Sunday, August 19, 2012

Coffee and Brooklyn: Epiphanies

I woke up this morning, much like every other day, nothing seemed significant, until I heard Kirstie in the kitchen and spotted her preparing to make oatmeal and I sprung out of bed and told her no.

”I’ll go get us bagels!”

My mom and dad discovered this most sensational deli right around the block from us and Kirst and I fantasize about it daily, but usually don’t feel like walking there—not that it’s far—and try to eat sensibly with what we have available in our fridge anyway. Besides these bagels being everything that a quality bagel should be, they are also quite cost-effective and since my ever-generous mother put a solid twenty-five dollars in my account for my coffee/writing fund—I had asked for ten to purchase coffees for the week, therefore utilizing free internet in all my favorite coffeeshops to scour writing jobs and of course be a bloggess. And my mom, amazing mother-of-the-year that she is, got so jazzed about me writing that she insisted upon twenty-five. To me, that felt like a prince’s ransom and I decided Kirst and I deserved a splurge on bagels for all of $1.70 of my prince’s ransom.
I told Kirst to get started on coffee while I ran around the corner.
Now for me doing anything without caffeine first, is noteworthy, but as I whipped on a summer dress and ran out of the apartment, my eyes still hazy and scrunchy with sleep I noted the bustling Brooklyn street. And the weather. Something was different. No, I was different.
I spotted families and bearded men with puppies and coffee and their bagels and it made me deliriously happy. And the air felt non-oppressive and almost like… fall. I threw in a small canoli for us to split because Kirst had yet to try one and I was feeling really top-notch. I came home and the coffee was done. I couldn’t get it down my throat fast enough. Kirst asked how I did that without burning my tongue and I taught her the technique. She caught on and we went into the living room with our bagels and mugs and sat and visited.
I happily munched away on my bagel, yummying every five seconds and sipped my coffee and thought about what could be better than Brooklyn, bagels and hot coffee?

Kirst and I then got gussied up as there was a literary fest I was not going to miss with children reading their own work accompanied by New York authors. Bliss? As a matter of fact, I would say so.
We decided walking was the better option as the day was so un-disgusting and just shy of cool that it made us almost giddy. As we neared the park, I happened to look up at the sky and saw that even the clouds looked crisp. I glanced around Brooklyn and for the very first time since moving out here I felt like I was home. Sincerely and completely I felt I belonged and I wanted to skip.
Once settled at the park listening to children read aloud, I felt this tingly feeling coming over me and I questioned it. I looked around the park and felt the cool air and could have sworn I smelled fall. And I knew what I was feeling: fulfillment. When my soul is supremely fulfilled, it wants for nothing. And it doesn’t distress and yearn to fill voids. It is happily present.
The thing about me is while I am always trying to find and hold onto what most nurtures my soul, sometimes the search is so frantic and the thing I want most can’t be held so I fixate on past soul experiences or ones to come and I am not present at all. I am horribly lost somewhere in between. And that’s a dangerous place for me to be. For when my soul is restless and unsatisfied it starts to shrivel a little and other things take precedence and what gets fed isn’t my soul at all. I start to squelch my hankerings for God, music, art, poetry, the rain, grandeur, quiet, trees, love, with fall-backs that are easy and comforting in an altogether different way: food, Facebook, sleep, or anxious ruminating and list making. Not that food can’t be grand, or sleep isn’t needed, but Facebook doesn’t feed my soul and anxiousness gets me nowhere.
As I waited for the next child to take the stage and woo me with words, I couldn’t believe how happy I felt.
When my soul is utterly cozy and curled up like a well-fed housecat, a snappy part of me likes to note how I never crave food at these junctures. And how if I don’t ever want to struggle with food woes again all I have to do is make sure my soul doesn’t get so damn anorexic. And how easy is that as I already know what makes it happy. Perfect diet plan! As long as my soul stays fed, then food becomes just a means for survival. As it clearly is right now, because my fridge consists of outdated eggs and wilting spinach. But I have quality coffee on hand and live in freaking Brooklyn. What could be the problem?
Oh yeah, by the by, no matter what levels of pauper-dom I reach I will not, I repeat NOT buy cheap coffee. I currently have Zabar’s freshly ground coffee filling up my kitchen with its luscious scent and an incredibly small bag of expensive caramel flavored grounds.
There are some corners I cut in life, and by some, I mean a lot. I will chance eating day old eggs. I will wear the same three discounted skirts in rotation all summer. I will buy bar soap.
I will not drink Folgers. I would sooner forgo a ten dollar subway pass and walk to Manhattan so I can spend ten dollars on Zabar’s coffee, which is bloody exquisite if you must know. Priorities, people. It’s all about priorities.
I would like to tell you that my day of soul perfection continued with an outdoor market and trip to a new organic grocery store, (where I was offered a shopper’s reward card, my FAVORITE! I did not even try and hide my delight with the cashier and then decided to also boldly compliment his choice fro. He seemed as pleased as I was) followed by coming back to my apartment to enjoy an overflowing cup of aforementioned Zabar’s coffee and reading Rumi in bed while pleasantly noting that the fan didn’t need to be turned on, because it indeed was feeling very fall-esque in my apartment.
The moral of this little (or long-ish, but who likes little tales anyway) tale is simply this, as Rumi so eloquently put it: Surrender to your soul.

Well, Rumi, I don’t mind if I do.

No comments: