Posted January 7th, 2004 by Michelle

If you want to get to the heart of a town, spend some time in a local coffee shop. I do my writing in a little spot called the “Coffee Roastery” or something like that; looking around I can’t seem to find the name. (Unlike Starbucks, where I wouldn’t be surprised seeing the trademark on the coffee when it comes out the other end.) There are few other” writers in this town who take advantage of this perfect spot. A large part of my “writing is people-watching-the perfect distraction- and only once have I seen other laptops clacking away as I sat here pretending to write. Right now there is exactly two other folks taking part in this caffeine ritual, and they are a strange pair. One is about my age, tall and dashing in a long black coat and shiny, patent-leather shoes. The other could be his dad, and both of them are busy reading, not speaking a word. Ahh, we’ve just been joined by another- an aged cowboy with work boots and gallon hat. He’s just sat down to a bunch of paper files and a pencil. A pencil. When was the last time you saw someone with a pencil?

It’s the perfect place for writing, though. I always sit at the end of a long wooden table that easily sits 10, maybe because it reminds me of dinners at the farmhouse. Even when the place is full, which is rare, no one joins me here even though the table is big enough to suggest that it is not one person’s domain. The walls are almost entirely green corrugated steel windows, and the ceiling is high and sloped. The lights can’t compete with the sun, even on a cloudy day, and some cute teenager is almost always grinding coffee at the “bulk purchase” bar. There is a map of Africa by the women’s bathroom, with all of the great coffee regions labeled by name, and I have a habit of tracing Niger (just north of Nigeria, landlocked in the middle) and thinking about the fact that I could be there, right now. I will not stop thinking about that, not ever.

I’ve been struggling this week with my life. I know that seems banal and silly, since this is the struggle I’m constantly writing of, but it’s been pronounced lately. It feels as though I’m here for some grand reason, something beyond the charity and good will of my dad and Carole, beyond the spot I was in back in New York, but the reason is simply not clear. I’m not really happy, here, but to fair, I wasn’t happy back in New York. Yes, I pine for weekends at the farmhouse, for eggs in the morning with Sean, for time spent with Jordi as she dances and wiggles her hands in time to the music in her own head, for tea with Tessa, for pool with Ian, for time spent. It hurts me, drags at my heart to be separated from them, even if I didn’t see them that often. I pine for my friends, for Kellie and Hayley, for Allen, even for Christopher. But I do not pine for a job that will keep me down, for a life of fear, of constant worrying about money, of not being able to afford to take time off to see these people that I love. When I was there, all that mattered to me was space, and I sacrificed the better part of my life so I could live alone. I realize now what a mistake that was, for a number of reasons. I will isolate, given the opportunity, and I spent more time alone that last year in New York than any single thirtysomething girl ought to. I didn’t have enough money to take a weekend off to go up to the farm. I was in a rut that only got deeper and deeper.

I’m not entirely out of the rut, but the sides of the ditch have stopped rising. I feel that I might be close to starting to climb out. I have no money in the bank, but I’m not worried about rent. I’m not doing a job that is important to me, but neither does it sap my life force. I’m no closer to choosing a clear path for my life, but I sit down to do this every day, and that makes it better. I’m eating better, sleeping better, taking care of myself even though I’ve been sick as a dog. My battery is recharging, my heart is healing, and I’m getting ready. But for what?