Coffee in the morning
My knees barely knock to the left when I start thinking about it. The whole night had been filled with breath and a string of chaotic dreams; all the while, the earth rotates ever so slowly beneath the bed, ever closer towards the sun.
I wake up with a string of hair over my face and my arms tangled. I move to the left and push myself up. I can’t snooze, or simply lay there, or do anything else but get up. My shoulders are always stiff and my jaw is tight. I’m still partially in a dream, the sun is still working its way towards the horizon. I feel the carpet under my feet, spreading through each toe. I successfully avoid the space heater this time as I maneuver my way towards the kitchen. There is still little light.
I exhale. A new day. I never really think about what it means, I never really acknowledge that I actually have no idea what will happen today. I can make a fair guess: I’ll make this coffee, I’ll sift through the heroic and fiery pages by Mary Karr. I’ll fit in a 3.7 mile run around the neighbor or a trail walk with Luna or some meditation with headspace or maybe just my strength exercises (hips, core, quads). Should I write? I’m working on the piece about my physical therapist and his work digging into my muscles and the theme is about release.
There is never enough time.
But I’ll do some of that, somehow—the best part of the day squeezed into an hour. And then I’ll shower and drive through traffic, picking a podcast that gives me a sense of other worlds and go to work. Meet with people and finish things, start new things, find meaning in small moments, and conjure up some sort of pride. Then I’ll drive back towards home, maybe go to yoga with Peter—though evening yoga always feels harder on my stiff legs—so maybe straight to the house. Make dinner (tempeh tacos, or a salad, or stuffed portobello with jalapeño and the questionable fake cheese Fredo likes), clean the tiny kitchen. Write more. Send letters. Do something with my hands.
--
I really have no idea if that will happen. But I’m now standing in the kitchen and the light is on and I can feel quite confident in these next moments: plug the electric kettle in, fill it up in the tap, press down the lever. Dig for the coffee grinder in the cabinet that’s wedged between the blender and mismatched Tupperware; grab the large jar of beans hiding safely in a cool place. Grind. Find the french press still with day-old grinds, so fill it with water and move quickly towards the door. Put on his oversized sweatshirt and ADIDAS sandals. Go outside.
The sky will be a swirling mix of coral and citrus orange. Swirl the water mixed with the grinds, and pour it in the yard, away from where Luna might get it. Come back inside.
Take too oversized scoops of coffee and place them in the french press. Add the boiling water. There are coffee enthusiasts who have their methods—to stir or not stir? To fill halfway first? To let sit for four minutes, or five, to let it breathe before the top goes on?
I’ve tried them all and the coffee tastes the same each time. So I fill the water to the top and place the lid on, grab two empty mugs from the drying rack (one is from the Museum of Islamic Art - who knew we would both have lived by the Persian Gulf?) and place them on the table. Lean against the cabinet with the knob just barely missing my back, and exhale again. Roll my neck and crack my hip joints, quite relieved. I’m only minutes away from the best part of a day I can never quite predict—the first sip of coffee.
