While scrolling my Monday in-box last week, I was gifted language for something I have felt but never had words for.
When I stumble across such treasure, I try and make a point to write the word down in my journal.
I think of it like picking up seashells along a beach.
The word came courtesy of Creative Mornings, whose January theme came courtesy of their Tehran chapter.
I’ve copied their explanation here. Don’t think they’d mind.
کورسو or Koorsoo (pronounced Koor·Soo) is a Farsi word meaning a glimmer of hope.
“In our darkest hours, when everything seems to have dimmed, sometimes a light remains—not bright, not certain, but real. That is Koorsoo—a faint glimmer of hope that dares to survive. Koorsoo is not about triumph or clarity; it is about the fragile yet unwavering light that keeps us going. A glance, a memory, a word—small things that prevent collapse. It represents the quiet resilience of those who continue in spite of the weight, who believe without guarantee. In a world that often normalizes despair, Koorsoo is a rebellion—soft, but profound. It reminds us: even the smallest spark matters.”
My Monday morning — by which I mean my January — needed that reminder …
… almost but not quite as much as I needed caffeine driving up Main Street Thursday morning before work.
Anymore, I find my days need some back-up … which is among the reasons I collect seashells … metaphorically keep them in my pockets … so I can run my hands over their contour to remember, to remind myself.
Sometimes when I get to the small coffee shop off when it opens, the sun’s still low enough in the sky to bathe the interior bright.
After giving my eyes a couple seconds to adjust, I noticed their humble logo reflected on an interior wall, crisp as a projection.
A fragile yet unwavering light.
I asked the barrista if they knew when they built the place that the sun would reflect like that, or if that was just a happy accident.
She wasn’t sure, but said it’s her favorite thing.
After paying for my double cortado to go, I handed her a little extra cash for a pay-it-forward.
Spoke aloud the names aloud of a handful of humans who had recently reserved some kind thoughts in their day for me.
If we only knew how our light reflects sometimes.
Sitting here with my Sunday morning … a new month turned over … still needing reminders … still collecting sea shells … still remembering the importance of sharing our koorsoo with the world around us.
Was downstairs and at my desk early yesterday morning.
Didn’t sleep much or well.
I was up and asking Alexa for the time every 20 or 30 minutes all the way from 2 until I pulled myself outta bed in surrender at 5:48.
Headspace is a fragile thing when I don’t sleep.
Vultures circle.
Downstairs I cracked open my laptop as mechanically as if brushing teeth, with nothing on my mind or heart.
Just started typing ….
“Dried out and crispy, flicking flint on stone, desperate for a spark.”
Then I received a text.
Was early for a text.
“Can you chat this morning?”
Old college roommate.
Seeing his name made me smile.
Lives on the other side of the state, doing the work of the angels.
We’ll sometimes schedule cup-filling calls on our respective morning commutes.
Don’t recall a chat ever being impromptu.
It’d been a few months since our last one.
Didn’t figure myself for good company, but I called him right away.
Me: On your commute?
He: Already parked and walking for coffee.
Me: Is it a London Fog morning?
He’s a big fan of the London Fog — Earl Gray tea, steamed milk, vanilla, hint of sugar.
“Tastes like a warm hug,” to quote my old roommate quoting one of his office colleagues.
Sometimes I find myself ordering one when I see it on the menu.
Always makes me think of him.
He: Ha, yes! I’ve been trying to cut back, though.
Me: Everything in moderation … to quote Ben Franklin.
He: I just walked past his grave, actually.
He really did … he passes Christ Church in downtown Philly on his morning pilgrimages for Warm Hugs.
Our conversation was as spontaneous as his text.
We bounced across topics like skipping stones … sleep, dispiriting Eastern winters, kids, family, work … making our days count.
During which I began to feel the gears of my heart start to loosen.
In passing I mentioned a friend’s recent retirement.
He said he’s got his own date, about a year out.
He spoke about ‘ending well.’
Said it’s something that’s been on his mind a lot.
He referenced one of our previous conversations that’s stayed with him.
I’d forgotten about it ’til he reminded me.
During one of our previously scheduled caffeinated commutes, I talked about how there’s a big difference between things that end, and things that have an ending.
