Saturday, December 7, 2013

Side work.

Tuesday mornings come early. Hours before the sun early.

Most of the night is spent in a fitful state, startling awake sure that I'm late, only to find I can sleep for three more hours. But I only doze for 30 more minutes before startling awake again.

This Tuesday when I awoke for the final time I found snow. And the warmest temperature of the day. 21.

I bundled myself up and headed out in the dark. Into the snow. Into the quiet. Into the stillness. My footprints the only mark on the fresh powder that was still falling. Nearing Main Street little tracks popped up-seemingly out of nowhere-and then disappeared again. The cat was nowhere to be seen.

Opening the door a rush of warmth hits me, hugs me, welcomes me to my side job.

My day job, of course, is attempting to raise humans to be kind, intelligent, productive members of society who love well and think well.

But this, this, is something else. This is giving a hundred little gifts a day. 'Here's your 12 oz. skinny quad shot caramel delicious-wake-you-up-in-the-morning-treat' They smile, they smell it, they sip it and happiness spreads through their face and their bodies.

The regulars come in. They stay and talk about the weather, their jobs, their families, their holiday plans. And we become friends.

But it's strange because these are not natural friendships, outside of this place which brings people together united under the search for one thing (good coffee), these friendships wouldn't exist. The young, the old, the middle aged, the stern, the crazy, the put together, and the chaotic. And me. Watching it all unfold. Taking part in this story of how we are not all that different. This place bends the rules. I can joke around with a cop in uniform in this story. Or gluten-free cooking with a retired RN. I can bring my posse in and introduce them to regulars who are genuinely interested in meeting these little people.

And while my posse is full of riveting conversation about princesses and Spider-man, I enjoy these conversations too. Conversations that remind me that I had my own parents who taught me to love and think. (Occasionally I do these things well).

And when I come home to my day job, to my posse, my heart is a little fuller for having had the absence.

1 comment:

  1. Your writing just keeps getting better and better! I love it (and NOT just because I am, admittedly, biased)! :-)