Sitting in a comfy faux leather padded bench, in a crowded coffee shop, while crowds of tired, morning joggers and weekend active wear wearing sloggers hold out their plastic to trade for caffeine.

A painter sits at the small table near me. With his beard and long hair in a disheveled pony tail, water colors and white sketchbook canvas. His mise en place of brushes and pencils and paints spread before him at a table for two, now only for him and his muse. Art and Coffee.

And as the baristas who run from registers to cabinets, from grinders to warming oven, who seem to be high on their own supply, who take orders and names, who bang portafilters over trash bins, who greet the multitudes who come to worship at this temple of java and pass on enlightenment in a cup, I sit and write my Morning Pages. Cold Brew at my side.

A dog. An owner. A Mother. A Father. A man staring off in the distance, contemplating the day while the steam from his cup rises and vanishes like thoughts. This place is a gathering of souls.

And as I notice the people, the faces, the Christmas music coming through the speakers in the ceiling and think how most of the best Christmas songs were written by Jewish composers, I am grateful. For my coffee. For this day. For the painter and the dog. The music and the ice. The child asking for another cookie and the sound of the paper printing a receipt. This dance. This show.

Now it’s time to get to the theater for the next one.


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