It’s 11 am and I just woke up. I look at the alarm twice, three times, roll over and fling the blanket off. Let’s go, Yehudis, let’s go.
I stumble to the kitchen first, in a hurry, catching up. If I move fast maybe the clock will move back. I rinse the coffee pot - I always rinse it in the mornings. It’s a Turkish-style pot with enough room for 3 cups. I add an extra centimeter of water today, just a drop more caffeine.
The stove is on, it takes about 12 minutes to boil. I’ve never checked, actually, because someone once taught me that a timed pot never boils. I can guess the time and price on most things in my life, but I’m not confident about my coffee. There’s no use; once it’s on the stove, it won’t be ready before it’s ready.
I put some dishes away and reach for my phone. I smack my hand away. Not now, Yehudis, not now. It’s too soon to start scrolling. I look out the window. Outside, 11 am is similar to 6 am. Instead of everyone being quiet at home everyone’s quiet at work. There’s no one on the road, all I see are busses honking and prostitutes selling silently on my street corner.
I glance at the pot - it’s barely hot. I go back to thinking, maybe I’ll water my plants. I should probably get an espresso machine or some Starbucks today. It’ll be faster, my day would start faster. But no, I stop myself. Enjoy the slow.
I get the coffee cups ready. One’s in the cabinet, one’s in the sink. It’s one of those rare occasions I don’t mind a dirty dish - it’ll help pass the moments till my coffee’s ready. I glance over. The water’s not ready yet, though I’m seeing bubbles. I almost want to put some salt in, lower the boiling point. I remind myself feel the slowness.
I pour sugar in one cup, soy milk in the other. I throw out some old leftovers from the fridge, and then my ears notice: the water’s bubbling, it’s boiling.
A drop of guilt slips in. While I’m busy reigning in my own haste, the day’s about to start. I won’t be slow till nightfall.
I carefully dump 5 spoons of coffee into the pot. If I stir too fast, it will overflow. One loop around the pot, then another and more. It’s mixed in and I wait again.
Maybe it’s 4 minutes, maybe it’s 6. I feel the future about to rush in and only now I can start to breathe. I can finally be slow.
I stop wishing for later and watch the grounds settle. If I don’t wait, little pieces will get stuck in my teeth. So I linger and watch and add a little more sugar to one cup.
It’s ready. I pour and it hits my face like a morning steam facial. I’ve been smelling this since I was born, it might be one of my favorite smells in the world. I don’t want the day to begin. I wish I savored the slowness better.
I stir in the sugar and carefully walk back to bed. Nudging my partner awake, I pass him a cup and kiss him. We take a sip, one and another. We drink slowly, and slowly time goes.
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Yehudis, this is a beautiful practice of patience! "Slow is smooth; smooth is fast!" I like your recent foray into what is slow, still and peaceful. Doth I detect a hint of Silvio? 😆
“It won’t be ready till it’s ready.” I love that thought. I need to remember that more myself. Lovely piece of writing Yehudis.