Showing posts with label Coffee. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Coffee. Show all posts
7/15/2008
Capitol Hill this morning
I carry my skillfully rosetted soy latte outside, resting cup and saucer on a small wrought iron table. Truckers puff their compression brakes and incrementally ascend Olive Way. Diesel smells like 5-dollar bills bursting into flame. A reptilian tattoo coils neckward from under a cotton tank. An English Bulldog saunters beside a similarly jowled septuagenarian. My eyes rise along locust trees and higher to tiny verandas; one is completely filled by an unfinished Adirondack chair. I return to my coffee. Colors on salvaged barn-siding slowly coalesce into the faded shape of a girl. Swirled calligraphy sorts into sense. "I will always love the false image I had of you.”
10/10/2007
The Dispatcher
Five days a week he got home at 7:30 in the morning. He was a dispatcher for the town police department. After a night of disrespect from younger coworkers it was good to get back within the familiar dirty walls of home. He’d been a U.S. Marine, a Justice of the Peace, and a “gentleman farmer” but now he took minimum wage.
The dented door of his Wagoneer creaked open and then reluctantly clunked shut with a shove. Dew on unmowed grass wet his cuffs as he walked to the door.
He didn’t glance toward the Lincoln. It’d been brand new such a short pair of decades ago. Now it seemed to be trying to sink into the thinly graveled driveway. Unrepaired after a minor wreck a few years back, it had faded from luxury to junk.
In the house she had coffee ready for him. She handed him a cup, kissed him goodbye and left for work. She was a longtime teller at the bank. It wasn’t much fun anymore. These days it seemed like there was always a new system being implemented and a learning curve to go with it.
He was so tired. The October sunshine was too loud for sleeping. All he could think about was how tired he was. He had a couple of hours before he had to be at his other job. He was also a part-time security guard. Leaves needed to be raked. Not today. He picked up the newspaper and wondered if he could justify mixing himself a highball at this time of day.
The dented door of his Wagoneer creaked open and then reluctantly clunked shut with a shove. Dew on unmowed grass wet his cuffs as he walked to the door.
He didn’t glance toward the Lincoln. It’d been brand new such a short pair of decades ago. Now it seemed to be trying to sink into the thinly graveled driveway. Unrepaired after a minor wreck a few years back, it had faded from luxury to junk.
In the house she had coffee ready for him. She handed him a cup, kissed him goodbye and left for work. She was a longtime teller at the bank. It wasn’t much fun anymore. These days it seemed like there was always a new system being implemented and a learning curve to go with it.
He was so tired. The October sunshine was too loud for sleeping. All he could think about was how tired he was. He had a couple of hours before he had to be at his other job. He was also a part-time security guard. Leaves needed to be raked. Not today. He picked up the newspaper and wondered if he could justify mixing himself a highball at this time of day.
5/06/2004
Dove
I’d been thinking about making a pilgrimage to my hometown. I hadn’t been back there for eleven years, and that had only been a brief visit. So, it had been a long time since I’d really spent any time there.
Conventional wisdom says you can never go home. I’d been warned that the area had changed considerably, and not for the better. But that didn’t really touch my reasons for wanting to go.
My memories of Ulster County had begun to fade. Their substance was wearing thin. It was more like remembering a book I’d read than a place I’d lived. I felt impelled to go back and hold a handful of dirt. As odd as it sounds, I needed to verify for myself that it was still real.
This growing eagerness to return home became more urgent when my Grandmother’s health took a bad turn. It was beginning to seem like she might be within view of the end of her journey.
She’d smoked for most of her life, and her struggles with emphysema during recent years hadn’t sufficiently motivated her to quit. Now she’d finally been forced to exchange her cigarettes for a portable oxygen tank.
Because she adamantly refused to fly, and because I couldn’t afford to, it’d been far too long since we’d visited face to face. It seemed imperative that I get there, but I couldn’t figure out how to pull it off.
The answer came in the form of an exceptional birthday gift. My wife spread the word that she would set out a “tip jar” at my party for contributions toward my airfare and hotel. Thanks to the generosity of friends and family, the trip became possible.
After settling into my hotel room, I drove to my Grandmother’s home on Old Sawkill Road. She met me in the doorway with her calm, wide smile. It was a good reunion.
We talked for a while, and then she asked me if I’d mind doing a few chores. She could still brew a fine pot of coffee, but there were other things she could no longer do. A neighbor helped her out from time to time, but as she put it, “He ain’t so young no more either.”
One of the chores was refilling her birdfeeder with seed. She stood beside the ladder, under the butternut tree and coached me through the task. The feeder was an antique, clear plastic contraption. A little door had to be worked open in order for a portion of birdseed to spill out onto the tray.
Grammy Burnett had a soft spot for birds. More than once she’d rescued a fallen robin or sparrow, and successfully nursed it back to health. I’ve heard stories about a blackbird she saved that became something like a pet. It staid nearby for a long time, and would even perch on her shoulder like a parrot.
She was still looking at the birdfeeder as I eased my way down the ladder. She said, “The dove will come around. She’s smart, she’ll open the latch. Then the other little birds will get some seeds too.”
