Time for just one...

Many of us are "many people" in one. Many roles, many identities, many faces, many outfits, many voices, many jobs many many. But I've only been at it a year and I'm tired of not being one with my one, but instead many with my one. If I have one self, one life, one passage for air to and from my lungs that causes my chest and my flesh to rise and fall together, as one, then why do I find it so hard to convince my "manies" to unburden themselves and make room for myself? I went from a year ago being a busy-bee with a hand in every pot, a friend, wife, roommate, a community chef, a godmother, a researcher, an artist in a shared studio, a teacher, a tour guide, a tutor, a theologian-in-training and a midnight food hunter to now being a chicken farmer, a commuter, a "professional" in an office job, an in-law (read out), a wife without any time to see her husband, a used-to-be-theologian in training, a now-gardener-in-training; but the difference between these lists of manies is that the first list felt like one. The second feels scattered, helter-skelter about, with not an aim in sight.

When I sit, sit, not run out with a to-go cup in our oh-so-American way, when I truly sit, I am one. I am reminded of living alone in Paris, so many years ago, just sitting, being, watching the traffic of faces and of motorbikes. It was there that I came to love coffee. Not just coffee, actually, espresso. In fact, I didn't have an option, it came with the landlord. My landlord, William Para, was an Ecuadorian-Parisian photographer who rented me out his old photo studio. And with it came many mornings of thick, even muddy espressos when he'd stop by to grab a photo book on his motorbike. There was no saying no, just diligently heating the milk on the stove to accompany our dense, black stovetop percolation. Between my broken French and his accented tongue, we often missed one another. Morning espressos became a language of sharing, of sitting, of listening to the street and further down the Luxembourg gardens below.

I am reminded that it was with Mr. Para that I came to adore a good latte, and that having one signified more than just a drink, more than just a caffeine experience. It was in the act of sitting, of being one with oneself, that a good latte was enjoyed. Whether alone or with friends, life is experienced in each thick, frothy, creamy sip. A beautiful universe of white and brown swirls on the top only served to slow down the moment more.

And yet, again and again, because of the "manies" of each day, the many "things" to "do," the many roles to play, I rush in and rush out of Para, not taking time to sit and be. Shame, shame on me. I shall write Mr. Para and thank him for the reminder than his name will always provide me. And for the love he helped cultivate of a good latte.