Thing I love #28: coffee.

For some reason, I don’t find myself talking about coffee much here.  Which is weird.  Because I work with coffee.  I come home with coffee under my fingernails and in my hair.  I spend a lot of my day pondering how the Tanzanian Peaberry is tasting, sharing the joyous news that we have switched back to the Kenya AA, sampling the new El Salvador, and gushing over beautifully pulled espresso shots.  Why I don’t talk about these things here is a bit of a mystery to me.  Perhaps it is because I like to pretend I don’t think or care about work much.  Perhaps it is because my coffee enjoyment has never become an addiction, so talk of coffee headaches/cravings doesn’t really come up here.  But get me started and I will gush on and on about Ethiopian beans and well-roasted Sumatra (why people insist on burning Sumatra beans is completely beyond me).  I will talk brewing methods.  I will count the merits of the french press.

Oh, yes.  I will.

And then I will hold myself back.  Because even reading this, I feel a bit weary of my passion and knowledge of something as small and silly as coffee.  On the other hand, it’s nice to know something.  And I love the smell of the coffee freshly ground and wrapped in a bag.  And I like when Adam smells it in my hair.

What is something you know a lot about?

November crept in.  I don’t mind.  Today was warm and I opened all the windows.  The sidewalks were blanketed in yellow leaves.  I let my legs loose, no socks, no tights, my toes free and wiggling one last day before the colder days of autumn arrive.  Just last week, it was snowing.

I tidied quietly most of the morning.  On a far corner of my desk, I found a scrap of paper with a copy of my driver’s license, a tree drawn in red, and a small poem on it.  I don’t know when I wrote it.  It might have been a year ago.  It goes something like this:

When I think of autumn
I remember growing
older and dying
with you and the trees.
You are kind and life
is short but wide.
Laughter is sweet
and so are apples and grapes
and quiet hands.

Outside our bedroom window are the leaves of a tall tree. As I write this morning, three small sparrows are gnawing on its tough, red berries. I tried a small bite of one once. It was tasteless and bitter, probably poisonous. It makes me happy to see the birds enjoy them. It makes me happy to feel well, again, after a day and a half in bed and a week of being lethargic. Much gratitude to Adam for being the sweetest nurse in the world. Nothing like a bout of sickness to restore one’s enthusiasm. Kids are good at that, too. And sunshine after a rainy spell. And girl talk. And a listening to a good lecture of sorts. And a good, long breeze.

I had a dream about a breeze last night. It was a lovely dream. Maybe I’ll tell you about it sometime.

What are other things that restore your enthusiasm?

A man came into the shop, yesterday.  I had met him once before.  I don’t remember what he ordered last time, but I remember that when I asked him where he was from, his face lit up.  He told me the ways he loves Morocco.  I can be shy, sometimes, to ask people about their origins.  But, I think very few things make people more glad than talking about their homes.

This time, he ordered coffee and sparkling water.  He was surprised I remembered him.  He had been very busy working on his thesis.  He is a graduate student of literature.

“What do you study?” he asked.

“I don’t study,” I said.

“Good!” he said, with marked enthusiasm.  I thought perhaps he misunderstood, and I laughed.

“You think it is good?”

“Yes!  I think it is very good!  Let’s say you love something.  Let’s say you paint or write.  Let’s say you knit.  And then you go and study it.  I think something can be lost there.  Something important.  The essence.”  His hand gestures were thick like his accent and just as welcoming.  “Maybe I am wrong, I don’t know.  But this is what I begin to believe.”  He was a little sad about that.

Was he right?  Do you think you can lose something of what you love when you make it a subject in a book?  I think he is wrong.  I think there is something beautiful in studying, learning, sharing ideas.  And at the same time, I think he is right.

We smiled at each other, and I felt I had met a friend, again.

Hi, everyone. i haven’t gotten around to blogging much these last couple days. Nor taking pictures. But we are in our new place, and I’m thrilled to say that we are sharing it three days of the week with one of my best friends. Living with Janelle and Adam: it’s like a dream come true. Our things are slowly finding their way out of boxes onto the shelves. Plants are being put in the windows. Futons are being assembled. Lamps are being plugged in.

I don’t know why I never liked August. It’s such a bountiful time of year. I feel nourished by the good books around me and the presence of friends. I feel nourished by the late-summer vegetables, early autumn apples, and the birds outside my window nibbling at a tree’s hard fruits.

Coffee-shop customers have been asking if I’m taking classes this fall. I usually tell them that I’m done with school, for now. I know they probably assume that I graduated, but I don’t really feel deceptive. I really feel like I finished school. I didn’t go for a degree or security or a job. I went to throw myself in the academic world, to bury myself in books and soak up knowledge like there was no tomorrow. And I did that. And I loved that. But now, I want to do something else. I want to see live from the smaller corners, from the chalk-covered overgrown sidewalks of my neighborhood, rather than the fine steps of the university.
In this sun-soaked month, I am learning to recognize a lot of things in myself. Since I was little, there were only two things that I have ever really wanted to do: write and travel. I think it’s time to enjoy that about myself, rather than suppressing and then binging on it. I can’t share what I’ve been given very well without welcoming it.

So, happy August, dear readers. Feel free to share things you’ve been recognizing in yourself or even just whether or not you like August. You know I love to hear from you.

