I enjoy it. For me it’s more of a routine, it’s a ritual and an experience–a moment of silent bliss. Grinding the beans, pouring the hot water…waiting…pressing the grounds down to reveal a deep, rich, aromatic liquid. Coffee is a way to connect with my mind, check in and relax. It’s an opportunity to connect with someone else, it’s a tool to bring people together and get things done–or not. It’s a way to kill an hour before work or relax after a stressful day. The mug warms your hands and perks you up, as the steam gently rises it can fog your glasses and the smell takes over your senses and a feeling of joy can take over.
This is direct quote from my journal while sitting at Rowster’s in Grand Rapids this past Saturday. A conversation with my older brother is what inspired it. A conversation about quitting coffee. If you know me, you know I have a love for it. Hell, I have a tattoo that depicts my love for the stuff. So why on earth would I consider quitting?! My brother, who he himself has quit many vices and is a better person for it, thinks it will help me. Help me sleep better (kinda a ‘duh’), help me be more productive (I’m skeptical of this one,) help my moods, my skin and he listed many many other reason why I should quit.
So I’m going to quit coffee for three months.
I repeat. I am going to quit coffee for the time being.
They say (not sure who ‘they’ are…) say that it takes three months for a given substance to be ridded of your body. I’m going to journal about it, listen to my body, mind, soul and productivity. I’m going to attempt to blog (and not complain,) about it. I’m going to try and not take up any other addictions in this process. Right now my ONLY addiction is coffee.
An apology in advance: if you’re my facebook friend, REAL life friend or snap chat buddy I’m apologizing NOW for whining, maybe crying and probably sniffing your coffee if you consume it in front of me. I’m dreading the headaches and already missing my routine. If anyone has any good tea suggestions (decaf of course) I would love to hear them.
Wish me luck. Follow me on here and join me on this…sigh…journey as I say goodbye.
The morning came and I ran. The streets of Grand Rapids were damp from an early morning rain, the river black, only because it was not yet past sunrise, and fluid because the rapids have slowly been let loose. 5:26am the Tuesday of a long week was ahead of me and I ran to clear my head. I’ve yet to run any miles consistently since my injury, I’ve yet to feel good since my injury, but the feeling of familiar streets under my feet was comforting. A bit of rain fell to cool me.
I ran passed the park, passed my old gym, along the dumpy streets I used to call my own in G-Rap. On my way back I passed the 6th Street Bridge, a bridge designed for many modes of transportation: train tracks embedded, a road for cars, a smooth sidewalk for bikes, and the whole thing is boardwalk. Two by fours pieced together with nails for my pleasure. If you know me at all, and you know my running at all, you know that I love to run across boardwalks. I dream of designing a 5k race all on boardwalk so that other runners could maybe experience the feeling of raw, grainy wood underfoot and appreciate the hallow sound it makes are you step step step across. Swiftly, quickly, fluidly over the bridge to cross a river beneath is blissful. That Tuesday morning I ran across the bridge in the dark, unsatisfied I ran back across to return to Monroe Avenue, there and back gave me my fill of boardwalks for the early morning.
My run was interrupted by needing to walk, stretch and hope that my bones hold and remain strong without re-injuring. Frustrating, but it was good to be outside and moving. I made my way back to the hotel and was out of the shower before my roommate even woke. It was a good start to long week that was then clouded by copious amounts of information, schmoozing and boozing, dancing and working.
Throughout the week I made it back to the bridge multiple times. Walks with co workers while on breaks were the breaths of fresh air needed to clear my head and bring myself back to the ‘now’. The two by fours underfoot were a destination and a turnaround point, always pausing to look over the railing at the never still water of the Grand River. Always on the move. Always pushing forward to find what’s next.