She hadn’t intended to make a profound statement. She didn’t care much for fancy talk. But there it was, a perfect poetic image of kindness.
When I got back to my hotel room, I wrote her words in my journal so I wouldn’t forget them. They stirred up a holy gratefulness in my spirit for the doves in my life.
The Great Dove opens the latch, and courage, humility, integrity, balance, meaning, generosity, salvation… spill out into life. Then we learn to open latches for one another. We learn about kindness and grace.
That was, in fact, the way I’d gotten to be there that spring. Kind people created the means for me to spend a few days with the woman who had taught me how to handle a fishing pole. She died in December of that same year. She was one of the smartest doves I ever knew.
"I saw the Spirit come down from heaven as a dove and remain on him. I would not have known him, except that the one who sent me to baptize with water told me, 'The man on whom you see the Spirit come down and remain is he who will baptize with the Holy Spirit.' I have seen and I testify that this is the Son of God."
John the Baptist, describing Jesus.
Conventional wisdom says you can never go home. I’d been warned that the area had changed considerably, and not for the better. But that didn’t really touch my reasons for wanting to go.
My memories of Ulster County had begun to fade. Their substance was wearing thin. It was more like remembering a book I’d read than a place I’d lived. I felt impelled to go back and hold a handful of dirt. As odd as it sounds, I needed to verify for myself that it was still real.
This growing eagerness to return home became more urgent when my Grandmother’s health took a bad turn. It was beginning to seem like she might be within view of the end of her journey.
She’d smoked for most of her life, and her struggles with emphysema during recent years hadn’t sufficiently motivated her to quit. Now she’d finally been forced to exchange her cigarettes for a portable oxygen tank.
Because she adamantly refused to fly, and because I couldn’t afford to, it’d been far too long since we’d visited face to face. It seemed imperative that I get there, but I couldn’t figure out how to pull it off.
The answer came in the form of an exceptional birthday gift. My wife spread the word that she would set out a “tip jar” at my party for contributions toward my airfare and hotel. Thanks to the generosity of friends and family, the trip became possible.
After settling into my hotel room, I drove to my Grandmother’s home on Old Sawkill Road. She met me in the doorway with her calm, wide smile. It was a good reunion.
We talked for a while, and then she asked me if I’d mind doing a few chores. She could still brew a fine pot of coffee, but there were other things she could no longer do. A neighbor helped her out from time to time, but as she put it, “He ain’t so young no more either.”
One of the chores was refilling her birdfeeder with seed. She stood beside the ladder, under the butternut tree and coached me through the task. The feeder was an antique, clear plastic contraption. A little door had to be worked open in order for a portion of birdseed to spill out onto the tray.
Grammy Burnett had a soft spot for birds. More than once she’d rescued a fallen robin or sparrow, and successfully nursed it back to health. I’ve heard stories about a blackbird she saved that became something like a pet. It staid nearby for a long time, and would even perch on her shoulder like a parrot.
She was still looking at the birdfeeder as I eased my way down the ladder. She said, “The dove will come around. She’s smart, she’ll open the latch. Then the other little birds will get some seeds too.”
She hadn’t intended to make a profound statement. She didn’t care much for fancy talk. But there it was, a perfect poetic image of kindness.
When I got back to my hotel room, I wrote her words in my journal so I wouldn’t forget them. They stirred up a holy gratefulness in my spirit for the doves in my life.
The Great Dove opens the latch, and courage, humility, integrity, balance, meaning, generosity, salvation… spill out into life. Then we learn to open latches for one another. We learn about kindness and grace.
That was, in fact, the way I’d gotten to be there that spring. Kind people created the means for me to spend a few days with the woman who had taught me how to handle a fishing pole. She died in December of that same year. She was one of the smartest doves I ever knew.
"I saw the Spirit come down from heaven as a dove and remain on him. I would not have known him, except that the one who sent me to baptize with water told me, 'The man on whom you see the Spirit come down and remain is he who will baptize with the Holy Spirit.' I have seen and I testify that this is the Son of God."
John the Baptist, describing Jesus.
3/26/2004
The Sacrament of Action
I believe in coffee. I believe that, when made with care, it tastes marvelous. I believe its aroma is cause for joy. I believe it assists me in the often-arduous process of waking up in the morning (and staying that way in the afternoon!). Because I believe in coffee, I engage in numerous mundane tasks in order to make it real in the physical world.
My notion of coffee on a metaphysical level might be powerful enough to create a mental image of its flavor, aroma, and effect – but nothing more. At some point, my coffee beliefs have to press through into the physical world if I want to feel the steam on my face and the bracing hot blackness on my lips. I must take authentic action.
I rinse out the dregs of yesterday’s brew (with warm water in order to simultaneously preheat the pot). I toss the spent filter and grounds, and install a new filter in the drip compartment. I fill the chamber with cold water (because cold water contains more oxygen, which enhances the flavor). I open the cupboard and take out the coffee grinder and beans. I put in the right amount of beans, plug in the grinder, hold down its “roof”, and start grinding. About twenty seconds later I firmly tap the side, and then the bottom of the grinder a few times with the heel of my palm (I have found this to be the best way to get any rogue bits of ground coffee down off of the roof before removing it). I remove the roof of the grinder, pour the fresh grounds into the clean filter, close the compartment, set the pot in its place, and push the “on” button.
