What I'd really love to do is wake up early on a morning for which I've pre-planned no obligatory meetings or chores. To linger between the stark white sheets, and scootch over to the cooler side of the bed. That is a clear feeling, cool sheets. Then I'd slide slowly off the bed that's just a little too high to touch the floor when I'm sitting on the edge of it. I'd pull on my red buffalo-plaid fuzzy robe and tie it halfway. I don't wear slippers anymore, but I'd like to, as soon as I find the perfect pair or finally decide to make them myself, complete with my own custom-designed monogram. Someday soon.
After blinking intentionally a few times and peering out the blinds to see if anyone else is up and at 'em yet, I would decide to make an Americano. The beans would have to have been ground the night before, because something requiring that much precision should be given adequate concentration, and that's not what mornings are for. I would put music on while the espresso brewed, something wordless and ethereal. I would consider just how brilliantly trivial making a morning cuppa is, and how it means everything at the same time.
Black gold strikes a common chord - someone else is drinking it right now: an inner-city high school teacher with a heavy heart, a widower in south Kansas, a recovering alcoholic in Boulder, a young married woman pining for something bigger than just another day in the rat race (she is all over the place). Then there are all those who are sleeping on the other side of the planet who will drink their coffee in a matter of hours - they speak other languages and pay with different currencies. Maybe they trade eggs for coffee beans, or they sweep the shop floor in exchange for a cupful. Some person, somewhere, is seeing their reflection inside some mug. It's fun to imagine the worlds that Coffee gets to experience on a daily basis. Such a lucky duck.
Regularly, I take my joe black (after an lengthy and arduous conversion process from light and sweet to dark and raw). But sometimes there is nothing better than stirring those velvet tendrils of cream and watching them gradually color the coffee. When the mixture is complete, I would sip. As soon as it's just bearably hot. I would sip with my eyes closed and let the coffee be the only influence allowed on my senses for just a little while. Slow. Pointed. Memory after memory rushing past my eyes as I attempt to calm my head long enough to get a grip on how I will embrace today, which will have memories of its own. So much potential.
Mornings are a subtle reminder of that: potential. Reveries, minimally lighted, in which the sun begins to rise defiantly, pouring through the window slats, and with silent affirmation says, "Today, we live! Aren't we avant-garde!"