I have had a really hard time blogging on time lately, and for that - I'm sorry. It's not that I don't want to blog, just that I haven't had time. So forgive me. Or don't. If you don't there are a host of other blogs that you might enjoy all over the internet. I promise there are even some coffee-themed blogs.
So, I suppose it's also fair to say that, besides time, I've been having trouble writing posts. This blog wasn't really started with any clear objective in mind a few years (years!) ago when I sat down to write. It sprung forthfrom a serious caffeine addiction and a belief that life - regardless of what Ernest Hemingway and my cynical inner-nag might think - is full of passion to be unearthed, and that the act of unearthing these gems is what makes life meaningful.
But, somewhere along the way, I think I might have lost that. Not the caffeine addiction, no; that is going strong. But the passion is somehow dulled. It's there, making up the sparkling dust that settles in my mind, but - perhaps - I have changed. Maybe my bad eyesight has affected by insight. Maybe I am just very tired.
I read an interesting article the other day in Poets & Writers. The author, whose name I cannot remember, wrote a long-sort-of/short-sort-of memoir-like-story about becoming a father for the first time. In the article (for lack of a better word) he tells the fascinating story of a crippling anxiety that overtook him just before his son was born. It was not the fear of teaching the right values or getting up quickly enough at 3 AM, but, rather, the worry that his son would not be given the right words.
I understand. The sunshine, for examble, is not bright, but dazzling; the graffiti on the city walls is not vandalism, but ventriloquism. There are always alternate ways of seeing the world. I have always believed this, and I do still. I always will.
But, like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, holding the emerald paradigm is somewhat difficult. It necessitates that we make the decision to keep the glasses on, to close our eyes tightly if they should slip off our noses and reveal the city to be shockingly ugly.
The potrait of an idealist? Self-delusion.
So, as I write this, coffee by my side, I wonder what makes it strong in the first place. I wonder if I still know, ever knew, forgot somewhere.
At the end of every post I tell you to keep your passions electric. It just may be possible that I don't keep my own advice. Maybe - just maybe - I have to go electricity hunting. And maybe - just maybe - I'll find where that strength in coffee comes from. And maybe - just maybe - I already know, and just can't remember. As Plato put it:
We do not learn, and what we call learning is only a process of recollection.
I hope you'll stick around. In fact, I have faith that you will.
After all, the best miracles are very, very small.
May your coffee be strong, your passions electric, and your laughter easy.