Better, Not Broken

So I skipped a few days (in this self-imposed, 90-day writing practice). It will happen again and again, and not because I’m not committed. This is not a sprint, nor a marathon. This is the best I can do, which is plenty fine.

I have a good excuse. (Actually, it’s an outright tragedy.) A few mornings ago, I broke the glass carafe that serves as the vessel for my morning jet fuel, my beloved french press suddenly rendered unusable…

Picture a messy-haired and sleepy woman, fresh from her warm bed, kitty cats circling her feet awaiting their breakfast…the water in the kettle begins to warm and the whistle starts to hiss…a tired hand reaches out in the dark and, instead of wrapping its fingers around the body of an empty and waiting carafe, it clumsily knocks the object over, the sound of glass cracking, sending said tired woman into mild paralysis, disbelief creeping her from toes to her shoulders as she sorts through the next few moments of realization—I will not have my coffee this morning. (The cats, still expecting to be fed, offered no help.)

This was pretty intense, you guys. I live for my morning coffee. Life-giving, I tell you. And not because I’m an addict (but actually yes, exactly for that reason).

My morning coffee is ritual. It’s a sacred start to my day: I grind the beans, I heat the water, I pour the hot water over the beans, wait for the beans to steep (three minutes, no more/no less), then I press, exhale, and pour.

Life without this simple morning routine has knocked me sideways for a few days.

The Taurus in me craves ritual, and this is one I’ve lovingly tended to for more than half my life. That’s 20+ years of waking up to Folgers in my cup, if you want to do the math. (And also, I don’t drink Folgers.)

The point of my rambling sob story is this: routine is a good thing. It can keep us grounded, keep us in flow. But routine is bound to get knocked out of whack (it’s one of life’s guarantees!), and for any number of reasons—a clumsy sleight of hand, divorce, a pandemic, a new kitten that likes to play catch-me-if-you-can right as you’re leaving for work… It is inevitable that we will get thrown off our equilibrium. This is why we have to be kind to ourselves. (Read that again.)

Admittedly, I was disappointed in myself for missing a few days of writing and then I got over it. Because time focused on what went wrong is sure-fire way to ensure that we’re not focused on what is going right, and much of life is all about perspective. Am I right? Tell me I’m right. (Tauruses also like to hear that they’re right.)

(Happy to report I have a new metal press headed my way, thank you Jeff Bez0s.)

Now that I’ve exhausted my excuse for falling off the coffee-starved cliff—Day 6, here goes…

Mind
I went to work for a few hours this afternoon. Sundays make for a mostly empty office, and the solitude allows me carte blanche to turn up my music, smack my gum, and sing along to the songs I love while digging in to the deep work that I haven’t had the space to swim into all week…I dig it. Feels good to get in that groove, and it also helps to hamper those pesky Sunday Scaries. I knocked out a full to-do list (only to wrap up my Sunday work session with a new list for the week ahead…gotta respect that list-making ritual.)

Body
I went for a walk around the neighborhood with a friend. It was one of the first cool mornings of the season, and the conversation was both lighthearted and also deeply personal. Several months ago, I asked a few close friends to call and check on me during the weekends to make sure I’ve (1) showered, (2) left my house at some point, and (3) have participated in both physical and social exercise. I found that I’d been self-isolating during those months that I needed my body to carry me through the weight of a dark and heavy season. I stayed curled up in my little grief cave, a tiny apartment on the Southern slope of Red Mountain, uninterested in sunshine or dates with girlfriends or hikes in the hills. This morning, though, even without my coffee, I skipped out of my front door to go walk alongside another woman who has her own stories to tell. We talked, we laughed, we reflected, we let our humanity spread out. It was a perfectly crisp fall morning, and it felt good to move this warrior of a body.

Spirit
After the walk, I sped down to the closest business that sells ready-made coffee and I got myself a big ole’ cup of joe, then I came back home and caught with my precious G on FaceTime.

Sometimes I despise the distance between me and my sons (actually, I despise it all the time), although there’s something about absence makes the heart grow fonder that applies here. Even as I am finding my way in being a present, loving and engaged mother, while living two states away, I see that my boys (in their own unique way) are finding their way. Here are these two young men who love their mother (and also their father) and have been confronted with a family situation that is deepIy complex. Sometimes it’s easy to get wrapped up in my own feelings, but I know it’s important to stay checked in to the fact that they both have a story unfolding, too.

Sometimes our daily calls are less than one minute, their attention fully enthralled in video games or homework or a jaunt around the neighborhood with a friend, completely uninterested in any sort of “storytelling” with Mom. Sometimes, though, the most endearing conversations happen, and any resentment or disdain I’m feeling towards the distance between us seems to dissipate a tad. Could it be that we’re getting closer in spite of the distance? Are our hearts finding new ways to see each other, even when we can’t be together? It’s all about perspective, right?

I have perspective today…

Sometimes we wear our anger on our sleeve. Sometimes we fail to conceal how we really feel. Sometimes we overshare with a stranger. Sometimes we let our bodies have what it wants (read: nachos—yes I had those today, body and spirit, check). Sometimes we break things. Sometimes things in us get broken. Sometimes we’re knocked off balance. And I think these moments might be a gift.

Breaking my french press sucked, and not to be overly dramatic, but I felt helpless for a brief moment. Something I care about and depend on was suddenly broken and useless. It wasn’t the object itself, rather, it was the comfort and reliance on that thing in my life that I rely on as a constant.

So, what’s the point of all this?

Shit breaks. It sucks for a minute or two. Then we pick ourselves up, take a deep breath, and order a new metal french press with rush delivery…cause ain’t nobody gonna keep us down.

To having your beloved cup of coffee, and drinking it, too.

x,
lk

Photo: Coffee at sunrise, Pawleys Island (August 2021)