Morning Coffee
It’s the early hours of the morning and the mighty Atlantic is playing a soothing lullaby on the rocky shoreline. The sky is a rich tapestry of black velvet studded with diamonds dripping all the way down to the horizon. The usually busy wind G-d is having a rare nap, only the gentle gusts of her breath reaching through the open doorway each time she exhales. Beyond the sounds of the sea it’s as silent as can be and it will be more than a full hour before what sailors call first light; that slight lightening of the pitch dark horizon.
There’s not much to be done in this magical hour, except to join in the restful and meditative state enveloping this little village on the west coast of the holy land. I move myself over to the kitchen and start the ritual of preparing the Bialetti, mindful that my every movement is likely the thunderous crashing of a giant clomping about, to the neighbour below. It’s a downside to the wooden floors and living in shared spaces, even if it’s on different floors. Padding about barefoot and gently as my considerable weight allows me to, I set the pot on the little camping stove and return to the little stoep a few paces off the galley kitchen.
It’s truly something special to spend months living in such close proximity to this cold, deep and tempestuous ocean. Its ceaseless motion is hypnotic and I find myself drifting away from counting off my gratitude list. I catch myself and can’t remember if I stopped at 9 or 19. It matters little, I tend to fumble my numbering and some days my gratitude list runs the gamut of the basics like shelter, sufficient food, water and because the holy land is being held hostage by criminal syndicates, I have been adding the availability of electricity to my list more often. Other days I remember to add to the gratitude list the birds, the tortoises and the occasional hordes of tiny snails making their way their across the road out of the village. I often add the noisy tarentaals, the spur fowl, the various small buck, the owls, the snakes, the neighbours cat and in my most generous state the yapping little mutts that pass by daily to the list.
On other days, I tend to remember with gratitude the multitude of insects that buzz about this place and almost always thank the bees for their most delicious fynbos honey. Some days I remember the cows that litter the veld around the village, the flocks of sheep and the shaggy goats. I often add to my list the sacred ibis that gather in large flocks at the various pans. I remember to give thanks for the water, almost always sweet and cool that runs out of the taps and the same water with its form slightly adjusted and warm from the showerhead. If I’ve been lucky to see them the day before, I remember with deep gratitude the magnificent blue cranes that sometimes join the sacred ibis at the pans on the veld.
The ever present sea is always on the gratitude list, an enriching and calming companion, the veld with its cornucopia of fragrances, foods, herbs and flowers and for being a different kind of silent meditative space in the early mornings. Some days, like this morning, I give thanks for the mists that cover everything as far as the eye can see and settle on the skin like droplets of liquid gossamer. I hold gratitude for the crunching soil beneath my feet and this lightening sky above. For a heart that still beats despite everything I have thrown at it. Gratitude for these knees that have taken thousands of kilometres of pounding on streets, down hills and across dales in cities and towns and, only occasionally click when I kneel to kiss the ground.
I often remember to give thanks for the wheat growing in the fields a few valleys away and the good people that plant it, the earth itself that nourishes it, the sunshine and the whole chain of events that happen for it to to eventually end up in a nice brown paper bag for me to turn into a loaf of bread. Often this gratitude is promptly followed by thanks for Kahlil Gibran who wrote those words that mean I forever associate bread with ‘G-ds sacred feast’. Some days, I forget to add gratitude for the wild yeast that exists in the air that mingles with the wheat flour and water to magically create a natural raising agent. I remember my grandmother who first whispered to me the sacred words of thanks to offer when lighting a fire and when drinking water. I give thanks for Susan Abulhawa, Maya Angelou and Lilian Ngoyi. I almost always remember my parents with gratitude for being and enabling my being in this form.
I remember to give thanks for the day slowly dawning and the chance to renew my entire being afresh. I do sometimes forget to give thanks for Steve Jobs but this is quickly corrected the moment my fingers slip into the protective cover and I feel that cool, slim, tapering profile beneath my fingers. Then I am reminded to give thanks to the little children north of the holy land who’s short lives are spent digging and hauling out of this earth the materials used to make this marvel. I hardly ever forget to give thanks for the wifi, the coffee and the human-shaped beings that make this work of preparing food and drink their livelihood and their joy. I sometimes forget to give thanks for refrigeration and ice-cream but that’s usually rectified at least once a week after lunch.
In giving thanks I remember the trees, the sweetness and visual delight of nasturtiums and for peanut butter. For pecans, for cocoa, for cultured butter, for eggs and chickens and for the human-shaped being that first chanced upon the recipe for the classic Boston brownie. Gratitude for the makers of the ovens and the awl, for the shoemaker, for the watchmaker, for the lady that gets up well before dawn to do her little part with love and kindness to fulfil Life itself. For the trees and for paper, for ink and the printing press and for books. For the people that write them, those that read them, those that keep them, share them, sell them and rescue them from dusty corners and gift them.
I remember to hold gratitude for the inventor of the wheel and the carriage and the motorcycle and the bicycle and the skateboard and the surfboard and the checkerboard too. For blogs and books, and baked goods and art and science and needles that get right under our skin, for the doctors that will awake at 3am and tend a barely breathing body, for neighbours and for every single breath. I know my sister always gives thanks for potatoes, so I tend to skip straight ahead to its natural companions, parsley and anchovies.
In a flash I find myself giving thanks for my nose; flat, wide and crooked as it is and for Alfonso Bialetti himself as the aroma of the bubbling pot reaches me through the salty haze in front of me. I’ll eventually continue with the gratitude list through this day; but first coffee.
Morning Coffee is about gratitude for each and every single day we’re gifted. Stay loved, Jesh
A while back, a dear friend told me she almost always has to Google something when she reads my blogs. And as much as it means more work for me, her feedback has helped me see that some footnotes might be helpful. So here goes..
Bialetti, a stove-top coffee pot named for its inventor and the preferred, sensible and desirable way to prepare the morning coffee.
Stoep, Afrikaans for a veranda or balcony.
Afrikaans, the only new language created by modern humans. In the holy land, Afrikaans is often erroneously cited as the ‘language of the oppressor.’ referring to its appropriation by the white supremacist settler colonialists who invented the heinous policy of Apartheid. See the work of Hein Willemse, from 2015 and a more accessible article he penned for The Conversation in 2017. See also the Afrikaaps documentary by Dylan Valley. I hope these will help grow your mind and course correct how you see Afrikaans.
© Jesh Baker, 2023
