It's a beautiful Northwest Saturday. I was plan-less for the morning, so after rising late and missing cafeteria brunch, I determined to walk to Starbucks for afternoon coffee and food. All of my normal walking buddies were either gone, not plan-less, or otherwise occupied, so I sojourned down 108
th alone. A heavy sprinkle of rain fell from the clouds, and, although not cold, increased in gravity as I progressed. I reached the Starbucks before the downfall became unpleasant. Ducking inside the shrine of espresso and joy, the lobby was decently occupied, with a short line at the register. I ordered my ideal beverage (
grande extra-hot nonfat triple
carmel latte), and a spinach wrap, and scanned the chairs for an available, yet desirable, seat. A woman with a yellow legal pad covered in writing rose from one of the twin lounge chairs by the fireplace and walked out, and I meandered over to where she had been, replacing her and trying to make it look as though I hadn't been hoping she would leave the space to my care.
I arranged my drink and food on the small, circular side table, and pulled
Through Painted Deserts from my bag. I had about four chapters left to read, and made it my goal to finish the book, in between long and short periods of people-watching. I find that I am fascinated by this activity, especially of the people in coffee shops. There were two old men to my right, sitting to the side of the fireplace, who had newspapers spread out on their knees and would periodically launch into discussions of the times based on the information on the pages. Behind me,
baristas shouted out drink titles: "
venti Americano", "
grande 120 degree vanilla latte", etc., and expectant customers went forward to claim their orders, each beverage a revealing statement of the person's preferences. The man with the triple tall latte either loves coffee, had a long night, or has a long day ahead of him. The woman who ordered three drinks, one of which was a hot chocolate, and another a
chai latte, had two little girls with her (they took the seats of the old men). The coffee shop lounge is an ever-rotating base of humanity. The two women chatting about life and love to my left were replaced by a young mother with a child in a stroller; the two-person tables were pushed together to accommodate the group of five adults and toddler who stayed for awhile to enjoy the coffee and to chat among themselves before moving on to some other activity.
I realize that the short time I spend in my chair before the fireplace makes no impression upon anything more infinite than the moment in which I spend there. When I leave, someone with their own story will replace me, and the people surrounding them will also change, and we all become part of the bigger weave of lives, sharing merely moments and knots in the greater thread of the universe. Perhaps I agree with Herodotus, that the only thing that never changes is change itself. Even if next week I sit in that same seat with the same order and the same book, and the same chill song plays over the lounge speakers, it will not be the same experience as the one I had today. The people around me will not be the same, in the same way that I myself will not be the same. You can never cross the same river twice, because everything is always changing.
I stayed there for about an hour,
texting occasionally, people-watching even more, and finishing up the last few pages of the book, a memoir perhaps you could call it, in it reading some of the deepest, most real thoughts about God I have ever encountered. It, along with the grey sky, warm flames, and wet sprinkle of rain, send me into pensiveness as I walked back to campus. I was thinking that walking home in the rain just lets you know how very much you are not in control; you can wish (but nothing more permanent) that the sky would be clear, because then the walk would be more comfortable. But more beautiful? Not necessarily. The two concepts are neither mutually inclusive, nor exclusive. You can have one without the other, just as often as they can go together. I guess it all depends on your definition of "comfort", but especially your definition of "beauty". Beauty can be in anything; in the yellow leaves swirling in the newly formed rain puddles, in the paper cup of the delicious triple latte warming my fingers, in the joy that flickers from the flames of the fire. These things are all comfortable as well, but beauty can also be seen in the raindrops dropping from the tree leaves onto my eyelashes, smearing the black makeup. This is not comfortable, but it is beautiful, as the rain paints water patterns down my cheeks, marking me for but a moment with its very nature. The silence that exists between passing vehicles is not
comfortable, but it is beautiful, because it forces me to recognize how much noise I clog my life with, unintentionally or otherwise (an uncomfortable thought). So, life is a mixture of beauty and comfort, and of learning to live with both, either, or neither, and of learning how to recognize the
presence and absence each. Most importantly, life is about learning how to live, and, as Socrates would say, to live well.
, even a few with makeshift sleds. It was so pretty, with the soft snowfall and silver laughter. Annie and I drove to Taco Bell afterwards, getting back to campus right as the snow starting falling really hard. We sat in her car, heater blasting, watching the snow fall and cover the tree branches through the car windows. 
, even a few with makeshift sleds. It was so pretty, with the soft snowfall and silver laughter. Annie and I drove to Taco Bell afterwards, getting back to campus right as the snow starting falling really hard. We sat in her car, heater blasting, watching the snow fall and cover the tree branches through the car windows. 