How there’s a whole school of thought on the topic … called “endineering.”
How it’s an under-appreciated facet of experience design in my, um, experience.
How there’s a sturdy body of research that posits that the way an experience ends disproportionally weights participants’ memories — what they take away, what they remember — about it. (look up “Daniel Kahneman” and “Peak-End Rule,” ICYI).
And yet … most things in our lives just … end.
Friendships.
Marriages.
Jobs.
He said he’s mindful of the legacy he wants to leave with the people he touches … for those that come after him.
Not for the first time, I found myself inspired by my old roommates’ example.
We were about 15 or so minutes into our chat when I guesstimated he was on his way back to the office with his London Fog.
He affirmed such was the case.
So I made sure our conversation … ended well.
I broke the fourth wall.
Told him how perfectly timed his text was.
Thanked him for thinking of me.
Let him know his simple text had single-handedly re-directed the trajectory of the day I was headed for.
Reminded him to never underestimate his capacity to be awesome.
He made a point to remind me of the same.
___
I can’t overstate the power inherent in the simple act of letting folks know when you’re thinking of them.
You will be astonished by the flowers that bloom from parched earth.
Your timing will never not be perfect.
It scatters the vultures.
At least long enough to give our Thursdays a fighting chance.
I will go to my grave (while mentally walking past Ben Franklin’s) shouting it from the rooftops.
Left the house yesterday morning to meet my sister for coffee.
There are few more lovely reasons to leave the house on a Saturday morning.
Figured I’d swing by the post office first to pick up some stamps.
Planned to write my daughter her weekly postcard after having coffee with my big sister.
No line when I got inside.
Saw Maria standing behind the counter … which made me smile.
Maria’s worked at the post office for 28 years, if I remember correctly.
She told me last time I picked up a lasagna from her.
Not at the post office.
At her tender restaurant A la Maria’s, on LeMoyne, where she spends her weekday evenings … lovingly making her Mom’s old Italian recipes.
Maria’s place holds a special place in my heart.
When Karry and I got married and moved into the World’s Tiniest Apartment in East Washington, Maria’s mother ran a restaurant out of the basement of her home a couple blocks from us.
In our early Kraft-Mac-and-Cheese-Can-of-Peas-for-Dinner days, Paesano’s was our one monthly splurge.
Saturday night.
If the weather was nice we’d walk.
It was BYOB so we made a ritual of picking up a $10 bottle of wine.
Made sure we were in our seats by 7 o’clock, so we could watch X-Files re-runs on the big TV that hung in the dining area …
… while slow savoring food made with love from an Italian mother’s kitchen.
We’d take our time walking our full bellies back home — the next day’s leftover lunch in my left hand, Karry’s hand in my right.
Everything my Saturday night could ever want back then.
Maria’s lasagna is perfection.
Architectural is the best way to describe it.
Sharp corners. Rectilinear. Towering.
Don’t know how she does it.
Every lasagna we’ve ever made at home comes out of the pan (deliciously) gloopy.
Maria’s could serve as a tornado shelter.
Comes with about a 1/2 inch of standing red sauce pooling in the bottom of the to go container.
Every time I get home and crack open the styrofoam box, Pavarotti sings ‘La donna è mobile’ in my head.
Comes with two thin slices of Italian bread, essential sponges for sopping up every last drop from the plate when you’ve sadly run out of lasagna.
When I put my sopped-clean-post-lasagna plate in the dish washer, the other dishes are like, “I think you meant to put this back in the cabinet.”
So it should come as no surprise how it made me smile to see Maria behind the counter at the post office yesterday morning.
“Miss Maria,” I greeted.
“Mr. Riddell.”
“Postcard stamps?” I asked.
“Cleaned out. Election folks bought ‘em all up.”
“Awwww. Really?”
Asked her when they might get more in. She said they’re on order, from Kansas.
“They send them regular mail … so, who knows?”
Coming from a post office person, the “Who knows?” struck me as funny.
She said I could try the McMurray store. They have everything there.
I thanked her for letting me know, and exhaled defeatedly, as I didn’t have the time nor inclination for a special trip.
Was just about to say out loud that my visit wasn’t in vain, though, since I got to see her …
… when Maria interjected.
