A free verse blog about coffee grinds and staying grounded
There's been a lot of movement
I’ve been moving around
Like literally moved to a new place (more info on that here)
And started teaching yoga at a new studio (more info on that to come)
And have been traveling here and there
And everything is spiraling
The way the hot coffee spirals with cream and sugar
And it gets cloudy
But you can’t look away
Because as it changes form
It looks beautiful
And you get lost
You feel your fingers slipping
Sometimes the constant swirling
I’m losing grip
Of where I am headed
Because I try to ‘go with the flow’
But then I’m flowing so much that there's nothing to hold on to
It feels like I’m getting lighter and lighter
Moving towards center
Zeroing out the scale
And I’m floating so high
Like Charlie when he drinks the Fizzy Lifting Drink
And starts rising up
At first it’s fun
Like the sense of falling in the pit of your stomach
There’s nothing to grab hold of
No support from below
The price of being Light
In zero gravity
Like a satellite
Like when you have had a little too much ‘Fizzy Lifting Drink’
And you try to sleep
You close your eyes
And the room spins
And everything is swirly colors
Vomit not far from possible
And it hurts behind the eyes
And the only thing that helps
Is to stick your foot out into the dark and scary abyss of your room
Vulnerable to the monsters and mayhem that be
And put your foot on the floor
Find a steady marker
And the spinning stops.
And all the whirlwinding and movement taking
Take me a few thousand feet from ground
And yet, it still all feels so clear. And sensible. Easy.
Go with the flow.
And I started to wonder
How could I be floating off in the ether somewhere orbiting and still somehow so connected?
I started looking at the moments. About the tiny ways I could still sense grounding.
About the sense of comfort that comes with routine and ritual. About the feeling of home in varying spaces and faces. Even when ‘home’ is miles away. Even when ‘home’ is transitory.
Even when ‘home’ is not a place.
I started thinking about what grounds me.
About the groundedness that is beyond the movement and constant change.
The groundedness that IS movement.
That when we stop moving is when we really lose ground.
I started noticing these patterns.
Of behavior. Of cycle. Of repetition.
Of arriving home and saying sweet little nonsenses to the dog that greets me at the gate.
And then the words drift off into time and space.
Until I leave and say sweet goodbyes.
Until tomorrow when I arrive home again.
And the sweet little nonsenses drift into time and space.
I notice the sound of rocks crunching under my feet on the way to the door.
And the inevitable dropped fork, cut corner, bumped table, scalding espresso spill.
Because I’m a klutz.
And subsequent frustration
And then there’s the ring shaped rust stain on my cutting board.
From when I left a can on top way back when.
In some other time and space.
A tiny mark.
Permanent and temporary.
That normally I am not cognisant of.
But somehow in the context of grounding, I am.
A tiny mark that if I happen to catch a glimpse of
Keeps me on the ground.
Even in my peripherals.
Beyond my consciousness.
Like a birthmark.
Like that feeling when you get off the bus and you look around
Take stock of where you are
See a familiar crack in the sidewalk
Or bit of spray paint on a sign
These small #details
Details that are ordinarily filtered out
They started to matter
A subtle feeling that ‘this must be the place’
With all the movement and change
And new spaces
And new faces
It was exactly these tiny marks
Instances of recognition
In unexpected places
That seem to be
What grounds me
And suddenly it didn't matter that
And lost stuff in transit
Because I also found stuff
At the bottom of boxes
I don't remember putting there
And see that spray paint on that sign
That I actually never really noticed
In this new context
And seeing that same sign
On the way to somewhere else
Seeing it from a different angle
A new side
Like re-learning the streets and the mental map
When you move
Even if you only move a few blocks
Because your trajectory is a little different
You find yourself
On the same road
Or looking at the same road
From a different one
Looking at the same silly spray painted sign
With new eyes
And it’s starting to dawn on me
What Grounds You
Like a fly on an open palm
If you try to close your hand around it
The astute fly
Before you can take hold
Before you can
Get a good grip
What if you let it just be there?
Enjoying a rest on your hand
Until it’s ready to go
Add it to the collection of tiny moments
That remind you
The Grounding comes
It comes from the unending silent battle
Between The Biscayne Poet and I
Of who will make the morning coffee
And how each morning
The french press is still filled with
Mushy old grinds
From yesterday's brew
And so we collect the mugs and rinse away yesterday's traces
And do it anew
And dry grinds
And the kettle starts
And the familiar but normally overlooked sound of the boiling finished
And the pouring the liquid over the grinds
And the sudden waft of coffee aroma
Right past my nose into my subconscious
And all the moments of warmth
Of coffees past
On cold evenings after dinner
In distant cities
Or right here
In this house
From my very own Bialleti cafetera
That has served up espresso
To more people
In more homes
And more countries
Than I can count
And every time
That familiar smell
The funnel full of
The coffee grinds
The coffee grounds
And through the coffee
Like seeing the face of someone from the past
In the face of someone new
Like the familiar shock
When a new set of hands graces your back for the first time
And it’s pleasant and unpleasant all at once
And it rips you up, shakes you awake, makes you float like Fizzy Lifting Drink
But also shakes you back
To the last hand
That touched your back
And gave you that bittersweet chill
But this time you think back
With a sense of ephemeral mysteriousness
For those moments
That you feel you were grounded in
In a way that only retrospect can impose
We all know
In those moments, too
We were just a satellite
Longing for grounding past.
For the smell of coffee
And the familiar little cartoon man with a mustache pointing up to heaven
On the side of the cafetera
That I almost never think of
It’s in returning to a place you thought you’d never be again
Meeting someone and not knowing when will be the next time
Or, if there will be a next time
And in the same vain
Not even thinking about if you’ll meet them again
But then you do
In a coincidental happenstance
And deja vu
And this mixture of longing for what’s not yet lost
But being present while it's here
It’s in curious moments
Witnessing couples part ways in airports
Instant knot in your stomach
Cause in another space and time
That was you
Will be you again
When the divine madness arranges those pieces
On your metaphorical chess board
And no matter how much strategy
You just can't account for the mere quantity
Of possible directions
The game could go
For that matter
The inept skill level of your partner
Who tries to put themself in check with each move
Until in a moment of lost focus
And you don't realize it until it's too late
It’s 3 notes of a song that bring you back
To the time when you knew all the lyrics
And you still do
Hearing a cover song
By an artist you love
And enjoying this rendition for what it is
A sad subtle longing
For the original
It's the repetitive nature of sun salutations
Up and down
Down and up
Long lost jewelry that reappears
The pattern in the tiles
The familiar feel of locking the bolt of the door
It’s feeling a sense of home
In tiny moments
In tiny things
All the time
And somehow this collection
Of random items
Of ever revolving experiences
As seemingly disjointed and scattered as they can be
Are inextricably tied
To What Grounds You