Home is a Mug of Coffee: Part 2
On being enough, exactly as we are.
Hello there! And welcome to Dandelion Seeds, an illustrated newsletter that’s hand-painted and hand-lettered, from my desk to yours.
Last week, I loved kicking off a new illustrated essay series, “Home is a Mug of Coffee,” which was originally published on Longreads a few years ago (here’s part one, in case you missed it).
If “Home is a Cup of Tea” was about my search for home in the world, then this essay tells the story of my journey to come home to myself.
I adored reading your comments last week, so as we dive into part two — and travel from the bottom of New Zealand to a black pearl farm in French Polynesia — please keep sharing your own coffee stories. I can’t wait to read them.
With love,
Candace
Hurrah! What a great feeling to feel comfortable and "enough" in a strange land. My first evening in the kibbutz, the kids in my group and eye sat down to a Shabbat chicken dinner. The skinless boiled chicken was served in a bowl. As I held the chicken to bite into it, I looked at the others, all of whom were cutting pieces of chicken to eat from a fork. "What a rube," I thought of myself as I put my chicken back in the bowl and picked up my knife.
Oh, and the variety of toilet facilities I encountered was a constant conundrum. Thanks for this post, Candace. You're an adventurous lass.
I love this series already! I quit smoking years ago. I gave up alcohol. I don't eat meat either. Coffee is one of my last remaining vices. I tried to give it up for a while, but I missed it. Not the caffeine, the pick-me-up, or the energy. But, the taste, the ritual, the experience, the feeling.
I wanted to travel when I was younger but I didn't. I hoped to end up in career that I still haven't managed to make it into. I ended up in the place I've always been afraid; at desk, in a cubicle. I've made mistakes and bad choices. I'm full of regrets and disappointments. Rarely, I have I felt ok with who or where I am. But in the few moments I tip a thin stream of hot water in widening spirals around freshly ground beans. In the span of time it takes to pour coffee into a mug and take that first perfect sip, I don't think about any of those things. I'm just there. Just me. Just drinking coffee.