I am reading a book in which this particular writer’s mission and gift is to encourage others to find their voice writing. I was reading this morning about how we may associate a particular smell with our deepest memories.
I was telling several friends recently about the smell of coffee and how I loved waking up early when I am visiting my son and his family, so that I can share a cup of coffee with my daughter in law in their kitchen as she gets ready for the day ahead and the meals that will be needed, starting with breakfast. It is perhaps my favorite part of my trip out west. I love catching up on their world through her eyes, as she recounts recent adventures large and small, in the months just passed or the ones just ahead. The love she has for each of them even in the sometimes struggles is always most evident, and because I share that with her, I feel as though I am on their journey as well. The memories of those early morning hours come drifting back as I sit her months later with my coffee.
The times I shared with my Mom over coffee when we lived with them after I moved my tribe of three to Florida in the late 80s were also some of my favorites. The coffee my Mom drank was never the best, and later as we had so many better options I wondered why she still drank the Folgers she brewed each morning.
I know now that it wasn’t the coffee. It was the time to write, to think, to feel and to process that was so special about starting her day that mattered.
I had a beloved grandmother who wrote letters to her family each morning about six am, probably also with a cup of coffee next to her stationery. My Mom often started her day with her famous tiny yellow legal pad and black flair pen notes to our family and her wide circle of friends. I come from a long line of morning writers, it seems, as I recount these memories. Embracing that isn’t so hard now that I think about my heritage.