Lake Coffee

I grew up next to the heartbeat of Minnesota summer: lake country.  My little hometown swells in population to twice to four times its size, depending on the weekend, during the summer months.  Summertime would be the only time the town would decided it needed to move a little faster than normal; but not ever faster than the average vacationer.

When fall came around, it would settle into its comfortable rhythm again.  And when the snow started falling, it hunkered down further into a cozy hibernation.  In its winter snoozing, dreams of spring (which means mud) and summer sunshine made the frigid temperatures bearable.  My little town dreams, lives, and loves the summer lake rhythm.

Coffee at my parent's house became known as "lake coffee"; and had a very different attitude from its urban counterpart which I usually partake in.  Lake coffee was brewed in the morning by my mother.  It wakes up the house with its bright aromas.  It's usually lighter roast, not as strong as urban coffee, served in earthenware mugs, made by artisans locally.  Lake coffee is refreshed throughout the day, pot after pot. It's primary purpose is to be the medium over which my family will visit over, relax with, and SLOW DOWN from its other days pace.

I once was checking my email (mistake) at my folks house when I put a mug of lovely Lake Coffee on the armchair which was engulfing me (also mistake).  When I got up to move (3rd mistake) I bumped it, causing it to spill dangerously close to my parent's laptop.

Which of course, got me moving quicker towards a towel to mop up the mess, now running unto the carpeted floors.  My mom, on the other hand, kept up her slower pace.  Assuring me it was just coffee.  Just carpet.  Just a computer.  She was more worried on what I had spilled on my pajamas.  Which I was, because of the spill, forced to change out of at noon-thirty.

How is it that coffee in two different contexts can be a medium for two different purposes: urban=speed up, wake up and up-and-at-them.  It's fast, grabbed on the go.  Rural=slow down, make small talk, catch up, connect, and make it meaningful.  The attitude behind the connection is completely different.  And often, so is the quality of the day.  I wonder how to make my urban coffee more like the sweet-homeyness of Lake Coffee.... Makes me a touch homesick just considering it.

Betwixt and Between: On Commuting

There is a distinct difference in being where you are and being where you want to be.  This moving from point A to B is filled with axioms about "enjoying the journey," or "mind the gap".  Most often, this space in between notion is applied to larger life positions; the time between hiring and promotion, the time between knowing and not knowing, the time between your beginning and the ending.

And in between lots of life happens, but we are lost in the anxiety, the waiting, and absorbed in the "I'm not there yet," feeling.

I was on my way to a meeting.  A very important meeting, one where I felt unqualified to be there, but was invited all the same.  So, I put on my most professional duds and skipped out of my afternoon class to be there.  In between the meeting and school, in between the professional calling and my student existence; there was me, my car, a mapquest map, and my constant companion, my travel mug filled with caffeine-filled fuel.  And wouldn't you know, two of my companions betrayed me, my map was wrong and my travel mug leaked onto my lap.  I was now certain that my professional image I was trying for was completely tarnished.  And further ruined, I was now quite late in my lostness.

Transitional times are not an unfamiliar phenomenon to those in emerging adulthood (read: ages 18-30, roughly), our lives are quite littered with them.  Most of life seems as if we are waiting for something better, something bigger, something other than this anxious waiting.  As I think about the transitions in my life, I know that they are not wasted time.  When I am mindful of the transitions, I can see the purpose and preparation in the time spent not being there yet.

In my urban life, commuting has been my daily transitional time.  And my realization and reminder that in even in the time in between, is still important time.

"Life is what happens while you're making other plans" --John Lennon

The other day, I spilled an entire cup of coffee outside the door of my apartment while trying to lock the door.  It was my precious first cup of coffee which was to accompany me to my 8:00 AM class.

I was holding onto to too many things; juggling mittens, keys, backpack, books and the precious coffee.  My mind was holding too many things: deadlines, projects to be started, ideas for that blog I keep meaning to start, books I read last night, things I meant to say and didn't.  Regrets.  Goals.  Ideas.  Inspiration.  More than I have time to think through or write down, but a desire to let all these things be heard.

I will admit, I have clumsy tendencies.  I spill coffee on something nearly everyday.  If I could chronicle the days of my life, I would mark it with coffee stains.  And they, those blobby, brown spots, would tell great stories; about what I am reading and thinking about in grad school studies in the margins of my theology books, on my skirt as I drive down the road, and, on this particular day, on the carpet of my apartment hallway, on a day I was running late and running on low.

John Lennon once said, "life is what happens while you're making other plans."  Mostly I agree, though I think life is made of smaller bits than this.  Life, for me, is what happens when I am too busy or too distracted to see and wonder at the beauty of each day.  And they are best marked by what I spilled coffee on.  Each instance is a reminder to look around and be amazed.

So sure, I was running late to class.  But because of the spill, I could notice the snow lightly falling on half shoveled city sidewalks, gracing down and melting soon after on sleepy walks.  I could be astonished by the small and slow progress of my neighborhood waking up; the buses passing, the people with their heads down in defense, my neighbors with dogs on leashes, the dogs as they pick their paws off the cold concrete and bury the noses in the new snow.  And I could, despite my twenty-eight years, lift up my chin and try to catch a passing flake, and wake, without caffeination, to the wonder of a new day.