Coffee Outside
Coffee Outside
Changing everyday routines and shifting our attention. The third installment of a weekly series of essays and writing prompts for finding connection and creativity during the month of February.
This is the third installment in a series of winter prompts to inspire creativity in the cold (or even not-so-cold). If you’re just finding us, here is the first installment and the second installment.
It’s a gray morning in February. Rain doesn’t fall, but it hangs in the air as if it’s not quite sure whether it’s coming or going. I guess that’s how this month kind of feels in general.
It’s not bitingly cold, but it’s not really weather in which you’d like to spend the entire day outside either. The Scottish term dreich comes to mind, meaning “dreary, cheerless, bleak” weather, but also applicable to other things that feel dull and monotonous. I wonder why we don’t have similar vocabulary in the Pacific Northwest to name this endless humid gray that hangs on for months, both in the weather and sometimes in our moods too. We certainly have other terms to employ, like “liquid sunshine” and “fake spring.”
Looking at the weather prognosis for the next weekend, it appears that fake spring might in fact be coming. While I never hold my breath for a weather prognosis too many days in advance, I wouldn’t be opposed to a few days where I could close my eyes and extend my face towards the sun.
The all-gray sky outside my window doesn’t feel particularly inspiring to get the day started. I decide there’s one thing that could pick this morning up: get out into it. This isn’t a matter of excitement or allure—it is after all much easier to stay inside. But winter upon winter in this part of the world has taught me that it’s easier to get through if I give in on occasion, instead of just resisting. To be physically in it, instead of just passing through.
I don my rain jacket and pull on a pair of wool socks, then put my feet into a pair of rubber-soled wool slippers. I take my coffee mug with the hand painted blue stripes and walk out the door.
On the way, I grab an old white towel to wipe down the Adirondack chair that sits on the deck. This piece of outdoor furniture came into my possession last winter when I found it floating in the water after a king tide and I awkwardly transported back home on my paddle board. For a moment there, I forgot about the reality of where I live and dreamed about all of the crisp, cold mornings where I would bundle up with a wool blanket and sit outside in my cozy perch for a few morning breaths. How quaint, how lovely!
A year later and it’s certainly more of a summer chair. Turns out that gray, cold, and wet mornings aren’t so motivating, even for those of us who know we need to rug up and get outside if we want a mood change. I use the towel to wipe off all the water so that I can sit down without getting soaked. Streaks of brown and green moss come off with the moisture, a true Pacific Northwest sheen.
I sit down, place my coffee cup on the wide arm of the chair. I take a moment to feel my way into my surroundings. The air feels cool, and when I move my arm to take a sip of coffee, the slightly stiff waterproof fabric of my rain jacket makes a rustling sound. There are a few drops of rain, enough to create an artistic look as they drop onto the words penned in my notebook.
A flicker flies overhead, and I wonder if it’s the one that I think has made a home in the rafters, sometimes sounding likes the bird is investing in major renovation projects. I haven’t found a feather in a while, but with their orange streaks, the discovery always feels like a gift. The sound, less so. Although I like to remind myself that the drumming that flickers do (which sounds a bit more like jack hammering) come spring is an audible love letter of sorts.
A lot of birds seem to be chirping and making calls this morning, and I wish that I was better at identifying them. Better at knowing them, understanding their language. What might it be like to be as responsive to the bird calls as we are with the sounds of our phone notifications?
I see an Anna’s hummingbird perched on a faraway tree. I marvel at how you can spot such a tiny organism off in the distance. There are some pine siskins too, which I happen to love because of their size. So much energy in such a small body. Much like a hummingbird I guess.
The beauty in this moment is in the contrast: bundled up, cold air, warm drink. I drink some more coffee, and realize I should have thought to put it in an insulated mug. As the coffee cools, the glorious moment of contrast gradually wears off.
But at least my attention has been drawn elsewhere for a bit. The morning feels different, I continue with my day.
Back in 2021, I partnered up with Alastair Humphreys for a monthly series called Coffee Adventures Outside. Essays and art devoted to bringing in a little sense of adventure into the everyday, breaking up a regular routine and using it as a catalyst to go about our day a little differently.
The challenge was simple: to take your coffee outside. Maybe on its own, or paired with another activity, or with a friend. As we wrote, this slight shift in habit might offer up “an espresso sip of mental space in which to allow difficulties some time to filter, sift and sort themselves, as well as the uplifting space to allow our creative ideas to unfurl and reveal themselves.”
