My Morning Mo-Joe
Sometimes at WordWranglers, we like to throw in a theme to write about, and, given that it’s mid-winter and we’re living through some pretty heavy times, we thought we’d write about something light and fun. So, this time around, we’re writing about which we prefer; coffee or tea. As I mentioned, this is supposed to be a light and fun piece, but ladies and gentlemen, for me, there’s nothing light or fun when it comes to coffee drinking. This is serious business. Sanity-saving business.
I’m a night owl. I always have been and assume I always will be. Because I don’t have children, or wasn’t in the military, I was never required to be up before the sun was. To me, that’s cruel and unusual punishment, however, it would be considered downright torturous if there wasn’t a strong cup of coffee waiting for me as the alarm clock sounds, no matter what time it is.
As I roll about of bed and assess which part of me is “starting to feel its age”, I sniff the air like a bloodhound on a scent, seeking the first signs that, indeed, my beloved automatic coffeemaker has done its duty and the caffeine-infused nectar of the gods awaits me. Walking in near-Frankenstein stiffness, I make my way toward the coffee pot, forcing myself to at least give my Basset hounds a pat on the head and a barely audible “Mornin’.” Loyally, my Snoopy cup is sitting on the counter, and, like a sacred ritual, I indulge in a good amount of Half ‘n Half, plus three Splendas (I know, I know, the stuff will kill me but at least I’ll have had my coffee fixed just the way I like it as I breathe my last), and only then, after several sips, does the living of life actually ensue. I’m like a light switch being flipped on. Suddenly, I’m not just viewing the world through a thick, groggy haze, but I’m actually aware of my surroundings again, and able to answer questions in a coherent, civil manner. It’s like that day after day, year after year, with one exception; when I’m in the throes of writing a book.
Oddly enough, I wake up before the crack of dawn, unassisted by my alarm clock radio suddenly blaring some old Rock ‘n Roll song. Quietly, I throw back the covers and slip out of bed, careful not to wake my husband. It’s not that I’m being considerate, it’s just that I don’t want him to get up (not that he would at that ungodly hour anyway, but, still, I take no chances.) I need this time alone, where I’m the only one in my head.
Quickly (amazingly so!), I make my way toward my office, completely bypassing the still-cold coffee pot that is set to go off two hours later, and sit down at my desk. A great line or idea that came to me in the night must be put down before it evaporates and I can’t get my computer turned on fast enough. To me, it seems as though it takes an unusually long time to flash on, as though protesting that it is expected to get back to work before our usual agreed-upon time. As I excitedly pick up where I left off the night before, I actually feel as though I’m buzzing. It reminds me of living in Miami, during the disco era in the 70’s, but that’s another story and theme entirely, and not necessarily G-rated. Now, back to the point. I sit there for an hour or so, typing away with no Snoopy cup within reach and no smell of Maxwell House permeating the air. Granted, it’s not that the thought doesn’t cross my mind that I have no Joe, but when I’m flying away at the keyboard, I just don’t care. I simply don’t need it. And I don’t want to break the flow by getting up to hit the “On” button on my Mr. Coffee.
After awhile, and after adding another page to my manuscript, I start to see the light beginning to work through the cracks in my blinds, and I can hear the first chirping of the chickadees and wrens as they announce to the world that morning has broken. When that happens, I sigh to myself that my short-lived world of aloneness will soon be invaded with the noise from the rest of my household. Only then do I actually take a moment to go turn on the coffee pot, and as I sit back down at my computer and stare at the latest paragraph completed, I experience a fleeting moment of sadness that whoever or whatever I’ve been communing with has been interrupted by…well…life. That time before dawn when I’m creating is actually a spiritual time for me; a time when I know something far greater than I am is at work with me. It’s a closeness and a connectedness, a channeling. For me, it’s an intimate interaction with my Creator; when I’m doing exactly what He designed me to do. And when we work together like that, just the two of us, in the cocooning quiet solitude of dawn, the result is good. Real good.
I live for those days when I’m in the throws of writing; when the words connect from my head to my heart to my hands to the keyboard in a near trance-like state. It doesn’t always happen, but when it does, it’s a magical time, and there’s not a bit of coffee involved. It’s a time when that creative flow is my truest form of mojo, and it’s far more stimulating and far more powerful than any morning Joe could ever be.