A Good, Strong Cup

There is nothing quite look a good, strong cup of coffee in the morning. The warmth it adds to the sunshine still coming up over the tree line. The scent, for those who find it scintillating, a pick-me-up before even the very first satisfying sip. The taste of its bitter sweetness, no matter whether graced with honey, sugar, milk, or for the purists, nothing at all. The slight hiccups of percolation and the hypnotizing sound of the swirl of a spoon in the bottom of a porcelain mug. The deep pool of brown in varying shades of richness, reminiscent of its distant countries of origin. It is an experience of all senses.

The more I contemplate over a cup of coffee, the more I associate the ability to think and to dream, almost supernaturally, with the habit itself. Despite the caffeinated stupor I may sometimes experience in later hours following that first cup, I am always grateful for the respite it provides. It brings with it a necessary awareness. I find it easier to breathe, to gain perspective, and to rise above.

This morning, paired with one egg, over easy and two just-perfect pieces of bacon, my cup of coffee has helped me do just that. It has helped me rise to the occasion of meeting with my Maker in the quiet and stillness of a morning alone. It has helped me to think less often of the internet serviceman I’ve been waiting to come for nearly twelve hours, nine of which nearly sabotaged my yesterday. It has inspired me to dig into my creative stores and to practice an art which I so often neglect.

Strangely, in each cup are the echoes of a lifetime of conversations, times of communion, and relationships which add to the fullness of my life. A catalogue of brilliant, timeless memories have with them the mark of this taste, feel, sight, smell, and sound. These echoes remind and restore, causing me to hope for a lifetime of transcendent and full-sensory mornings over cups of coffee to come. And as I nurse the final drops of this morning's good, strong cup of coffee, I am thankful.

Pleasure and Pastries

One of my best friends made a permanent move back to Nashville this weekend, and that brings me pleasure. And pleasure, when it is unfolded like a long-awaited letter and held up to the welcoming sunshine to read, just feels so good. So good like a cool summer breeze, shared silence and conversation, slow traffic on a usually busy street, and deeply satisfying fresh-baked pastries. All welcome gifts dropped at this doorstep of my life.

This has been a season of big joys in small packages.

Because of all of these joys, I have felt freer. I have felt more like myself. I have felt like someone learning to see the world all over again and to enjoy it like an infant discovering the strength of their legs as they learn to walk, or a child cherishing the taste of a chocolate ice cream cone in the late afternoon. While not with complete reckless abandon (for I am refined adult, after all), I have found myself desperate for that deep feeling of utter contentment at the center of my gut and doing almost anything to get it. And none of that surface level happiness we all seem to parade around these days, will do. Where does it get us when we're really only hoping to prove to ourselves and to those around us that we're really okay?

Why can't we actually just be okay? Okay with the way our bodies look in the mirror, or the way our career plans haven't turned out exactly like we though. Okay with not having as much as our neighbor, and just having as much as we do because it is always enough. Contentment is knowing you are already okay. And you are. You just are.

Too often, I have spent my time looking to what is next - always changing, always transitioning, always breaking through. But what about being right where you are and being so ridiculously happy about it you could cry? Because I could. And not for sadness but for meaning, for purpose, and for feeling God's presence in the midst of it all.

And I hope that when my days get busier with long-expected work, that I will reflect often upon pleasure and pastries. Because in each I have found the corners of my heart turning upwards in a deep, grateful smile and my eyes, ears, and mouth longing to share in that experience with others. I am praying now that I will realize then that pleasure isn't just for the quiet, less-chaotic moments like these. It is for the grieving, working, dreaming, planning, and living moments. It is simply for all of them.