Cold Feet

feet on floor

Ah yes, I think I woke up.  At the very least, I can tell that the bottoms of my feet are colder than they should be if they are still ensconced under the covers.  Probably means they are resting on the concrete floor by my bed and I haven’t found my fluffy slippers yet.  I’m not sure this really qualifies as woke up, but it is a great comparison.  I spend so much time upright and moving without being attentive.  I notice this lack of awareness when I’m gently jolted into interest.  I’m embarrassed that I spend so much time like a zombie.  Just moving forward, concerned only with what I will consume next, unaware that what I consume does not nourish.  Why live as a zombie if I’m not dead?

I read a poem last night.  A short one.  Short poems are good for people who are just barely aware that their feet are cold (realize that it’s difficult to tell if my feet are just a little bit cold or if I’m just a little bit aware and they’re actually a lot cold).  I couldn’t tell what it was about.  I couldn’t see how it rhymed.  Poetry is a great indicator of awareness.  It’s hard to get unless I’m awake and attentive.  The jewels and ah ha moments, the shared, secret, inside understanding is unavailable to me if I’m in a rush.  So, I missed it.  Fortunately, it was in a book about writing poetry so I was forced to figure it out.  Turns out, it was about some kids that bought a little sea horse that then died in their aquarium.  Very moving…

I drank some coffee yesterday that was like poetry.  I made some Ethiopian coffee we are trying out for Gravitas.  Just so you know, I can always tell after a few sips whether or not I “like” the coffee.  I’m not sure why at first; I just know yes or no.  It’s much easier to decide, however, if I’m the one that made it. 

That last little statement is a whole ‘nother post –

So, I’m drinking this coffee, very much aware, attentive, on purpose.  I’m looking for the subtle nuances of flavor, aroma, mouth feel, finish, etc.  I’m trying to sense where it hits on my tongue, whether it is changing as the temperature drops and how the roast has changed in the last few days.  It’s crazy.  Coffee is coffee right?  And truly, it is a hot, brown liquid that tastes similar to all other coffee.  To the unaware, unawake, inattentive imbiber, yes, it’s just coffee.  And, Eric Clapton and I are both “just” guitar players.  You just strum a bit, move your fingers around on the strings and wallah – music. 

No, it’s not that boring.  It’s not so easy to dismiss.  There is a great argument to have here.  There is MORE to it.  There is more to everything.  My geeky attempt to explain, which causes much eye rolling, is so very limited.  My palette, which is tested several times each day, comes into doubt (by me) when I’m trying to find the flavors.  I can feel the strain of the nerve endings connecting with stored information in my brain.  When I’m trying to match up the oh so quiet, gentle sensations taken in by the tender little sensors in my mouth with all the blasts and impacts of flavor over the last 43 years and say what it is – I doubt.  I’m not sure.  I need suggestion from my coffee geek friends.  I cheat and read the descriptor on the bag to give me direction.  I’m better at this, more sensitive now than I was six months ago.  I’m improving my sensitivity because I practice being aware.  I spend time sipping slowly and feeling with my eyes closed.  I grind by hand, breath deep of a bag of beans and again as the steam comes off the fresh cup.  I try really hard to find the flavor.  And still, I’m not sure.  I know there is more to discover and I’m just not good enough yet.

It’s not just coffee.  There is more to it.

These are not just words.  There is power buried in the story.

Poetry is more than rhyming and turtlenecks.

There is a big difference between me and Eric.

There is something important and undiscovered that each of us has to find and reveal.  It’s hard work that takes practice and way too much time.  It’s worth it.

I am barely awake and I am shocked to find that there is so much more and yet I still try so hard to stay snuggled under the covers, avoiding the touch of the cold, concrete floor against my feet.  It’s so ridiculous!  Especially since, quite soon, I’ll be holding a hot cup of freshly brewed coffee in my hands and its aroma will be wafting up, into my brain.

Why, if this is true, is it so hard to stay awake?

What are you practicing the discovery of?