It’s not really about the coffee
Only now do I realize the hidden windfall of growing older–unrestrained excitement at the coming of the dawn. As a teenager and as a young adult, one had to fight off the grogginess of facing the morning, wrestling with the fuzziness of forcing the young body to wake up to the occasion. Morning could be wonderful, but it was such a dreary exercise even to move away from the amniotic warmth of the covers.
Now, evening is a fight. Morning is an amphetamine. At dawn the bed feels more like a trampoline. It is hard to stay still. Morning creates the illusion that everything is new; the dew has cleansed away the petty decisions of the day before.
Morning is a potion that imparts the impression that we can triumph over all those things that have defeated us already in the dark.
Coffee is a tiny symbol for that night footprint surrounded by the new light at the rim of the earth. Coffee is a black pool within a perfect circle of white, eternally dark until the snowy cream dives into the center and flowers into a tree.
Upside Down Devotion