I fill the old Procter-Silex grinder with coffee beans.
Snapping on the lid I press the lever to grind. The lever falls off. I slide it
back into place. It is, after all, twelve years old. The ritual is much older
than that. Not my first grinder. Listening I press down until the sound is
smooth, steady; like a racing engine, less like an old car when it back-fires.
I pour the dark, earth like grind into the coffee maker and add water. The last
thing I do before bed. A daily ritual, a nightly expectancy of new morning
mercies.
There was a season in which ritual kept me tethered. I had
bet on my marriage vows and lost. Character flaws, exposed, insurmountable.
Doubt and anxiety were pervasive. I was paralyzed mentally. One thing I clung to
was this principal from Elisabeth Eliott, “Do the next thing.” Going to work
was a relief. Lawyers, counselling and dealings with the (ex) wife aggravating and difficult. Pray,
breathe, do the next thing. Coffee ritual at the end of the day. In the morning
dark drive down the hill; hot coffee in that green unbreakable mug.
Grinding through a better season now. I grind coffee for
two. Footholds feel solid. Anxiety comes but doesn’t cripple. Work is hard. Days
off celebratory and restful. Not the ideal---but good.
My nighttime ritual keeps me connected to big picture life. The expectant morning, the labor of living, the thrill of taste, the feel of heat. The coming day holds possibilities; surprises. Bad and good. Reaching for the grinder tonight means rising from the bed tomorrow. Waiting for the promise of new mercies.
