Coffee and a Leather Laptop Briefcase

It was a fair distance to the coffee shop from his house, yet Michael did it every day with briefcase in hand. Having recently moved to the area the walk was still a novelty, yet the novelty was becoming habit. He knew each turn in the streets that appeared before him though there was always something new to see. City life was never static. The landscape never changed yet there was never any stagnation. That is why he liked it. That is why he had come back to it. The sounds of movement and transition were inspiring to someone who felt that his life had been on hold for so long. He had moved here to find inspiration and found it within the city walls itself. The columns and the high domes spoke of lofty ideas made manifest and aspirations made physical for all too see.

And so Michael arrived at the coffee shop, placed his briefcase on a table by the window and went to order his drink. He had been trying to give up coffee for years, yet that first sip of a warm, creamy latte would always infuse his very essence with warmth and comfort.

"There are much worse vices" he thought to himself and as predicted, ordered his drink.

Sitting at the table by the window he would always stop for a moment and take everything in. The sounds of the cappuccino machine and the pleasant drone of conversation and the music that was playing overhead yet slightly behind him. It was as if the music always came from wandering troubadours standing over him narrating his time at the coffee shop and performing the soundtrack to his day.

So after a brief but timeless moment he would take his first sip of coffee and then open up his laptop to begin his day of checking emails and writing articles. The view was always the same. Through the looking glass the outside tables extended to the footbridge lined with marigolds and ivy forging a path through the cement river and taking the pedestrians across to the square where they could expand and stretch before they followed the narrower streets and alley ways.

He never knew why but the music always matched the way the people would walk. No matter what the song or the rhythm or even the tempo, it was as if the music was following the footsteps and watching for a change of pace. Or perhaps the people could hear the music and in unison would match the rhythm. Either way it was uncanny.

Michael never knew where inspiration came from. People watching, city noise, scraping knives on bleach white porcelain. Everything was a distraction so that he was no longer thinking of inspiration. That was when it would come and to quickly to see from where. When it did he would write. He would never stop to plan his works for when inspiration arrived he would just start typing and wait to see what his laptop would produce.

He wrote about his experiences, his points of view and the things that have happened to him. He wrote to release and to share his life changes with others. He had been to hell and back and had shaken hands with the devil himself. To survive all that and keep it all a secret would be to drift into an isolation of memories and shadows. He had discovered deep within himself a strength and a constant resource of motivation and energy. How could he not share it with the world.

Michael was ready for the second latte of the day and so rose and stretched and made his way to a counter. He noticed a business man carrying a tray in one hand with muffin on plate and a briefcase in the other. The man was waiting to collect his coffee.

"Would you like a hand?" asked Michael, knowing the trauma of balancing coffee, muffins and briefcases.

"Thanks" replied the man in a laughing tone. "I should be O.K. They really should have a tray rail here shouldn't they?"

"That would be a good idea" said Michael

The two together then waited for their coffees and returned to their tables. The content of the conversations that Michael had with strangers was never important. It was the connection that uplifted him. That sense of timelessness that accompanied random conversation mixed with just a little humour. He always wondered if the other person noticed that quality. Did it matter? It would be nice to know that the feeling of connection would also be carried on by the other participant. They could then experience it with someone else and so on and so on.

Michael had long given up the idea that the circumstances were the cause of those moments. It was never the moonlight on the lake as the boat floated by that brought about that sense of joining with everything. The objects in the landscape as well as the landscape itself were just props to allow the feeling to express itself in a familiar form. That meant you never had to go about recreating that "perfect moment" to get that joyous sense of communion. You just had to be open to it happening at any time and in any place.

The seconds turned to minutes and the minutes turned to hours. The music had looped around many times lapping him as if he was on a race track taking his time and enjoying the view. He had been productive today and was satisfied with his articles. The money was important but no longer the reason why. Michael above all wanted to create. He wanted to share and extend and reach out to others who had been in difficult circumstances and let them know "There is always another way. If I can do it then so can you."

His only frustration at the moment was finding his audience and having a way or a format so that he could share. From experience though he knew full well that the Universe would orchestrate the circumstances when the time was ready. Michael had given up manipulation along time ago. He was more than happy now to follow the stream from source to ocean.

He swallowed that last drop of coffee, stretched and started to pack his office away. He extended a friendly "thank you" to the staff, who were always lovely, and made his way home.

The journey to the coffee shop was always a plan for the day. What he wanted to accomplish, the goals and the possible subject matter to be put into written form. The journey back was always a summary of work done and events experienced.

Micheal was alive again. He was no longer working for a living. He was living for a living. The satisfaction came from what he was doing and the old motivations no longer had any hold over him. To be alive, truly alive meant to be true to yourself and to be this not in isolation but to invite those around you to partake in the joy and the mystery. Happiness in isolation was misery. A fake contentment based on not feeling as bad as you did yesterday. The happiness that Michael was now experiencing was based on sharing and communing and joining with everything around him. The city, the park, the car horn, the dog barking, the police siren, the stranger's glance, the nod of recognition, the scent of pine. When you join with one thing you join with all things and Michael knew this. He had known this for a long time. He had never lost it, just clouded it over with perception, judgement and self doubt.

Those days were over. Once you recognise yourself after falling so deep and so far you can never lose sight of who you are again. It was as if he needed to fall so that he could climb, meet himself and carry on as if nothing had happened. Yet something had happened.

Michael arrived at his door and placed the key in the lock. He stopped for a moment to take it all in before going inside.

"It's good to be home."