“Otherwise, you’d have to go two busses and some grapes.”
“Uh …. I’m sorry, what?”
“To make up the 61 cents,” she said.
Pre-caffeinated, I wasn’t following at all.
She pulls out her drawer, takes out a couple packs of stamps.
Starts to do math.
Explains the busses are 28 cents …
“So two of those …. plus a five cent stamp,” she says, holding up a pack of grape stamps.
“So you’d need a lot of stamps,” she chuckled.
“Wait …,” I said. “Postcard stamps are 61 cents?”
“Yep. Regular stamps are 78 cents, post cards are 61.”
I had no idea.
In my mind I thought postcard stamps were like 19 cents.
Sixty-one cents … for such little real estate.
I felt dumb … for having hundreds of post cards at home.
She started to put the booklets back in her drawer, when I interjected.
“I’ll take the busses and grapes,” I said.
“Oh, you want to do that?” she asked.
“Just to get me through today,” I said.
What I meant was that I’d just take a booklet of each as an interim solution.
“Oh, so you just want enough for one?” she asked.
I didn’t think you could do that.
I smiled at the smile on her face as I watched her tearing off a postcard’s worth of individual stamps from their booklets.
“I guess I’m going to have to write smaller,” I said out loud.
She broke apart the three I needed, laid them loose on the counter.
Then an idea popped into her head.
“Here’s what you do ….”
I watched her pick up a bus, peel it off, and carefully lay it across the other bus.
Wasn’t sure what she was doing … maybe just consolidating onto one piece rather than sending me out with three loose stamps?
Then she peeled the grape and surgically laid it across the second bus.
“There …. That’s what you do,” she said.
Proudly.
“Leaves you more room to write,” she said.
Oh.
“So you can lay them across each other like that on the post card?” I asked.
“Yep,” she said. “Only the ‘USA’ needs to be showing.”
And I giggled out loud … like a five-year-old who’d just seen an adult perform magic.
You should see what she does with a lasagna, I’m tellin’ ya.
In the town where I live, there’s a person who will not only let a clueless, pre-caffeinated little brother cobble together a postcard’s worth of stamps … but will take the time to bunch ‘em as tight as the law allows … so he has as much room as possible to write to his daughter about how much he misses her.
__
And after just the loveliest visit with my big sister …
… I took out my favorite pen …
… and the postcard I’d plucked special from my massive, impractical inventory …
… took my time writing small and neat …
… doing my best to make every word count …
… with all the reverence I could muster …
… as I imagined a mother might …
… writing down her favorite recipes for posterity.
Friday morning I took my car in for scheduled maintenance.
“You gonna wait?” check-in-guy asked me. Said there was only one car in front of me. Shouldn’t be that long.
Found myself a quiet nook at the dealership. Grabbed a coffee from the machine. Hopped on their wifi, started into my work day.
About 15 minutes later, check-in guy rolls up.
He: We can’t open your hood.
Me: I’m sorry … what?
He: Yeah … problem with the latch release. Hood won’t pop.
Me: I put in washer fluid a week ago. Worked just fine.
He: Yeah, there’s no tension in the cable. Nothing happens when you pull the release. So we gotta diagnosis it. It’ll take about an hour … so it’ll be an additional $160 (on top of the maintenance costs I’d already signed up for.).
Me: I’m sorry … for what?
He: To diagnosis what’s wrong.
Me: I thought you said the hood won’t open.
He: Yeah.
Me: Isn’t that what’s wrong? (coffee was still kickin’ in)
He: Yeah, but we have to diagnose what’s causing it.
Figuring it’s hard to do maintenance without, you know, opening the hood, I was like … whatever.
My residual head-shaking was only starting to ebb, when check-in guy rolls up again.
Holding papers.
He: Yeah, so the latch release cable needs replaced. We have to order the part. Also … it’s hard to get to, and there’s a chance, worst case, that we’ll have to bust the grill to get access to open the hood. So, worst-case, we’d have to replace the grill and the badge, too.
Proceeds to show me the ‘best’ case … pointing to a really large dollar amount on the paper.
“And here’s the worst case,” he says … pointing to another really large number for the ‘grill-busting special,’ which would be in addition to the first large number, which is on top of the $160.
