.”

So I cracked open the pen. Sure enough, it was low on ink.

I followed the usual steps — well, almost, but we’ll come to that. I dipped the nib, filled the pen, loosely rested the cap on the ink bottle, wiped the excess off the nib. Then, for some inexplicable reason, instead of tightening the cap like I always do, I grabbed the bottle in one quick motion and tossed it back into the drawer. Why? I can’t explain.

In that moment — somewhere between the grabbing and the tossing — I felt it. That oh no[1] whisper that hits milliseconds before a mistake becomes irreversible. But it was too late. The bottle hit the drawer floor. Ink splashed everywhere.

Luckily, I have fast reflexes. I caught it before the whole bottle dumped, but still, it was enough — the damage was done.

Blue ink pooled across the drawer bottom. I wiped up what I could, warned my kids not to touch anything, and ran out the door with inky fingers, late for work. The ink in question was a permanent blue, meaning it doesn’t come off skin (or anything) as easily as you might think. Yes — I had blue fingers that day.

Later that day, I returned to find the ink had seeped into the wood. So now I have blue-stained drawer interiors. But you know what? I’m not upset. Not really.

Because the moment I saw the spill, right after letting out the obligatory curse word, I had this thought:

Instant karma.

I know, instant karma isn’t actually a thing. It’s a song. Still, it is a pretty good descriptor for actually understanding karma. And man o man, did instant karma ever get me on that morning.

When we are talking at the cosmic level, as Western people love to do, karma can be a little tricky to wrap one’s mind around. But instant karma sidesteps this confusion and presents simple cause and effect.[2] I was in a rush. I got careless. I skipped the final step I’ve done right a thousand times. And the result was immediate: ink everywhere, extra cleanup, and a day started with blue hands.

It’s hard to be mad when the lesson is so clear; and, frankly, so well delivered.

So here it is. The ink-stained moral of the story:

• Don’t rush.
• Don’t be careless.
• Do things with intention.

Or, if you will, be mindful. Usually I am, but I definitely wasn’t on the morning this spill happened.

If you’ve done something hundreds of times without error, great — but don’t let that lull you into auto-pilot. Especially with anything messy, sharp, or fragile.

And definitely don’t refill your fountain pen while half-distracted and running late.

Still, there’s a silver lining. Well… or I guess a cobalt blue one. Every time I open that drawer and see those ink stains, I’ll remember this moment. Not with regret, but with a wry smile. It’s a little reminder that even old habits can bite if you don’t stay present.

So that’s my tale of woe, and my blue badge of wisdom for the day. Maybe it’ll save you from your own ink spill, literal or otherwise.

❦

David is an American teacher and translator lost in Japan, trying to capture the beauty of this country one photo at a time and searching for the perfect haiku. He blogs here and at laspina.org. Write him on Bluesky. 【Support @dbooster with Hive SBI】