Coffee has had a place in my heart since an overseas trip to Greece in college, where I finally discovered its charms. There has been no looking back. Since that time, I've had thousands of cups of coffee in various cafes around the world, in coffee shops here in my home town, and at my kitchen table (pictured above).
I was inspired by the 
To celebrate International Coffee Day, we'd love to hear about a deep connection, moment of change, or self-discovery that you had while drinking coffee.
Isn't that splendid? Oh, but there have been so many such moments!
There is something about coffee that has always inspired something deep within me. Especially when I take time to reflect and sip — to let that magical elixir wend its way through my bloodstream and awaken my brain.
For years in college and graduate school, I would write papers and short stories with a cup of joe at hand. I loved to find a coffee shop where I could sit with a notebook and write — and it never mattered whether it was quiet or chaotic as long as I could find a little corner table somewhere.
Finding the right setting and having a really good cup of coffee to fuel my creativity was the perfect way to spend an afternoon.
But the story I'm going to tell is about one particular moment of painful reflection that became a true turning point in my life.
I had been in a rather tumultuous relationship for nearly seven years at the time. My partner was a domineering human being with strong views on absolutely everything. Just as an example, he felt it was important to bike to the office at least once a week (30 miles each way over a small mountain range) and so I was required to bike to the office at least once a week.
My level of fitness was constantly subject to scrutiny, as were my life choices, the friends I spent time with, how boisterous I might be at a party, and even how I made coffee.
The odd thing about that was that he really didn't think people should drink coffee. He felt it was some kind of evil addiction. But then when I made it, he would magically show up and provide instructions about how to do it properly.
He preferred a French press or an espresso maker over any sort of drip system. And using a Mr. Coffee or other such electric appliance was some sort of sacrilegious act. In fact, if I occasionally got him to go into a coffee shop with me, he insisted that we both have espresso, even though my preference has always been a simple cup of medium roast coffee with cream.
I know what you're thinking:
He had preferences and even demands for how coffee should be made even though he claimed it was evil stuff?
Yes. Yes, he did. I cannot explain it. Nor could I question it because, well, he was not a person you could take to task on things like that. It says a lot, doesn't it?
In short, I was "under his thumb." Very much so. I was losing myself, slowly but surely. In fact, by the time the revelation I'm about to describe occurred (thanks to coffee), I had been seeing a therapist for several months, trying to sort out the very complex things going on in my heart and mind.
Why was I feeling so lost? What was causing the sense that I was no longer in the driver's seat of my own life? It seems obvious now, but at the time I couldn't make sense of it. I just knew that I had an ache in my soul that needed tending to.
Then one day, my significant other announced that we should take a trip to his parents' house for Thanksgiving. I thought about it, and said, "No, you go on ahead. I think I could really use a long weekend just to myself."
To my surprise, he agreed without putting up a fight. This was shocking, since he typically monitored my every move and forced me to do things his way on his timeline.
You'd think I would spend the weekend with my own family or friends. No. I really did spend it entirely alone.
When he left, I discovered I could breathe. I got out my notebook and pen, made copious amounts of coffee, and journaled. I wrote out my heart. I wrote about what was eating me alive.
I made more coffee and wrote some more. I wrote about everything that I loved about my life as it was, and about our home and our pets, and our seven year history, and all the wonderful things we had done together. How could I give it up? What would happen? What would become of me? Would I ever love anyone again? Would anyone love me??
And yet... with the help of coffee, paper, pen and words, I came to a resolution. I had to go. There was no staying. Not if I wanted to resurrect my sense of self and be a whole person again.
You wouldn't think it would be so fresh in my mind. But momentous turning points tend to have that effect. I packed my things. I said goodbye. I extracted myself and rebooted my life. Those four days of drinking coffee and writing out the joy, the pain, the misgivings, the fear, and the resolve were the catalyst.
That was all over a quarter of a century ago. I've since gotten married and raised a family, and all three of my kids are adults. Imagine that! All thanks to coffee and contemplation.
Thanks for reading!
All photos are my own... taken in various places at home and in cafes and restaurants, wherever I've been charmed by the appearance of a cup of coffee just waiting to be enjoyed.
Photo credits: All of the photos in this post were taken by me with my iphone and belong to me, unless otherwise noted.
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