So they can do the scheduled maintenance, which will have to be rescheduled.
Metaphorically, it’d be like going to the dentist for a cleaning, only for them to inform you, “First … we’re going to have to punch you really hard in the face, which may cost you your front teeth, which we would, of course, then have to replace. None of which can happen today … so you’re going to have to leave and come back on Face-Punching Wednesday. After which, you know, the cleaning.”
In literal terms, while still waiting for the dealership coffee to take effect, I learn that it might cost me north of a thousand dollars to open my hood.
Lemme just say … it’s one of those things that’s hard to say ‘Yes’ to in the moment.
I gave myself a few seconds to let the absurdity of it dig its toes into the sand before externalizing a response … which manifested in me laughing out loud.
Not at the hood.
At the week.
I was only a day removed from having a plumber out to snake the downstairs drain under the driveway out into the backyard … which failed to address the smell coming from our shower. Only a couple hours removed from making arrangements for him to come back next week with “The Thing,” which will cost insert large sum here.
Only two days removed from the knob on our old dryer going kaput … so now, the dryer just runs constantly … so we have to unplug it between loads.
And four days removed from ordering a new air conditioner, the cost of which we deliberated long and hard about before deciding to pull the trigger before May decides to summer.
All of which to say … my laugh had a running start as check-in guy waited patiently for me to take his pen.
I mean … nice work, universe.
I told check-in guy I’d call him next week … which would gift me the weekend to temporarily indulge one of my favorite past times … ignoring problems hoping they go away.
___
I woke up Saturday morning still shaking my head at the week’s accumulations … when I gathered my things and headed uptown to the tiny coffee shop where I like to write my weekend medicine.
While waiting in a short line, I remembered another bill I was overdue in repaying.
Couple weeks ago I invited a friend out to a storytelling event in the city. We hadn’t seen each other in I don’t know how many years. Used to work together. We’d gotten back in touch earlier this year, trading texts and even chatting on the phone. For some reason I’d thought of him that morning so shot him a text asking if he’d be interested in joining me, and was thrilled when he said yes. My son was working in the city that day, so I invited him as well.
It turned out to be a wonderful evening.
When we arrived, I tossed my name in the hat, from which they would select the evening’s eight storytellers. I’d never done that before. I won’t call it an act of bravery because I did it as quickly as possible so the voice in my head didn’t have time to weigh in. I figured my odds were low, anyway, as the house was packed.
The evening’s first three storytellers could not have been more different in tone and topic, which is what makes such events invariably magical. When the host reached into the hat for the fourth storyteller, I heard my name called. I was so lost in enjoying the company, and leaning into my chair at the other storytellers, it jarred me. And in the few seconds it took to stand up and walk through the full house to the side of the stage, my anxiety went from zero to 60. But, I stepped out … and told a story that I was aching to tell … to the most gracious audience you could imagine.
At the end of our wonderful night, my friend insisted on picking up the tab for our sandwiches, despite Peter and my protestations.
I promised to him I’d pay his kindness forward.
Which I remembered just as I was about to order Cortado #1.
“Big plate, tiny cup?” Sydney the barista asked … which cracked open my weekend’s first smile like a fresh breakfast egg.
For context … some lost Saturday ago, I’d asked for a saucer to put under a really full cortado she’d made. She went in the back, returned a few seconds later, holding a regular plate. “This is all we have,” she said.
“Oh, that’s perfect,” I said, as I slid the ridiculously large ‘saucer’ under the tiny cup. As I did I noticed that the plate had a few chips out of it … which made it even more perfect.
“My life very much needs a generous splash radius.”
I remember telling her before I left that day that I may just insist on the big plate moving forward.
Now, I don’t even have to ask.
Big plate, tiny cup.
Every time Sydney sets it in front of me, it makes me think of all the humans and things in this world that catch the mess of me and crowd surf me through my days.
Like my friend Jason who met us in the city and insisted on buying beers and sandwiches.
So after I ordered, I asked Sydney if she could do a pay-it-forward, mentioning my friend Jason by name.
Of course, she said.
After which I sat down, tuned my earbuds to my favorite jazz station (KCSM, which streams from the college of San Mateo, CA), scribbled my weekly postcard to my daughter, and cracked open my old laptop to sift the week for its treasure.