Keely asked what other jobs I could see myself doing. I’m glad she asked, because I think I’ve learned a lot about what sort of work I enjoy this year. As a kid, a teenager, a young adult, I liked to daydream about doing different jobs. I wanted to be a marine biologist, a doctor in Africa, a great professor. But I’m beginning to see that I don’t like grand jobs fixed in grand systems. I like work that is small and solitary, but still creates and connects with people. I like using my hands and my words. I like jobs that feel like giving little gifts.

So other than my work writing or pouring good cups of coffee, here are some other jobs I could see myself doing:

-Woodwork. I could see myself enjoying carving small things like pipes or treasure boxes.

- I could own a little shop that sells little somethings people can sit with inside (perhaps edible or drinkable).

- I could see myself being a shepherdess. Or a goose girl.

-I could see myself being a potter.

What are some jobs you could see yourself doing?

As I learn that plants I step on daily are edible, pick wildflowers for vases or my hair, feast from mulberry trees that line the street, and just learn to recognize the plants around me, I find myself understanding more and more the riches in the earth, the great provision we are given in nature. And somehow, I know God a little better.

Today was beautiful. At 35 degrees, I found it too warm for wool and happily embarked for work in my spring jacket. I left 30 minutes early to give myself time to enjoy the streets. There was so much to enjoy. Puddles. People looking each other in the eyeballs instead of hiding under scarves. Sunshine. Somehow, the slight warmth in the air defrosted my mind, and small memories surfaced.

I found myself thinking about the little voices that have shaped my life in such big ways. I thought about people like Paul whom I shared eight hours with on an airplane over the ocean. He was so kind, generous, and honest, the whole plane changed when he stepped on board. I thought David with a British accent thick enough to spread on a scone, who I spent 15 hours with on a train. He told me his own wide and wild story of leaving his job fixing roofs in a small town in England to build homes for the homeless Romas in Romania. He made a long, potentially difficult journey for me rich and light. I learned so much from him, the things he said, the way he was.

Its easy for me to close myself up, stay quiet, internal, and safe. I’ve always thought that in the end, it’s just you and God, really. Just you and him all alone. And that’s true. But it’s also true that we matter to each other. It’s true that we can help each other along, and that from our little voices, people’s lives can be changed in unspoke ways. Our hearts were made to be open and honest and alive. Let’s share them with each other. Let’s tell our stories. Let’s warm our hands together. Let’s fold fingers and pray with each other. What do we have to lose?

Have any little voices have shaped your lives? What words have near-strangers said that you’ve never forgotten? Please share. Your words make a difference to me.

I discovered something unexpected, today. I love Valentine’s Day. Really! I do. The holiday gets such bad a rep these days, like its some commercial thing we have to rise above rather than enjoy. But it’s a very old holiday, actually. And what’s so commercial about love and showing affection?

It was interesting to work at a coffee shop on Valentine’s Day. People react to it in such different ways. Most people are pretty apathetic. One man who daily bikes through all this winter snow bought us all a box of incredible chocolates to thank us for brightening his days. One woman, who was long frusterated with romance, had a love/hate relationship with the holiday. Another lady (who is now one of my favourite customers) told me it was her favourite. She handed me a print-out of the holiday’s history and pulled a handful of fallen rose petals she gathered at work from her pocket. She kept them there so she could smell them all day.

And me? I couldn’t stop smiling and wondering about the love stories of people on the street. I loved how the snow began to fall so sweetly in the afternoon. I loved walking through the sparkley, snowy city after work to meet up with Adam. I loved thinking about how God romances us. I looked up at the dark trees on State Street and thought of a small story that went something like this:

Once upon a time, long, long ago, God created the first human. God looked down on him and loved him so much, that right where the man had stood, the first tree twisted its way through the soil and up into the sky. A year later, a wind blew the tree’s seeds, and another tree grew, and then another. And from that one tree, the world soon was covered with leaves and winding branches.

Adam and I went to a poetry reading by my favourite living poet. It was wonderful, not just because it was Li-Young Lee standing there in front of me, but because Adam came along, even though he didn’t feel well and doesn’t care much for poetry. He’s such an incredible husband.  We rode the bus home together and spent the rest of our Valentine’s Day snuggled together on the couch watching The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and eating salami from the deli bag.

I can hardly think of a more perfect day.

I enjoyed today. I enjoyed waking up early to skip class, make muffins, do yoga, and kiss Adam. Kissing Adam was the best part. I enjoyed the mist and rain and watching people walk by the big windows at work in giant umbrellas. I like working at a coffee shop on cold drizzly days when people wear soft scarves and linger a while longer.

I enjoyed the people I work with. I enjoyed a long break with poems by the fireplace. I enjoyed knowing that beginning tomorrow afternoon, I have a long, lovely weekend to look forward to.

Today at work, Bill and I talked about marraige and what it means to us and why. I spoke, but it was difficult for me. It usually is when I am talking about something very dear to me. It’s hard to explain why I think it’s nice to promise to devote myself to someone forever and put their life above mine. But I do think it’s nice. I think it is rich and good and forges character through the difficult bits.

Sometimes I wonder if I am a naive or foolish for thinking that there is more for us in this world than complacency. Sometimes I think I might be. But it doesn’t matter much either way, because it’s worth a shot. And so far, I have found so much more than complacency.