I was 21 years old, washing windows full time and having to get up early to bust my ass in order to keep pace with my super-athlete boss, when I first acquired the taste for coffee.
Occasionally, entrenched in the woes of the daily grind, the crew stopped at Starbucks. The boss, an experienced caffeine doper, encouraged me to try a bit. He was paying afterall, so I was happy to oblige him. I didn't like the taste at first but it wasn't anything that ample amounts of cream, refined sugar, powdered vanilla, honey and a sturdy stir stik couldn't fix. In a short time I began to notice that things were not the same. I was not the same. I noticed a new mental rigor and physical quickness immediately following the S-bux visits. Best part was, it started to manifest in the job I was doing as well. I went from 30 surfaces washed per hour to 40, sometimes more.
You must understand, a development such as this was a big deal for me. Say you are leaving the classroom having just finished a test. I am that only guy still sitting in his chair pleading with the teacher to allow him just 5 more minutes, because, despite the two hours allowed, I could only manage 7 out of 15 answers.
The new sense of urgency that I received from coffee came as a sweet relief from an ever-present and life long inadequacy. It was as though the very command of time suddenly dropped into my skill-set. For the first time, a little control of my own destiny was possible. I was sure of it, no longer would I remain a victim of time. I could finish my task with a moment to spare. My mind finally worked like the other's. I could compete.
The boss-man, started to notice. I remember several times overhearing him describe to others the metamorphasis that came over me while on coffee. It wasn't long until he was doubling his usual morning brew just to make sure I could get my fill before we left for the workday. At that point, it was a performance enhancing drug, nothing more. Weekends; I didnt touch the stuff.
A few years ago, quite by mistake, I popped in an old home video. There on the screen was little 7 year old Henry. Having just learned to ride a bike, I was coasting toward the edge of the cul-de-sac. Suddenly, 35,000 feet overhead, barely making the faintest noise, a jetliner pours a con-trail over the cold fall sky. Everyone else continues with what they are doing, uninterested in what loomed above. But little Henry, still on the bike, has got his face to the sky, neck craning to take in the view, totally honed into a reality non-essential to what he is currently doing. Dad/the cameraman, with a quick camera movement towards the sky, pans in to see what he's looking at. Simultaneously, Dad yells, "Henry, make sure to watch what your doing." Dad pans back down; mini-Henry is on the ground, bike at his side, crying.
It is this scenario that epitomizes my continual struggle with distraction. After watching this scene unfold, it hit me, "Man, I had this problem even then." It is this distraction, this reason for why I forget my keys, why I can't tell a story and drive at the same time, why I set my wallet down and five minutes later I am sure it has ceased to exist in this universe. It is this constant frustration with myself, that caffeine alleviates. As soon as the java permeates the cells I feel whole again, I have control, I can focus to the degree that my ambition demands.
Nowadays, after several bouts of heroine-like addiction, caffeine has since poked it's fingers into more areas of my life than athletic performance. Over the years I have become keenly aware of its effects on my academic focus, my sense of spiritual connection, and even my overall outlook on life. It is my liquid optimism. At my command, the drug holds my mind's muse at gun point, squeezing out moments of splendid epiphany and elation. The world, through a new lens, becomes crisp and full of divine order. On a rainy day, I fear, I even treat my coffee with respect, regarding the cup as sacred. I fill the mug with hot water so as to pre-warm it's future habitat, ensuring a piping hot fill for the duration of my sipping pleasure. Milk, cream, refined sugar; I cast them all aside, refusing to pollute it's purity. Perhaps, I add a single drop, maybe two, of organic agave nectar, just to pull out any hidden flavor. Waking early for a morning brew may be the closest I come to ancient ritual.
And yet, I am unable to fully embrace it. The truth, uncomfortable, relentless, and annoying as shit, nudges me to tear down any treaty that cooperates with caffeine as anything more than a temporary ally. At least 4 mornings a week I tell myself, "No, no coffee this morning, you've already had 2 cups this week". To put it simply, I am increasingly less able to endure the doubt that the potion inserts into my victories.
Sure, after a caffeine induced fit of activity, I may reflect and rejoice, "I maintained long hours of focus on the job; therefore I can see that I am made this way. It was hard, but clearly I do have some integrity." Or, "I completed the task on time; finally, I have obtained discipline." Or in a moment of inspiration I may want to say "This song is good, and that conversation was a huge breakthrough.... and this bit of beauty here, and this bit of beauty there; they definitely moved me." But under caffeine's direction I can't really shelter those feelings. I find myself asking, "Can I really trust my instinct, that these conclusions are somehow related? That there is so much more at work here? Can I really connect the dots? Can I really say that these thoughts are more than just happenstance? Can I really rest, comforted that perhaps The Maker is present in my life, in this same space, in this same time? Or is it just the caffeine that implores me to make these connections?"
I may hate drowsy-uninspired-living, but much more, I hate vibrant-inspired-living haunted by the suspicion that it is all just the result of chemicals in the bloodstream. Reluctantly, I must give in, I must surrender to the simple truth that there is no shortcut to inspiration, nor to the development of ones character. If I am to be a man of substance, then The Old Ways: patience, living in the tension, walking a line, refusing the temptation to do something less than your best...... these paths, as pure as a foreign landscape, are the only real options that He provides for progress.