I lost myself in the above like I sometimes do, so a good couple hours passed before I returned to the counter for Cortado #2, which must be referred to by its given name — “Portal to Invincibility.”
Sydney’s co-worker took my order.
I pulled out my card to tap my payment.
She waved me off.
“It’s already paid for,” she said.
I looked at her quizzically.
“Someone paid for your order,” she explained.
Took me a second before the morning’s second smile broke across my face.
“It was him,” Sydney said, coming up beside her colleague to explain, before turning to me. “People have been keeping it going.”
“Really?” I asked.
The coffee shop had filled and turned over a good coupla times in between my first and second order.
And in full disclosure … I hadn’t put all that much on the counter.
Humble pebbles on the scale, compared to all I owe.
But after a week of major appliance failures, stanky clogs, and a stubborn hood refusing to open — the numbers from which have yet to stop spinning — it wobbled me.
I mean, just the tender reminder that our kindness comes back to us.
The reminder that, even when all the evidence suggests otherwise, the world is still capable of surprising us.
Sometimes it just needs a nudge.
Like us.
I mean … nice work, universe.
I took a couple seconds to let all that sink in.
To give my response a running start.
I set the record straight … that my friend Jason started it, not me.
My friend Doug texted me Thursday, which triggered the following exchange.
I was grateful to Doug for giving me something to look forward to.
Actually, two things.
First and foremost, the delight of his company … the gift of picking up the conversation we began when we met as drummers our freshman year at Waynesburg College.
Secondly, for the gift of the arriving.
Ever since April who cuts my hair closed her shop on High Street, I’ve missed driving to Waynesburg every fourth Saturday morning.
I miss driving through Washington just as it’s just waking up and hopping on Interstate 79.
I don’t take 79 the whole way to Waynesburg, though.
I fall in love at the Ruff Creek exit.
By the time I see the sign announcing two miles to Ruff Creek, I am almost giddy. After the exit’s abrupt stop sign, I ease past the gas station on the left and the Church on the right where the cop sat that one time.
Confirming the coast is clear, I politely punch it and take the two-lane roller coaster climb of a hill as if it’s the roller coaster itself, my one and only chance to clear any slow pokes content with letting life and me pass them by, so that by the top … the only thing in front of me are two lanes irresistibly wide open and waiting … the juiciest Jane Mansfield stretch of swerves and curves in all of Greene County.
Cue angel chorus.
Three sets of gently undulating left and right curves carved in an incline … tempting me and the GTI to a little Saturday morning orneriness.
At the first left, I leave the right lane and visit the passing lane, following the arc of the bend, and, as long as there are no other cars in sight, swing all the way back into the right as the road snakes.
Since the hill’s not quite done, I keep my foot on the gas so I can feel the pull into the curve until it releases me into the next left … and then gently back again into the far right.
By the third left, the sequence is doing the good work of my morning coffee. All of it taking less than a minute.
The loveliest little moment of aliveness.
The only-every-four-week sequence made it precious. Something to look forward to.
Something I’ve missed.
__
Saturday’s reminder of which was almost but not quite as good as the big bear hug Doug and I greeted each other with, before hunkering down in our cushy red booth.
After sharing my gratitude with Doug for his invitation, for the delight of his company, and the gift in the pilgrimage, we were deep into catching up on family, music, and books when he interrupted me.
He: “Still looking for your pay it forward?”
Me: “Yes!”
He: “An older couple just came in and sat down.”
We called our server over, who was more than happy to conspire with us.
“I’m going over to take their order right now.”
I stole a glance out of the corner of my eye.
Older married couple out for Saturday breakfast.
Late 60’s, maybe 70s. I’m a bad guesser.
I overheard the husband order Double Meat for his breakfast platter, which made me smile.
A man after my Dad’s quadruple-bypassed heart, I thought to myself.
I confessed to Doug that something about older couples always melts me.
Told him about being at the coffee shop last Saturday as a couple regulars I’ve seen before took the table next to me. It was freezing outside, so they were all bundled up. Kept their toboggans on the whole time.
They were adorable.
I wasn’t eavesdropping, but sitting next to them, I couldn’t help but notice.
They talked the whole time.
