Coffee in the morning

When I was a little girl, I used to wake up to the scent of coffee brewing in the kitchen. The scent of the Folgers wafting up the stairs to my attic room would rouse me from sleep. I tasted it a couple times and swore I would never drink the sludge, but I missed it when Dad gave up coffee in my teens.

It never tasted the way it smelled, but I did start drinking coffee.

This week has been really hard to struggle through. I've had more tough moments in the last 7 days that I'd had in the previous 2 years - and that's saying something. But here I am, awake early on the 4th of July, feeling like I shed the web of anxiety and fear that had crushed me so mightily on Wednesday and wouldn't go away, no matter what I did. Until I listened to the two people in my world and let everything else fall off the radar except taking care of myself.

I saw friends. I had coffee. I talked about hard stuff, forgave myself for disappointing people and just spent time remembering to breathe. I took a shower at 11:00 last night and it seemed to wash off the last of my anxiety. I slept well, woke early enough to say good night to my daughter (OK, it was 6am and she was just heading to bed - but that's another story for another day) and even snuck in another hour of sleep.

Today will be a day for the camera. I recently made my way through a cemetery taking photos and found that an old, intriguing idea has resurfaced. I want to create a whole book of photos of doors and doorways. Portland is full of beautiful entryways and I plan to work diligently to memorialize all the interesting ones I can find.

And the smell of coffee on my nightstand as I write this reminds me that I can make it through anything. I made it through a difficult childhood, bumpy spots on the road that is my life, and I find today, with wonderful friends in Portland and across the country (offering me poetry about watery mist and pizza under the covers) that I am the luckiest girl in the world. Still.