Starting the day with a cup of coffee (or tea, if that’s you’re thing) is such a universal practice. Nearly everyone has a cup of something, but I would argue that most popular are those beans that grow on the sides of mountains in warm places. People just can’t get enough.
It brings me joy to think of it as a practice that all of the world shares in together. The morning cup of coffee isn’t limited to a socioeconomic status. Everyone partakes, from the stockbroker on Wall Street, to the men and women who’s homes border the fields of coffee beans that that same stockbroker’s cup of joe came from.
For me, my cup of coffee is an experience. I’m taking in everything while I sip, from the cicadas in the trees to the day as a whole and usually I’m thanking God for my place in it all. It’s a ritual I rarely break no matter where I am, making the taking in of everything that much richer. I am challenged to stop and take note of all that’s around me, regardless of how hot or cold it is, or poor I am or pressed for time.
As I look back on the images of those coffee cups it feels like putting a pin in a map of my memory. I remember all the crazy or peaceful or joyful things that happened on the bookends of those moments when I’m sipping and I am happy.