Genuine conversation.
Asked questions of the other.
Not a phone in sight.
Made each other laugh on more than one occasion.
When they left, I asked Nicole, who does the baking and who I heard call them by name, whether they were just friends or ….
“They’re married,” she confirmed. “They are just the sweetest.”
I said aloud how I hoped to live long enough to be an old couple who keeps their toboggans on while sipping their Saturday morning coffee.
I shared the above with Doug as we resumed losing ourselves in the swerves and curves of our conversation.
Asking questions of the other.
Making each other laugh on more than one occasion.
‘Til it was time to get on with our Saturdays.
When we got to the register to pay our bills, another customer was waiting for a to go order. I noticed she was wearing a Dairy Queen shirt.
I also noticed that the older couple had gotten up to leave, too, and were heading in our direction.
The wife had a lot of difficulty walking, so they were taking their time, her husband gently holding her arm as they made their way.
They chatted while they took the time she needed.
I apprehended that it wasn’t an easy choice for them to decide to go out for breakfast.
They probably don’t do it as often as they used to.
Which maybe made it something they looked forward to this week.
I imagined that their years together have taught them something of arrivings, too.
I melted in place.
When they got near the register, we and the DQ person stepped aside to let them pass between us — a humble Saturday morning honor guard — as the husband helped his wife to the restroom.
It took a minute for them to pass between us. Enough time for the husband to notice the DQ logo on the girl’s shirt, too.
“Peanut buster parfait,” he said, and smiled as he went past.
I hi-fived him in my head.
That was Dad’s favorite, too.
Standing in line with my friend at the register, waiting to pay our bills at the Bob Evans on a Saturday morning.
Re-watched all of my favorite holiday movies this season.
Except one.
A Charlie Brown Christmas, which we never got around to.
Destination TV when the kids were younger, though.
I mean, Linus droppin’ the mic at the end?
Puts a lump in my throat every time.
It was only this year that I was made aware of something I’d never noticed in all my previous watchings.
He drops the blanket, too.
In the climactic “Light’s, please” scene, right before he says, “Fear not …” Linus drops his blanket.
All those years I watched it, I never noticed it.
When a friend mentioned it to me, I got chills.
A sermon hidden in plain sight.
Looked it up online.
Yep.
Apparently, the Internet’s known about this for some time.
I asked my family if they were aware.
Nope.
Once I became aware, though, I couldn’t stop geeking out about it, asking friends. Sharing with those, who like me, were uninitiated.
Immediately thought of my high school buddy, Bob, an animator, who grew up a connoisseur of comics and cartoons.
I shot him a note … said I assumed he knew about this, but I couldn’t risk him not knowing.
He, of course, knew about the scene.
Shared the wisest reply.
“I did know about the dropped blanket thing, but I never really attached any significance to it.
“I always looked at it from an animation perspective, where I think Linus does a lot of arm gesturing during that scene and instead of animating a blanket moving around wildly with his arms, they just had him drop it and then pick it up again when he was done talking. I think the reason I thought that was because when Charlie Brown is talking to him right before Linus goes off, Charlie Brown drops his coat right before talking with his hands. Again, I assumed that was for animation purposes.”
Brilliant insight, which Bob’s always been good for.
At first his reply hit me like a splash of cold water.
“A Charlie Brown Christmas.” (Peanuts Worldwide)
So … a practical animation choice.
No sermon intended.
Nothing to see here.
Hmm.
But just because Charles Schulz may have been more interested in easing his animating burden doesn’t mean there’s not a sermon to be found.
Just because something isn’t true, or as intended, doesn’t mean it can’t be meaningful.
Otherwise myths wouldn’t exist.
Or religions, some might say.
We live in a world that would rather know how the trick is done than believe in magic.
Not me.
I’d rather be (open to being) awed.
I’ve learned to keep my antenna up for magic and meaning … even where it’s not supposed to exist.
Who says a perfect sermon can’t be found in a practical choice?
Even Bob in his wisdom agrees.
“But I guess in the big picture, it’s a much better story and makes more sense to say that Linus didn’t need security during that moment.”
We can let the blanket drop … without letting it get wet.
