Some people wake up and smell the roses. Some sleep-walk until they take a shower. Some, like me, get going for the promise of that perfect first cup. I sleepwalk through the morning routine until my feet somehow tackle the stairs without getting tangled and my arms reach for the shelf with the coffee bins. Two bins full (or 3/4 empty as is the case right now) of beans: a big black marker "X" for espresso, and an "R" for regular. 1/4 cup of each go into the grinder. Then my finger presses the on button - it is a burr grinder, of course - and my ears buzz with the song of coffee being ground to a perfect # 4 1/2 powder. The aroma hits my nostrils as I pour the grounds into the glass jar, and I start waking up to the singing kettle announcing that water is boiling and can't wait anymore to extract the bitter complexities of a perfect drink. Now patience is required to wait a few minutes for the grounds and the boiling water to get to know each other. In the meantime I do last night's dishes and listen to a bit of public radio news. As soon as that's done, it is my time to mingle with the coffee.

A previously warmed cup. A dark liquid, with the aroma of mocha, the consistency of honey mead, the colour of charcoal (to quote the great Polish Poet Mickiewicz) and all is set for a meditation moment on my favourite recliner. In a warm sunny day I step outside onto the porch, and sip (or most likely gobble up) the brew along with the birdsongs and the wind. 

What a way to start a morning, isn't it? The warmth of coffee warms me inside and out, it permeates right up to my brains, where the alpha and the omega waves of life sparkle in gratitude for another day.