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

Dial the number it starts with  555  ends with 1234 The play phone rings  and the little girl  answers it  with professional tone prim and proper  after all it is the lunch hour  at her plushie cafe  and the cat  and the duck  are waiting  for their food today. She scribbles your order says her alligator will bring your food about an hour or so You end up with chicken  and a slice of cake and maybe a cherry or two.

Truth is often  stranger than fiction  and every word  out of her mouth  sounds like a lie  so egregious  so cutting  and to the point  yet eventually  it is the truth  Rarely do such revelations mean to spare the feelings of the one who asks. what to believe  who to trust  when she tells me  how things happened  and they really did. They ask me would you rather have the truth or the lie I always tell them at least I know.

You cannot force growth  and expect it to become  everything you want it  whole and perfect  Something has to give the flaw may or may not lie within the object or the creator's desires A cycle repeats over and over until the weight tips to one side or the other Nature has a way  of finding a balance  despite all the desires  of an impatient man

A story without conflict  is dull and uninteresting  nothing every changes  everything the same  The reader closes the book  of the Everyday man  who agrees with everyone  and avoids the fights  and leaves treasure behind No one gets mad at him no one questions his presence a quiet unassuming life with no friction at all It may sound like paradise but it is disguised as stagnation.

gratitude for  the little things in life  fifteen minutes of quiet  enough to savor  a cup of tea  in the middle  of a busy morning given all the kinds of alternatives  I don't take this  for granted anymore. But I choose what are the most cherished in my life instead of someone yelling in my ear why I should be grateful

Some pirates are gentlemen  others are rogues  still others somewhere  in between  brigands and privateers agents of the queen muskets and cutlasses peg legs and eyepatches the plunder on the open seas  cannon broadsides on port and starboard gone are the days  riches and glory three hundred or so years  too late

Hold it steady  branch over river  help your fellow man  when the dam bursts  and the flood  makes the water rise  to dangerous levels  or will you simply  leave the others  to their fates? As the sound  of rushing water grows louder and louder the dirt under your feet softens into slippery mud the cries of your fellow man as they flounder within the rough currents will you stay there as long as possible?

a dashing prince  shows up at court  charms all who sees him  the ladies twitter and they simper over such a handsome man the princess looks  with curiosity  but she is not fooled  she sees through  his dazzling manner  to see insecurity deep within

The weather cools  the leaves turn  an autumnal change  The various festivals  cider and mead  apples and pumpkins  drink hot chocolate chestnuts and squash roast the new corn I love this time of year  the air is cool and dry  and my soul is at peace

It pays to be cautious  but not cowardly  there is a fine line  It pays to be bold  but not overbearing  there is a fine line  It pays to be kind  but not a doormat  there is a fine line It pays to be discerning but not too judgmental there is a fine line It pays to be loving but not a bleeding heart there is a fine line

No more romantic nights  the candles gather dust  hearts broken  and I hold the ashes  in my hands  The lingering smell of pink summer roses have long faded away. The wet matches  in the drawer  are soaked  with my tears  the flame of love  has been drowned out  and burns no more

Many shades of brown it's not a boring color the venerable tree trunk the layers within a piece of tiger's eye the russet of a forest on the edge of autumn the soft velvet of a socialite's dress a range of shades with tones of orange pink and gold I look at my skin  and remind myself that pretty highlights still exist

When has it been  out of fashion  to be optimistic  encouraging others hope for the best  even at the worst of times?  A sanguine attitude  confident and bright  mocked by the ones  who jump at shadows  even when none  are there to be found Gloom and doom the trend of the day a miserable existence But all is not lost I refuse the siren call that tries to pull me under.

Reach out  to show you care  from the bottom  of your heart  when someone is hurting you can be their lifeline just remember  that sometimes  it feels nice  to have others  do the same for you in turn  don't burn yourself  to warm up others  with your own fire

narrow passage  in the castle  many centuries  forgotten a knight and  his lady  exchange  secret touches  in the dark  away from  public eyes  a story untold by the bards a love endures between the pages of history as the lord's  absence  stretches  through  the fallen leaves

I sit through  his long-winded  explanations  just because  you know  a subject  doesn't mean  you can teach it  for someone else  to understand  The new problem:  I don't know  what the hell  he's talking about  and now  I'm more confused  and so he's  frustrated  because I don't get it

The comfort of a routine  fills them  with a sense  of security  Know what  comes next  no surprises  no anxiety  no strange deviation familiar sights and sounds the same faces always seen done so many times before a straight  and narrow  path

The cat  leaves its tracks  in the studio  paw prints  of many colors  on the newly washed floor  out from the studio  a swirling wave  of wet paint  ignorant of their new slippers they leave their mark fainter and fainter the trail is harder to see as time goes on they turn the house  into a canvas  for a feline masterpiece

If we could ask  the ancient tree what it has seen  what it has felt  the stories it  could tell us!  To sit underneath the gnarled branches curled up into the sky after years and years! Under a canopy of verdant leaves a coat that changes color with the seasons only to return again! The passing wind lends its words just sit and reflect on whatever it says in the depths of a poet's soul! How wondrous  to hear its voice  how humbling  to listen to its hallowed words  history incarnate!

 a silhouette dark against light  stands on the balcony  the artist draws only what she can see the black pastel crayon  copies a strong outline  but features are lost  who is this mysterious wraith in the night? it does not matter  for we can tell  the unique shadow