__
Sitting in my usual seat at my favorite coffee shop where I’m typing this, I watched an older woman, bundled head to toe for the cold, walk in to warm herself for a few minutes before catching her Saturday morning bus.
As she was trudging back to the door with 12 warm ounces in her hand, already bracing for the cold on the other side, a familiar downtown face came in, and seeing her, stepped to the side, and with his right arm, backhanded the door open for her.
Not the biggest fellow, he had to bend over a bit to muster the strength to brace the door open with just his one arm.
But from where I sat, his forced hunch read as a bow, imbuing his humble act with an added reverence.
Allowing the older woman catching her bus to pass through the door regal as a queen, nobly enrobed in her winter coat, her toboggan pulled tight like a crown.
She nodded thanks to him as she exited.
As if to a loyal subject.
It was a scene that neither would likely think of ever again.
She, a bus to catch.
He, cold hands to warm at the fireplace.
Me, a lump in my throat for the gift of bearing witness.
It was a scene I’m likely never to forget.
His bow. Her nod.
A sermon hidden in plain sight.
A sweet and simple reminder to be kind where we can to those we encounter along the way.
To humble ourselves to allow the strangers we meet to walk in dignity in an otherwise cold world.
If he’d have been holding a blanket in his right hand, he might have made the practical choice to drop it, too.
While waiting for Nicole to deliver the first of her always luminous — and my requisite two — Saturday morning cortados at the tiny, tender coffee shop on North Main (which you should totally visit), I was perusing the small packs of Commonplace Coffee for sale near the counter, whose blends are always intentionally dedicated (they have one inspired by WYEP — a sonic apothecary of Pittsburgh’s airwaves for the past 50 years — called ‘Morning Mixtape’ [swoon]). Commonplace Coffee is a tender haven in its own right nestled in Pittsburgh’s North Side (which you should totally visit).
Unbeknownst to me, on the back of every one of Commonplace’s coffee packs is a Walt Whitman poem, evidently the inspiration for their name.
Stumbling upon such treasure was as much medicine for my morning as Nicole’s perfect cortados.
And too good not to share with kindred spirits.
Here’s to waiting / to find Whitman waiting patiently / scribbled on the back of packs / whispering across centuries / reaching like seashells washed ashore / for humble travelers bowing their heads / searching for a little light / to lighten their loads
Got up yesterday morning feeling … untethered. Outside, the sun was coming up on an unseasonably warm November day. The kind of sunshine we almost don’t deserve. I was feeling the heaviness of everything.
All the noise would soon be coming to its unnatural conclusion. I’d just poured my ritual 10 Tuesday ounces into my Thermos, but my cup still felt empty.
So I got in my car and drove towards the small coffee shop on North Main Street. The one where I like to write my daughter postcards on Saturdays. It’s quiet. One room. Handful of tables, small counter on which is perched a little clear case with baked goodies made by Nicole, one of the kind staff there. Reliably chill playlist.
I didn’t need a coffee. Just some humanity.
So, halfway up Main Street, I peeled off into the drive through at the bank. Got some cash from the machine. Humble pebbles for the scale, I told myself.
Got to the coffee shop right as it opened at 8. Parked across the street, and followed a woman in the front door. She was friends with the barrista on duty, and they dove right into easy conversation. Denise, the barrista, paused their conversation to wait on me. I ordered my cortado, paying with my Darth Vadar credit card. Added a small tip.
After placing my order, I asked Denise if they still did Pay It Forward. She nodded. I handed over what I’d withdrawn from the machine.
She thanked me, and I took a seat by the counter while she prepared my to go order.
When in walked a middle aged man in a ballcap. Kinda scruffy. Came in chatty.
Asked Denise, “What’s the strongest coffee you have?” He went on to say that he’d been nine years sober, mentioning the exact number of months and days for good measure. “So coffee’s a very important thing in my life.”
After Denise informed him of the dark roast of the day, he asked what sizes they had.
“How much is in a large?” he asked. Twenty ounces, she replied.
He asked her how much refills were. They’re free, Denise said.
From my chair I apprehended that maybe he didn’t have much on him. Probably didn’t have anywhere in particular to be. Interested in how far and for how long his dollars might stretch.
The stories we tell ourselves about the world around us.
He ordered his 20 ounces, asked her what he owed.
