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-love in their kitchen as she gets ready for the day ahead and meals 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 ahead. The love she has for each of them even in struggle moments 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 here 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 plain black Folgers she faithfully brewed each morning.
I know now that it wasn’t the coffee. It was the peaceful time to write, think, feel and process that was so special about starting her day that mattered.
I had a beloved grandmother who also wrote letters to her family each morning about six am, probably with a warm cup of coffee beside her. 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 appears, as I recount these memories. Embracing the smell of my early morning coffee is even nicer now as I think about my heritage.