If This Isn’t It, What Is?
Note to self. The latte I just made sort of looks like a genie with its arms raised, escaping from my coffee. Maybe the raised arms signal excitement to give three wishes. Or, maybe the raised arms are protest against being sipped into oblivion.
A quick inventory of mind:
I woke up this morning to a gray sky and snowfall. It’s early Sunday, 9:53AM, the world is peaceful, mostly still asleep. I am inside, quite warm, with running water, electricity, and zero vigilance toward any fathomable form of hostility.
I roasted coffee beans in the oven around 5AM. The plume of smoke that rushed from the oven when opening the door was a small price to pay… the hours of lingering aroma are welcome. The smoke detectors are too far away to express their concern — I don’t rule out they’re coffee enthusiasts exercising good discretion (thanks, fellas). The rich golden color of crema emerging from the espresso spout suggests I’m in the vicinity of coffee-ritual-bullseye.
“7PM on Wednesday” — I texted a friend about the time of our car ferry to an island a few days from now.
I just received a video of my 1.5 year old nephew — happily using finely-tuned motor skills to sweep the floor with a broom.
My father sent a photo of the modern audio system he just installed inside of my grandfather’s 1990s red pickup truck, which has been meticulously maintained for years. My dad says he sold his beloved newer car and keeps the pickup around for its utility, but I suspect he mostly loves being with the aura of grandad when he drives.
I am on Maria Popova’s website for the bazillionth time (give or take), slowly absorbing each atom of mindpower within a letter composed by Hunter S. Thompson to a friend, about the meaning of life. This letter will take about 6 minutes to read, claims the description, but I expect it will take me about 5 hours. The duration of my anticipated effort is thrilling.
Later today I’ll be watching a small jazz show with a dear friend. Maybe only 20 people in the audience, to watch performers that have trained and blossomed at one of the most prestigious music institutions in the world. We’ll chase the show with a walk in the snow, or lunch at a local spot, or both.
You know, the truth is, if I found a post like this, purporting some semblance of “Heaven”, I might find it annoying before reading. “Get a room”, type annoying, or, “Author is likely delusional”, type annoying.
But this is my room. And a discerning reader might notice the word “Heaven”, in the context of simple gratitude, means something entirely different versus popular use. They might feel a hint — that this flavor of the word is actually available to anyone.
May I always notice the beauty in each moment. It is certain I will fail. It is impossible not to fail. But, may I always remain committed. This is me, sticking another small flag in the ground, to remind myself…. You’ve been here. You are welcome any time. This is life.
Update: the raised arms must’ve been protest. Bottom of cup now fully visible. Fortunately I should be OK, sans wishes. (Re-read for assurance).