The Smell of Coffee

Each day, when I tiptoe out the door to work at 7:30 am, my wife, now two years retired, is still sleeping. The back of the house is mine for quiet meditation and soundlessly-cooking oatmeal while she stays in bed and doesn’t stir.

But today, I slept late and awoke to the smell of coffee. A house already set in motion, a day already begun without me. There is some comfort there, a sense of joining the party, the coffee smells announcing that daytime has arrived yet again and welcome! The windows streaked with raindrops, my list in my little notebook awaiting the crossing-outs of my faithful Niji pen. The echo of my dreams about the rhyme Engine Engine Number Nine and ideas of how to develop it my upcoming trip to China set my day in motion. My oatmeal awaits, though its smells not as pungent as coffee, and perhaps a few games of solitaire to sharpen the sleep-dulled mind.

And the pleasure of writing about these simple things, a welcome break from the burden of trying to explain, change or save the world. Just noticing the smell of coffee, the sound of rain, the tightness in my legs from yesterday’s bike ride, the taste of oatmeal. I miss the fellow that leaves space to attend to life's little graces. Today I welcome him back.