"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.