Weight of the world on my shoulders
Cliche as it may sound
I'm feeling the brunt of these boulders
As they push me into the ground
Their gritty kind of exterior
Made of dirt and petrified wood
Grinds deeply into my skin
Hardly stand up with all I could
Where are my support beams
Gleaming in the sun
Leaning against a road sign
Full of holes from a gun
A painted secant on the avenue
Telling us not to go
As the tumble weeds gather
And wander to and fro
A wasteland full of nothing
Void of thought and wonderment
Is it a dream or a nightmare
That haunts with detriment
Awake with a sweatiness
Burning in your pillow
Your breath can finally slow
​After this fallowed night time sentiment

One of my favorite parts of the morning is my morning coffee ritual.

I start off with freshly roasted beans from Vermont Coffee Company, specifically their Dark Roast. Their Dark Roast has always been a favorite of mine as it offers a rich, roasted, dark, almost burnt chocolatey intensity but it has a pleasant aroma and taste that isn't harsh as sometimes can be typical with some of the other dark roast coffees I have tried.

When I first open the air tight canister of beans, it's magical. You know they are fresh when they have a nice sheen on them. This is a greasy bean house. You know it's good when they're greasy. After that initial silent moment just after opening the canister, I have a quick reflection on what's about to happen. I gently pour the beans, offering themselves up to me when it's their time, into my coffee grinder. If my wife happens to be around when I'm doing this I shout out a nonchalant "Noise!" and hit the button. Suddenly the beans are dancing with each other, becoming a finer version of their former self.

After the joyous chaos of bean grinding is complete I fill the kettle with water and get my French press ready for our little morning party. Up to the mark and it's time to heat up the bath.

Amidst the heating of the water, it's time to measure out the heaping scoops. With my measuring spoon, I dive into the freshly ground goodness, filling my French press with just enough of the black gold dust.

Thirty-two ounces of water and six heaping spoonfuls is all it takes.  No more.  No less.  Perfection...

​Just coming off its boil, the water is ready to be poured, but I must wait. Thirty seconds to be exact. Slowly, in small circles I gently pour the hot water over the ground coffee beans, letting them breath as I go. Little bubbles come to the surface as I pour the scalding water, making sure to envelope every last bit of coffee in a warm embrace, up to the fill mark on my press. It's therapeutic watching something like this. The beans are going from solid form to liquid form. It's a satisfying feeling, taking a solid little bean and transforming it into something that gives off pure joy in the form of warmth, comfort and energy.

With a stir and the setting of a timer, I wait...

​I get slight hints of burnt chocolate and raspberry in the air while I wait for my coffee to brew, pondering what I'm going to accomplish today. I gather my mug and half 'n half awaiting the moment where I can push the plunger down into the dark abyss, separating liquid from solid, completing the metamorphosis from one thing to another. Bean to brew. Cold to warm. Asleep to awake. Half to whole. From apart to together again. The cycle continues...

...and then I pour my first mug.

Here is a short, little snippet from today's ​Morning Pages.

I'm constantly writing and sometimes little snippets like this appear and I oftentimes don't know where they belong.  I've struggled with finding ways to document them all and to keep track of them all...until now!  

​I've had this blog for what feels like ages now and honestly haven't done a lot to keep it going.  Now I'll be contributing to this more frequently.  I'd love to have you along for the ride.  Post your comments below.  I'd love to hear from you.

Peace,
​Brian

They grin.
They fly.
They scream.
They cry.
They whimper.
They grieve.
They sing.
They breath.

They go back and fix
The words they misspell
They sing to their heavens
For those that fell

They bring all their worries
To their churches with awe
They whisper to God
Their Buddha, their Krishna

They take all their worries
to the doctors with a sneeze
They lay down their swords
and fall to their knees

Who are they you ask
It's you, it's me
It's everyone here
It's this flower, this tree
It's the bee buzzing by
With pollen on her knees
The whisper in the wind
And the truth we all see

They grin.
They fly.
They scream.
They cry.
They whimper.
They grieve.
They sing.
They breath.

They sit down to pray
To shadow the ways
Those prior have taken
An oath and to say
Their intentions are near
All around 'em they sit
Stood up in the clear
To accept is it fit?

We grin.
We fly.
We scream.
We cry.
We whimper.
We grieve.
We sing.
We breath.
We grin.
We fly.
We scream.
We cry.
We whimper.
We grieve.
We sing.
We breath.