Day 2

coffee

My sister Rachelle and I once, through nervous laughter, admitted to each other that sometimes when we are falling asleep, we are already happily anticipating our morning cup of coffee.  This conversation happened during a particularly difficult time in our lives when we were not sure why were getting up in the morning. Well, it was for the coffee.

I have had hundreds of cups of coffee, lattes, cappuccinos; hell, maybe thousands, mostly in cafes in Oregon. There is something about the smell of a coffee shop that massages my brain, relaxing my thoughts, opening me up. Have you ever noticed how people will sit for hours in cafes on the most uncomfortable stools built? This is because of the near-spiritual peace that settles over a room full of people who have what they truly want.

Now that I live in the woods, I have my own simple routine around the morning cup: I roll out of bed, pull on my robe and these ridiculously soft black furry slippers. I put my contacts in and take the stairs from my loft to my kitchen. I let the dog out, start the kettle, crumple newspaper and paper bags for the wood stove, grab some logs from the front porch and start the fire. By this time my superhuman pre-caffeinated ears have heard the almost imperceptible click of my kettle turning off and I grind the coffee. The smell of the grounds is almost enough to get me through the day. I complete my ceremony and sit in my rocking chair, like a little old woman at the end of a long life who has finally discovered what really matters: Coffee.