That was a year that felt smaller in many ways. A time when we mostly kept to our backyards, when the promise of elsewhere wasn’t really on the table. I don’t miss the anxiety, or the stress, or the isolation of that time, but I do find myself missing the smallness, the slowness. The hyper-attention to what was happening in my immediate surroundings. Nowadays, so often my attention feels immediately pulled so far elsewhere, in so many scattered directions. I have to work at drawing it back in. Back to the morning gray, back to the bright green mossy branch, back to the rain, back to the snowdrops that bloomed early this year, back to the nettles, back to the heron, back to the cloud formations.
On a walk last week I found a dead bird right on the side of the road. So tiny, so vulnerable. She was right at the edge of the asphalt. I didn’t know what my response should be, but leaving her right there so close to the road where the cars pass at shockingly fast speeds didn’t feel right. I moved her further over into the thick bed of brown, aging maple and alder leaves that blankets the ground in the winter—a little nest in its own state of decomposition.
I don’t know exactly what finding that bird meant, but it certainly felt heavy. A physical reminder of the weight of things. Or maybe just a reminder of life cycles, of the beginnings and endings that are always taking place. As I walked home, I thought about what it means to pay attention. What it means to not just pass through, but to be in. Kind of like sitting outside on a wet, gray morning with a cup of coffee in hand.
I think that’s what shifting an everyday habit into a new place does for us: gives us the space to pause, to contemplate, creates a moment of the unexpected.
It might seem a silly, simplistic thing to take your daily cup of coffee outside. It is not a grand adventure, it is not an act that will solve the problems of the world. But it might cause you to change perspective, a shift in attention. It might encourage you to see and feel a little more.
-Anna
CREATIVE PROMPT
Every week this month we’re exploring a writing prompt in conjunction with Freeflow Institute, all dedicated to connecting to the the cold.
We tend to view adventure in grandiose ways—the draw of faraway expeditions and long journeys. But what’s on offer in our everyday lives? That’s what taking a cup of coffee outside does: it asks us to challenge our own habits, and hopefully, carve out a little sense of adventure in even our most everyday routines. A little spark of magic in the midst of the well-known.
If you’re feeling up to it, when you take your coffee outside this week, take your notebook too and explore these prompts:
In a place you know well, how do you maintain a sense of curiosity?
Where do you find your everyday moments of wonder?
What comes alive when you take a routine from inside to outside?
UPCOMING WORKSHOPS
February 29, 2024: Papercut Lettering, 5-7pm PT [VIRTUAL]
I've taught this workshop a couple of times and it's always fun. Come learn how to incorporate lettering into a papercut piece. We will work on experimenting with creating different lettering styles and cover how to transfer text onto paper so that it can easily be cut. Register here.
March 9, 2024: Exploring Positive and Negative Space, 11am-12:30pm PT [VIRTUAL]
In a world of color, we often forget to pay attention to one of the simplest ways to create visuals: positive and negative space. As a papercut artist, positive and negative space is my main tool, and it has changed how I see and interpret the world around me. In this workshop with Case for Making we’ll engage in an exploration of shapes and space, and challenge ourselves to think outside of our usual ways of seeing. Register here.
March 19, 2024: Spring Papercutting, 5-7pm PT [VIRTUAL]
Come learn the basics of papercutting by taking inspiration from the season. We'll cover the fundamentals of papercutting, and work on creating our own spring-inspired designs while building up papercutting skills. Trilliums, ferns, and dandelions galore! Register here.
JUNE CREATIVITY RETREAT
I am excited about my creative retreat June 6-9, 2024 hosted with fellow artist Sarah Uhl at the beautiful Maple Grove Hot Springs in Idaho. There are still a few spots left, in particular, a couple of shared units in the stone shelters. We’re doing a special offer through February 28th: book a stone shelter with a friend, and save $100 off your registration/per person. Use the code BUDDYSYSTEM at checkout.
SUPPORT
Essays and prompts like these are made possible by paid subscribers. I am working on another special seasonal offering for paid subscribers to come next month, and if you like this newsletter I’d be thrilled if you want to support.
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I felt very inspired by this- got up, made coffee, dog and I went outside. The world was full of birds and, just like magic, a big, beautiful flicker flew down out of the tree and perched himself a few pieces away and looked at me right in the eye for a while. Of course.
This is such a beautiful essay. A few years ago (I think) one of your Advent pieces was about stepping outside during dawn and dusk and I have really taken that practice with me and it has been a gift. My kids and I did take a lot of "inside" activities outdoors during the pandemic. We built a picnic table from a kit and would read, eat lunch, draw, anything at that table and it remains this very tangible memory of the pandemic. I also do try to have my coffee outside whenever possible.