I am grateful for the day’s first cup
of coffee. Early in the morning, everything is silent and it’s still dark
outside. (During June it’s hard to get up before the sun does, but I still manage
to do so most of the time, presumably because the sun does not have a
middle-aged bladder and can sleep later than me.) While still half asleep, the
aroma emanating from the Kuerig machine is delightful. I wish it wasn’t so
noisy, though. When the thing starts brewing, the pre-dawn silence is shattered
by what seems like a wood chipper.
Sitting on the couch for a few
minutes, praying and meditating a bit to get ready for another day, with a
steaming mug of freshly-brewed coffee in my hand, has become my favorite time
of the day. And no matter how good or freshly-brewed any subsequent cups of
coffee might be, the first one of the day always tastes the best. Sometimes at
night when I’m getting ready for bed, I’m already looking forward to the next
morning’s first cup of coffee. This means I’m either learning to be grateful
for small pleasures, or my life has become painfully boring. I prefer to think
it’s the former, not the latter.
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