Coffee
Is it the way I make it?
The slow, rumbling cadence of the electric water kettle.
The way the morning light filters through my kitchen window across the small grassy square with unkempt plants and flowering, somehow wonderful every time as if the Pacific Ocean gleamed its spiritual breath wide open at this very spot to exclaim that we are caught in some sort of suspended moment in time and history only here.
The way the mug feels in my hands, so warm to the touch as to be crucial to my waking existence - as if touch could wrap its arms around your senses and calm you to the point of realizing that everything will be ok once again.
Seeing the steam rise from the the earthy, dark brown surface…
But wait!! If you add cream, your earthiness is a spectrum from black earth to sandy beaches that swirl into placidity.
Is it the taste of thick awareness sipped so intently that thoughts are allowed to enter which would never be allowed by any fascist conscience?
Thoughts like…
“I wonder how many have seen and experienced steam just like this in their lives, so beautiful and so transiently preening in its bounding presence.”
“Is it inevitable that we get to experience this world, each and every one of us? Did we make it here to have these moments? Where are those who were never born? I can feel the air on may face even when so still, and the sky is clear and sunny like it was yesterday. Maybe it’s best not to think to hard, and enjoy this moment I’ve been given.”
“I hope my parents are proud of me”
“I wish I felt less pudgy”
“I have the entire day ahead of me”
Unless you drink coffee at night.
Then thoughts get way more interesting.
My coffee this morning was reaaally thin because I broke part of my french press months ago and am doing pour-over. I’m not sure what I’m doing wrong, but the fact I have a french press at home and pour-over setup at all makes me feel licensed to write existential thoughts by themselves.
It’s more about the ritual anyway, isn’t it. It feels strange to realize I didn’t even like coffee until after college.
I can’t wait until I love prunes.