On coffee and contemplation

but did I even give myself enough time?

Life isn’t feeling simple lately. But whose fault is that?

“Isn’t the coffee exceptional this morning?” says my spouse Janyce, sitting up in bed beside me.

“It is,” I say, while scrolling through Patti Smith’s Instagram account. I’m looking for the luggage ad she posted a few days ago.

“That’s the one,” says Janyce, pointing to the image as I scroll. “I mean, this was a job. She’s not like other celebrities, I think. She’s a working artist.”

Patti’s Instagram post read:

For those who have asked: I wore my own clothes, spoke my own words, and my segment was shot by my own collaborator. I’ve had my Rimowa since 1996. I like my suitcase and was happy to get the job, during a long empty stretch.

I study the photograph and then I scroll further to watch the video of the actual ad. I get why it bothers people. It’s a slick ad. Even with Patti’s own words accompanying the soundtrack. Even with it being a piece a luggage she actually uses and has owned for a long time. We all love Patti for her simplicity and her authenticity. And this ad is neither.

“Can we agree that we’ll be ready to go at 10 am today? I say while taking another sip of my coffee.

“We can,” says Janyce. “I’m just going to take a short run first and then I’ll stop at the store.”

I didn’t leave myself enough time to write and think this morning. This is becoming a trend. Yesterday, while standing in the long bread line at the farmer’s market, I looked at the time on my wrist and realized I wasn’t going to make it. It was one of those perfect fall days, the first day of October, with a warm sun and a cool undertone to the air. A singer, standing on the stage with his guitar, was belting out a very old Jim Croce song. People were milling about around me with their cloth bags looped over their arms, aimless. But I was shifting my weight from foot to foot, straining to look past the people directly in front of me, willing the line to move faster.

Eventually, I gave up . Plan B now. Or was it plan C? When I got back home, spilling the bag of vegetables out onto the table, I started to linger over the flowers, and pull out a platter. The prospect of making a cheeseboard and arranging the shapes was too enticing for me to wait until later. I started collecting from the fruit bowl, scooping out hummus, surveying the carrots I just bought for the perfect cut, arranging the grapes.

“We have to go,” said Janyce. “If we leave now we’ll just make it in time.”

“I’m coming” I said, dropping the cheese knife on the counter.

Life isn’t feeling simple lately. But whose fault is that? I read somewhere that whatever scares you, it means you have to move towards it more. It means you should take it on. That’s the prevailing so-called wisdom, anyway. I think aging scares me. And my way of taking it on is to fill the day. Fill the hours. Keep piling it on. But maybe I have that wrong. Maybe slowing down, letting go of things, saying no to things so you can say yes to others and being willing to trust your first instinct is the gift of age.

“I’m sorry, I feel terrible,” I said in the car to Janyce who was driving us home from our appointment last night. “But it just didn’t feel right.”

“Do you remember what you said to me when I first had Treat?” she said.

“No, I don’t remember,” I said.

“It was that time he growled and snapped at Connor and I was afraid you were going to ask me to give him up,” she said. “But you said to me, 'we’ll figure it out. He’s part of the family now.’ I love you so much for that.”

“I promise you we are going to find the right dog,” I said, reaching for her hand over the cupholder.

“I know that. Maybe we need to take a step back and slow down,” she said.

I snap a picture of Janyce as she walks back into the bedroom with our second cup. It’s a familiar pose of hers, in mid-stride, bringing me coffee in bed, and always willing to help do the next thing with me, the next thing I have jammed into our already too-full day. I love her for that.

I scroll through my Instagram while sipping my second cup. The morning is getting shorter and I have to get moving. But I open up an image of Patti’s of a simple plain coffee cup and read her words.

This is
a small but
precious thing.
My first cup
of coffee on
foreign soil.
Wonderful
Italian coffee.
So familiar.
So beloved.

Exactly. And now I have a cheese board to make.