I can assure you that none of those actions have any intrinsic meaning for me. It is all about the coffee – it’s all about bringing coffee into my physical reality. At 6:00AM the abstract notion of coffee will not do for my wife and me – we want tangible stuff. So, I happily engage in my bleary-eyed routine because of the hope set before me…
Is there any intrinsic meaning in reading a few chapters of Scripture in the morning? How about telling a friend the story of God's invasion into my life? Contemplative prayer? Perhaps tithing?
Maybe there is. If so, it seems like a rather pallid reality to me. For me, the real meaning of such actions is anchored in the reality of my beliefs. These are the more or less mundane acts (among many others) by which I press what is in my mind, spirit, and heart into what can be known by my hands, ears, mouth, eyes, and nose. That is what I think of as sacramental action.
A sacrament is defined as: “A rite believed to be a means of or visible form of grace…”* Baptism and Communion are “official” Sacraments. Jesus knew how important it is for humans to experience and express metaphysical things physically. He gifted us with bread and wine to taste, and water to feel in order to give his message to our bodies – not just our minds.
The life of faith is all about sacramental action. It is all about seeking ways to press the unseen into the seen. And this almost always calls for discipline, simply because moving from one modality to another is usually difficult. In the life of faith, discipline is not an end in itself; it is the force that propels us from the realm of ideas and insights into the world of action. At least, it is the piece we offer into the process; God is always the underlying and overarching force in any meaningful action.
It is good advice to “Wake up and smell the coffee.” But it’s nothing more than that until somebody actually makes the coffee!
“Faith by itself, if it is not accompanied by action, is dead.” James 2:17 (NIV)
“Faith without action is as dead as a body without a soul.” James 2:26 (Phillips)
* The American Heritage® Dictionary of the English Language, Fourth Edition
Copyright © 2000 by Houghton Mifflin Company.
Published by Houghton Mifflin Company. All rights reserved.
My notion of coffee on a metaphysical level might be powerful enough to create a mental image of its flavor, aroma, and effect – but nothing more. At some point, my coffee beliefs have to press through into the physical world if I want to feel the steam on my face and the bracing hot blackness on my lips. I must take authentic action.
I rinse out the dregs of yesterday’s brew (with warm water in order to simultaneously preheat the pot). I toss the spent filter and grounds, and install a new filter in the drip compartment. I fill the chamber with cold water (because cold water contains more oxygen, which enhances the flavor). I open the cupboard and take out the coffee grinder and beans. I put in the right amount of beans, plug in the grinder, hold down its “roof”, and start grinding. About twenty seconds later I firmly tap the side, and then the bottom of the grinder a few times with the heel of my palm (I have found this to be the best way to get any rogue bits of ground coffee down off of the roof before removing it). I remove the roof of the grinder, pour the fresh grounds into the clean filter, close the compartment, set the pot in its place, and push the “on” button.
I can assure you that none of those actions have any intrinsic meaning for me. It is all about the coffee – it’s all about bringing coffee into my physical reality. At 6:00AM the abstract notion of coffee will not do for my wife and me – we want tangible stuff. So, I happily engage in my bleary-eyed routine because of the hope set before me…
Is there any intrinsic meaning in reading a few chapters of Scripture in the morning? How about telling a friend the story of God's invasion into my life? Contemplative prayer? Perhaps tithing?
Maybe there is. If so, it seems like a rather pallid reality to me. For me, the real meaning of such actions is anchored in the reality of my beliefs. These are the more or less mundane acts (among many others) by which I press what is in my mind, spirit, and heart into what can be known by my hands, ears, mouth, eyes, and nose. That is what I think of as sacramental action.
A sacrament is defined as: “A rite believed to be a means of or visible form of grace…”* Baptism and Communion are “official” Sacraments. Jesus knew how important it is for humans to experience and express metaphysical things physically. He gifted us with bread and wine to taste, and water to feel in order to give his message to our bodies – not just our minds.
The life of faith is all about sacramental action. It is all about seeking ways to press the unseen into the seen. And this almost always calls for discipline, simply because moving from one modality to another is usually difficult. In the life of faith, discipline is not an end in itself; it is the force that propels us from the realm of ideas and insights into the world of action. At least, it is the piece we offer into the process; God is always the underlying and overarching force in any meaningful action.
It is good advice to “Wake up and smell the coffee.” But it’s nothing more than that until somebody actually makes the coffee!
“Faith by itself, if it is not accompanied by action, is dead.” James 2:17 (NIV)
“Faith without action is as dead as a body without a soul.” James 2:26 (Phillips)
* The American Heritage® Dictionary of the English Language, Fourth Edition
Copyright © 2000 by Houghton Mifflin Company.
Published by Houghton Mifflin Company. All rights reserved.
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