She told him not to worry about it.
“I’m sorry?” he said.
I tensed up a bit. I didn’t want to be around to watch anything.
I just came in to put a few pebbles on the scale and be on my way.
“It’s taken care of,” was all she said.
I exhaled.
“Wow,” he said. “Really? Um, thank you.”
He paused a beat.
“When I came in, I could tell that you had a really kind face.”
I smiled from my chair, because I think I said those exact words to Denise the last time I was in. It occurred to me that was also the day I dropped off my mail-in ballot at the county’s voter registration office.
I needed some humanity that day, too. Denise’s gesture unlocked his.
“You know, I was always a big egomaniac. I hurt a lot of people with my ego. But one of the biggest things they teach you is humility.
“A big part of learning humility is that receiving kindness is just as important as giving kindness. It’s not easy … but I’ve learned how to receive kindness.”
He asked Denise her name so he could thank her by it. Gave his in return.
Strong coffee in hand, he started to make his way to a table. Then he paused.
What he did next … I will never forget.
He turned back to Denise.
“Now I’m going to just have to find someone to pay your kindness forward,” he said.
He sees me sitting in my chair.
I met his gaze just in time to see his eyes alight.
“Can I buy you a coffee?” he asked me.
The best sermons are the ones you don’t see coming.
I thanked him profusely for giving me what I woke up needing from the world. What I’d hoped to find driving up Main Street not needing a coffee.
The way it came out was, “Already got one on the way. But, next time I see you, maybe we can have one together.”
He asked me my name. Gave his in return.
“God bless you, Pete,” he said.
“Backacha,” was all the lump in my throat would allow.
Pebbles on the scale.
Denise parked my cortado on the counter. I got up from my chair and met her at the register.
Exchanged fist bumps, and received the warmest smile from her kind face.
The kind of sunshine we most certainly deserve.
There are saints all around us. Most are hidden in plain sight. Sometimes they don’t look like you or me.
We need to humble ourselves to see them.
So we can receive their kindness.
So that when our own cups are empty, we can be reminded that refills are free.
Slept in this morning, which never happens. When it does though, it leaves me in a fog. Operating system has like a half second lag to it. Takes me a bit, but I manage to get the majority of my shit together and out the door.
On an inspired whim I drive uptown to pop into Table for an espresso. Haven’t been in a while. Always good vibes to be had there. Park across the street and look left for traffic before crossing. Outta the corner of my eye, though, I spy a car parked in front of Joe’s Bakery. It’s pushing 9:30, which as any Saturday sinner will tell you, is pushing it for Joe’s.
On my morning’s second whim, I reroute and take the catty corner of Main and Chestnut, catch the Open sign still hanging on the door. Walk in and look left. See one lonely sugar donut in the case, waiting for me. Joe’s at the register finishing with a coupla customers before he walks over.
“I’ll take your last sugar donut.”
“There’s a cinnamon twist left, too if you want that,” he says, gesturing to the other end of the tray.
I’m not so foggy to understand that this is not a multiple choice question.
Ask him to throw in a sugar twist so the three of us are covered.
“Just put $3 on the counter,” he says. “You’re my last customer.”
An honor and a blessing, I say, knowing that under the wire is more than any of us deserve.
As he hands me the bag, he says, “Best donuts in town you got right there.”
… leaving me no choice but to say, “Amen.”
“When you see good, praise it,” Alex Haley once wrote, though I imagine he wasn’t thinking of donuts at the time.
Or, you know, maybe he was.
By the time the bells on the door finish jingling behind me, I am convinced that I just might be their corresponding angel. Walking to the corner I see that the new deli that just opened is open. Whereupon I invest the morning’s third whim.
Order a $2 coffee and take a seat at the long counter by the window overlooking Chestnut that, turns out, was made for writing Saturday morning postcards.
I write to tell her how I am rolling sevens, as my tall cup slowly burns off the fog,
After addressing the envelope, “Kindly deliver to ….” which is also the invisible note that I pinned to my shirt when I left the house, I cross the street and finally make it to Table.
Sit down with my cortado and crack open Jack Gilbert so he can further melt my morning.
And say thank you to and for the lag in my operating system.
Letters for Maggie 