My Life, with Room

I just finished a nice homemade vanilla latte drank in one of my old blue mugs with a painting of ducks on it. I've had the two of those mugs since going to college when my parents passed them onto me. They drank their coffee out of them for years before that. It's a rainy day. The clouds are thick and frothy, without any air-pockets, solid grayish white, like the exquisite foam atop my espresso. It's taken some practice, but I've gotten better and better at steaming milk and creating beautiful foam from our little countertop Barista machine. Karla would have been proud of my foam this morning.

I took her to work about five o'clock this morning after waking up just after four. Her shift at the ghetto 'Bucks actually started at five-fifteen; she was adamant about being on time. It was nice to be out for a drive so early; I doubt I'd be writing that if I had gotten less sleep, but, after a very pleasant dinner of grilled chicken jack quesadillas with fresh cilantro, some of that Cholula chile sauce that Jason and Christy gave us awhile back, alongside a cold bottle of Dos Equis with a short squeeze of 'Real Lime'... well, it was good to eat well, watch three episodes from a borrowed Friends DVD with my wife, and be clean and tucked in by nine-thirty.

It's quiet now, except for the rhythmic trickles of precipitation and steady breathing of plane engines, various mechanistic contraptions in the not-so-distant outdoors, keeping our world running smoothly, and the occasional grunt, grinding, and groaning of a speedy morning commuter or some random motorcyclist, who shouldn't be driving on slick roads in the cold rain at six-twenty-three in the morning.

My simple salt and peppered omelette paired well with my coffee. I almost just went back to sleep after getting back to our apartment, but my stomach was restless for protein and the dense caramelly sweetness of a bold Verona espresso enveloped in velvety white cream with just a touch of vanilla.

A couple of evenings ago we had some excellent decaf drip coffee with thick half-and-half cream alongside homemade creme brulee in little white ramkins over at a friend's house; in fact, she is one of my fellow staff members and directs the Special Needs ministry at the church. We finally met the lady who she lives with, who actually owns the home. When I saw Blue Like Jazz on the shelf and asked who read it, I hardly expected a woman of her age to be the one to answer, but it made tremendous and exciting sense when I realized that her son was a close friend of Donald Miller and that she had even spent Thanksgiving in the new home he was finally able to purchase with the profits of his books. She went on to share with us about his kitchen's new coat of paint that he so proudly showed off and how she had just spoken with him Saturday by phone and that he is up in Alaska spending some time writing and thinking.

I am constantly reminded how blessed I am to be here now and have the opportunity to cultivate meaningful relationships with so many amazing and exceptional people. As in every real place, life here is not ecstatic or surreal as some imagine of others grandiose dreams come true. Not that it can't be that way; it certainly was for me for a number of months after moving here for graduate school, and I will always remember the walk in the clouds that was my new-found friendship and eventual engagement with Karla. But life balances itself out, and, in faith, we find that this life, with all its coffee and rain and relationship, is, in fact, quite enchanted. The enchantment is real, and it is true. The enchantment is in the marrow; so many experience disappointment because they only ever spend their time considering the enamel of the bone, not realizing the floods of life flowing beneath the surface.

One of my larger-than-life heroes spent some time at Tully's over a robust cup of joe drip with cinammon with me a couple of weeks ago, and I asked him so many questions about his early life spent at the base of Mount Shasta in California and his interests and involvement with the C.S. Lewis Foundation, including his stories around being one of the original investors in the restoration project of The Kilns in Oxford. He ended up showing me, to my great delight, one of his most glorious treasures, a copy of Critique of Pure Reason by Immanual Kant owned and read and marked all through by Jack himself, who, in pencil, modestly sketched his name on the first white page inside the cover, "c.s. lewis."

And I always enjoy spending time with my favorite Greek Orthodox priest / Greenlake psychotherapist / adjunct professor in marriage and family therapy. As on a previous occasion over two years ago, we met for conversation at the Greenlake Starbucks, only a block from his gem of a psychotherapy office, where he has been in private practice for seventeen years. As I am preparing to launch into a private psychotherapy practice myself, part-time, beginning in the Fall, we were able to talk a bit about logistics and rates and vision and calling. One of his very first questions to me, after a brief cell phone conversation in Greek, was, "How is your faith?" So simple and direct, it required skipping over pretention or mere 'small' talk; the conversation, as always, was deep with truth and authenticity and relationship.

Sitting here with an empty mug, preparing myself for a half-day of helping a new friend, also a fellow staff member, move across town into a new home, I think of the dreams that are being fulfilled. This afternoon, I will have the opportunity to view the interior of a home in our wonderful Maple Leaf neighborhood where we are considering buying into the real estate market for the first time, a young rookie couple launching into a bigger life, an ever-expanding vision, dreams yet considered. This is my life. Gritty and dry when my stubbornness or spiritual myopia cloud that which is sacred; beautiful with flavor in the cool crisp air of morning. G'day friends.