A cortado is quite a small beverage. Those like the one I’m drinking right now contain one ounce of espresso, and three ounces of steamed milk. This cortado is just the right temperature, allowing the milk to be sweet and creamy, and blending beautifully with the floral quality of the espresso used. The whole thing is silky smooth. The barista who pulled the shot and steamed the milk kindly let me pour it, and while I stood at the counter we talked of the rapid growth of Northwest Arkansas, and the beauty of a quiet life.
This little coffee drink is such a simple thing on the surface; most who drink it probably don’t pause to think about it, or ask questions of where it came from, the person who made it, the farmers who grew the coffee, or those who provided the milk. In a moment, and usually with little honest conversation, the drink is ordered, and shortly afterwards it is handed over, to be consumed in less time than it takes to empty the contents of one’s wallet. Then the consumer moves on, and forgets about the money they’ve spent and the drink they’ve enjoyed. Often, I think this is because they don’t really enjoy it. And there is more than one reason for this lack of joy
enjoy; verb -- take delight or pleasure in
from Latin gaudere, meaning rejoice
One of the reasons we fail to enjoy life is that we live in a fast world. We hurtle down the road at seventy miles per hour to work our jobs, selling scores of drinks, hundreds of burgers or millions of dollars of toilet paper or dental floss or chocolate. Then we speed home, music and air conditioners blasting, unaware of the other people surrounding us in their own metal boxes, and push the button for our electric garage door opener. Coming to a shuddering halt we jump out of the car to heat up our most convenient dinner option, maybe while watching a few episodes of the latest series on our favourite streaming service. Not that we care what service it’s on; we just want to watch something. Then we go to bed, staring at our phones for a while before falling into an unrestful sleep, and waking groggily to do it all over again.
This is called living. Not by me, but by many.
We simply move too fast, not taking any time to notice the lives we’re living, the particulars of the moment we find ourselves in. We have become convinced that the good life is something *out there*, in another time and place, not here and now in the ordinary things of today. Not taking the time necessary to enjoy the simplest of pleasures, we miss out on the abundance that exists in the everyday. Thinking ourselves poor, we forfeit the wealth that is ours from the time we take our first breaths.
Another reason for our lack of enjoyment is that we live in a world of disconnection. Much of our experience is detached from any real meaning, and many of our actions are devoid of purpose. When asked why we chose one thing over another, our answers betray our lack of personal consideration. In reality, many of our decisions are determined primarily by convenience — what is the easiest thing to do, right now. Our lightning fast pace through life has blinded us to the connectedness of all things, and left us grasping for isolated and shallow charms. Food is consumed, but where it comes from is of no concern; those with different political opinions are no longer our neighbours, but our enemies; sex is merely something we do with our bodies, yet with our hearts and minds disengaged; we talk with our friends, but keep our phones close at hand in case boredom strikes; we buy the flowers when they’re picked and potted for us in the store, but rarely do we walk in the wild grasses where they grow, and smell the air that nurtures them.
Such is a sad life. Such is the life that we’ve chosen. But we can choose differently.
I recently watched a video in which an old Japanese carpenter built a wooden deck outside of a home, putting into it more skill and love than I knew such a thing could be made of. And at the end of it all, he looked on what he had made, and uttered these simple words.
"It would be nice to have a cup of tea on this deck."
That sentence has been drifting upon the ocean of my mind since I watched the video, and causing waves with the weight of its meaning.
Some things are beautiful because of what they are, and how they have been made, and from the moment they are brought into the world they are a testament to what is good. Others are beautiful because of the stories they have been a part of, the lives which they have been attached to. The wedding invitations and letters hanging on my fridge bear significance not because of the paper used in making them or the beauty of the images in isolation, but because of what they represent.
This townhouse where I live is no marvel of carpentry, and will win no awards for design. It was thrown together with the rest of the buildings in this neighbourhood to satisfy developers and fill with paying tenants. But it is more now than it was when it was built, and it holds more than its walls can contain. Because when my housemates and I moved here, we brought our lives with it; not merely our furniture and pots and pans, but our pasts and our trauma, our laughter and tears, and all the love that we manage to hold onto. When we sit and talk around the island in the kitchen, we bring life to this place; when we lay out on the front lawn and look at the sky together, and wave at the neighbours as they pass by; when we have sword fights with PVC pipe and pool noodles in the back yard; when we fill these walls with chattering friends and share bread and wine together; when we do these things, we infuse meaning into this house, and make what we do here still more beautiful, because it is all part of an ongoing story.
How much greater is the bread you eat, when you have kneaded the dough with your own hands. How much better the coffee in the morning, brewed yourself and shared with a friend who knows the sound of your laughter. How much more beautiful is the glass of wine in your hand on a late spring night, when you share also of your aching heart with one who truly cares.
The paradox of deep pleasure in this life is that it seems to exist alongside great pain. This is, I believe, one of the reasons we have so shut ourselves off to real, heartfelt joy — because to open ourselves to such things of the heart, to let others take part in our lives in such a way that they can bring light like the noonday sun and laugher like thunder from our bellies, means also risking great personal hurt. Yet only in taking the risk do we stand to gain the reward.
I pray that you take the risk, my friend. There is so much to gain, and so great a joy to be found, and the beginning of that discovery process may be the simple act of taking a moment to sip your coffee and notice the taste and feel of it. Maybe it will start with a quiet sit on the porch or the lawn outside your home. Maybe your step toward greater beauty will be a step into the woods and away from your phone. Maybe it will mean responding with honesty the next time someone asks you how you are.
Remember that the thing you stand to gain isn’t simply one joy among many, but life itself — life deep and wide and beautiful. Don’t keep waiting for some unknown event or future day to begin living abundantly. A rich life is yours even if you do not have great wealth. Open your eyes and look, open your ears and listen, reach out and take hold of that which is already before you.
I write these words as someone who has tasted and seen of a rich life, and knows also what it is to live with closed eyes, unaware of the goodness that I have been given. What I share here with you is born of my human experience, and is no fabrication of an artificial brain. I have given my time and energy into stringing together these words and forming these thoughts in a way that I think will be impactful to you, a human reader, living a life all your own. I hope you appreciate the effort that I’ve put into this piece, and that you show that appreciation by sharing this with someone else who will benefit from it, or by subscribing.