An Eighth Shot of Espresso: Coffee and Creativity on Mum's Third Shift

Can't undo the past  it ripples into the present  and affects the future  But instead of mourning  what could have been  what can we do now?  Is it mitigation  tied always behind  or is it a rebuilding? The foundation needs to be ripped out and complete redone New walls go up sun through clean windows floors scrubbed and polished So much work but your future is so much more comfortable.

clenched fists a hero's pose  as they are put  into dire straits  a realization  that the world  is in peril  yet again  that flash  of determination  roll up the sleeves  and do what  heroes always do not for the praise not for the fame but because it is always the right thing to do

Words on paper  recently dug up  from the depths  of the desk drawer  it's been ten years  since it has seen  the light of day  characters frozen in time and on stage  mid-sentence the plot unresolved original manuscript  unpublished  maybe a novel  someday

The fiend  the enemy  always with the  long monologue  reveal the plan  to take over  the whole world  give them the  courtesy  because plot armor  is expected  for that speech  so the hero just waits until they are done

When good events happen  it’s good to celebrate them  life is not easy but there are the little moments.  So why is it  such a sin  to be happy for them? Why can't we share it?  Why is it so satisfying  to put down the joy  and mock the ones  who even mention it? Because jealousy is rife and modesty is the rule existence is a drudgery until the very end? That is a cynical way to live if you want to be miserable don't bring the rest of us down.

A distant memory  though the passage of time  has not been long at all  Grasp at details  muddied by events  between now and then  Names dissolve into disjointed mist and I cannot spell those. Sensations fade  even as I try my hardest  to remember them.

She was a baby  days become years it all passes by all too quickly  tea times with her plushies all drunk and spring dresses no longer fit her now she is almost  a full woman grown  and I must learn  how to let go  the first and last one  to go out into this  vast vast world

Thoughts consuming  it is always too easy  to live just within  the confines of the mind  look for rational answers  logical connections  comparing prices checking sources over and over and over pushing back deadlines so much talk and  so much planning  that nothing actually  ever gets done But it's never your fault you just wanted  to get everything just right.

Words written down  on bark on parchment  on bamboo scrolls in languages both known and unknown marks and pictures not primitive but precise and complex the wisdom of the ancients  in soot or in ink  jet black or multicolored stories of the past  bundled up and stored  just waiting to be discovered

Make your way  across the stony creek watch your  footing  as the pools  of water  flow around  your ankles  mud washed  from between  your toes  frogs peer from the cattails moss clings to the tops of submerged logs a cool sojourn  amid the summer heat

Waters recede  after a flood  leaves debris  in its wake  a deadfall of logs  and branches  provide cover  for a family  of beavers  and food  for the soil what looks like a messy tangle of nature's refuse can be shelter after a terrible storm.

She dances  like a whirling dervish  endless motion with music in her head even though we do not hear it  every move precise  hands and feet together  graceful and wonderful  in her own unique way  she does not care  what the naysayers  think this is her best life

Who says that death  must lead to nothingness?  No one who stays dead  returns to tell us otherwise  Religion and science  offer some explanation  But the truth is that  no one can say for sure  Those who claim they know  really have no idea It is a reassurance against their fear of the unknown

cradle of boughs  hold the flimsy nest guarding it from harm  canopy of leaves  shield it from the sun  the wind and the rain  the sun sets and the moon rises days pass slowly the warmth of mother the chill of the morning children sleep soundly and in due time  the sound of the  eggs cracking open  and the chirps  of new life echo  the cycle renews again

Why do I write?  because the  harsh reality  can be so  overwhelming  in stories  we can find hope  in the struggle  between light and dark  good and evil  great heroes  and terrible villains  lovers and rivals we lost ourselves there and life doesn't seem  so bleak and doomed  as the naysayers believe

Forever  is a dreamer's word  the philosopher  never worries  about the rumble of his stomach  out of biting hunger or the dryness of a parched throat due to horrible thirst or the rainstorm soaking his paper or the frantic efforts of desperate survival but the common man  has no time  to muse about  the wonders the universe or the workings  of a so-called just society he worries about the NOW

I stand on the shore  my blood is from  a distant origin  far away from here  I hear the vibrations  of their strings  the breathy notes  of bamboo flutes  I feel the rumble of their drums like distant thunder that fills my ears. I capture the tones  of their words  in both hands  and learn them silently.  I bring their hopes  with me here  in this land  so very far away.

What I've learned  from cats:  do not settle  for anything less  rest and relaxation  keeps you nimble  falling leaves  outside the window  is all the entertainment  you really need  food always there water always filled the sound of treat bag is a rallying cry affection in small doses  when you want them  we're all from royalty  and should be respected

A midnight run  to buy some snacks  study group together  too much coffee  not enough sleep  final lab projects  fifteen page essays  back with all-nighters  in the computer center  with the printers hooked up the dot matrix chatter because you didn't have  a desktop of your own  Those ancient days  thirty years ago