A Coffee Moment

It’s sometimes just a moment.

Coming in from feeding the chickens and hunting for Japanese beetles and squash bugs, I catch the smell of coffee brewing.

For a moment, that aroma is everything.

I stop in my tracks, wrapped in something that stirs so many feelings I’m not sure I have names for. Mostly, though, it’s gratitude.

I’m grateful that I woke up this morning to my dogs nuzzling my arm.

I’m grateful that it might rain today—we really need it.

I’m grateful for the two garlic plants that somehow grew on their own, well away from the rest. I have no idea how they got there, or why they were ready to harvest before all the others. But pull them I did, and the bulbs were huge. It bodes well for the rest of my garlic this year.

Last year I didn’t harvest a single squash. I planted them on the far side of the house, imagining they’d happily climb the fence. Out of the reach of my daily watchfulness, they fell victim to squash bugs. Every plant died.

This year, I patrol twice a day, searching for bug eggs and hunting the bugs themselves. So far, I’m winning, though summer is still young.

Despite the current chaos in our country—and even in Maine politics, which until recently I thought was doing remarkably well—I find myself grateful.

Grateful for this place.

Grateful for this house.

Grateful for this moment.

Grateful to be alive.

Sometimes, all it takes is the smell of coffee to remind me.