Coffee with Mike.

Last night was my night off.

I'm a full-time mom of two spirited unschoolers and sometimes my job is downright exhausting, so my husband gives me the right to a night off once in awhile.

It's always a little guilt-ridden and a little gleeful all at once. 

Last night I went to Barnes and Noble and spent far too much money on stuff for me and stuff for the kids.  I stayed until the store closed at 10PM.  On my way in I'd missed the store entrance at first and I drove mistakenly down the road a few blocks.  As I was driving where I shouldn't have been driving, I noticed a coffeehouse and told myself I'd like to hit that up if it was still open after my book binge.

And so it was.

The hours posted on the digital sign read: 6:30 AM - Midnight.  My kind of coffeehouse.

My plan was to grab something decaffeinated so I wouldn't keep myself up all night and then sit at a table all by myself and read.  This activity would be something like I imagine heaven will be, I thought, and went up to the counter.

 They had one fairly traded brew, but it was only available with caffeine.  This was a little disappointing, since I back fair trade as much as possible, so I made the sacrifice (I say this as though there aren't little children starving in Columbia and Uganda because of coffee that isn't fairly traded) and got the caffeine.  I asked for a for-here cup and took my seat after my order came up.

The place was practically empty.  I had my choice of any sort of table, and I chose one with four chairs and short legs and sat down to work with my reading and my joe.  Behind me was a man waiting for his date.  She'd given him a long order that made the cashier laugh in a text message, but she assured the man it was possible, and he breathed a sigh of relief.  This date was important.

In front of me were two men at separate tables, each busy with their laptops.  Each oblivious to anyone else in the room.

To my left, about three tables away, sitting alone at a booth meant for several people, was a man in his early to mid-twenties, surrounded by a bookbag, coffee cup, saucer, iPhone, laptop, and headphones.  He was mostly staring at the wall in front of him.

I thought I was in for a quiet night.

I smiled as the man's date arrived and they exchanged pleasantries and I eavesdropped a little while they chatted about her day and her work-out at the gym, and then I focused on my own things.

The coffee was great.

And then, suddenly, the silence was broken:

"People here are mean.  They're like cactuses, don't you think?  Like burrs."  The voice was loud, nervous, tenor...  I put down my reading and looked around - what?...

"I mean they're mean, right?  Sorry...  you're not from here, are you?"  It was the man surrounded by his paraphernalia.  The one who had been staring at the wall.  He sounded a bit maniacal: talking fast, looking angry, ravaging his fingernails with his front teeth.

"Oh, me?  No, I'm not from here."

"Oh.  Well I just think the people are so intolerant, so unfriendly, don't you?  Do you get that impression?"  I glanced around nervously - I assumed most people in the place were from around here and I was certain everyone in the room could hear him loud and clear.

"I don't know.  I haven't had any problems."

"Oh.  Sorry.  I don't mean to assume things."

"It's okay.  No worries."  I went back to my reading.

"I'm gay."

I put my things down again.  I sipped my coffee.

"It's hard?"  I asked.  I reached back into my listening class days: Sanford Meisner on acting - listening.  Your partner is your life's blood.  Listen, and repeat.

"Yeah, it's hard.  It's hard here."

"You're not from here?"

"No.  I'm from Florida."  His speech was slowing a little.  He wasn't so nervous.  I wasn't so scared of him.

"Oh.  It's better there?"

"Yeah.  A lot better.  I mean - the guys here won't even talk to you.  The women - everyone is just mean.  My mom moved here from Florida and I had to come with her."

Part of me wanted to run.  To drain the coffee, get up, and get out.  I could feel the couple behind me staring at the back of my neck.  Waiting.

I drained the coffee.  I packed up my stuff.

"Sorry.  Sorry to bother you.  I don't mean to assume anything.  I mean, I don't think you're gay or anything, I just..."

I slung my backpack over my shoulder and returned the cup to the counter, then went over to Mike's table.

I put my hand out toward his chest.

"I'm Missy."  I said.

He stared at my hand for a moment, then took it in his.  His entire body relaxed into his seat.

"Mike.  Sorry to bother you...  I didn't mean to interrupt your coffee..."

"No, it's totally fine.  Why are you here with your mom?"

Mike and I talked for a long time.

He'd been living in Europe for the past three years out of a backpack.  He'd left the states after college and gone backpacking in Europe with nothing but clothes and a calling card.  He'd lived off of the kindness of strangers.  He'd met amazing people and heard their stories.  The shock of coming back to the U.S. where picking up a hitchhiker was a death wish was getting to him.  He hated having to use a car to get everywhere...  to get anywhere.  And the judgement was the hardest part.  People finding out he was gay, and deciding he wasn't worth their time.... or worse...that he was.

"I need to get out of here.  Maybe go to Vermont or something.  I heard it's better.  Up in New England."  I nodded.  I wasn't really sure about anything, but I thought there ought to be hope for Mike somewhere.  If not here.

I shook his hand again before I left.

He told me good luck in my travels.  I smiled and wished him the same.

I asked him how he was going to get out of here - get a job elsewhere?  What would he do?

"I'll just grab my backpack and go," he said.

I nodded.  You do what you know.

Inspired Monday...wait...

I made it!  I am actually writing an Inspiration Monday blog on Monday!

It is also No Make-up Monday.  Which, for those of you who don't know, is a day to just not wear make-up, and see what happens.  Will anyone notice?  (If you don't usually wear make-up anyway, then this isn't so much fun for you...sorry about that.)

Okay.  SO.  Inspiration Monday!  Here I am!

I had the greatest weekend of all time.

I know.  It sounds exaggerated.

But it is not.

So here are all of the weekend happenings that are still inspiring me today!

1.  My husband and I went to a local coffee shop for a date night on Friday.  It was so nice to be together and talk without interruption.  We stayed for 2.5 hours and it felt like twenty minutes. We haven't had a real date in months.  We MUST do it more often.

2.  I went to a Women's Wellness clinic at my church on Saturday morning.  It wasn't really a lot of new information, but it was really good for me to hear AGAIN that it is really good to take time for yourself.  It isn't selfish if it makes you a better person when you come back to your family and friends.

3.  Sunday.  I went to Vinyasa Flow Yoga.  It was fantastic and wonderful and amazing.  It was my second "flow" class, and it was just as great as the first one, maybe even better, because I knew what to expect and my body was much more cooperative.  I'm having trouble walking now...but it's worth it!

4.  My husband took the kids to the local Earth Day Celebration after my yoga class.  I hung out at the new Arts Center in town to hand out fliers for the acting class I'll be teaching this summer.  It's a Movement Class - always therapeutic, fun, and useful.

5.  We went out for Mexican as a family after the Earth Day Celebration.  I love going out to eat.  And I love hanging with the fam.

6.  We had an amazing service at The Refinery Sunday evening.  We sang hymns without instruments and had a brief Tenebrae Service and our pastor taught about the crucifixion.  I was wowed to hear about the dual meaning of some of Jesus's final words from the cross.  When he cried out "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" he was referencing Psalm 22.  In Hebrew culture at the time, most everyone had the scriptures memorized.  When a rabbi wanted to reference a specific passage, he would call out the first line of the passage, and everyone would automatically know to what he was referring.  Jesus was doing this from the cross.

It was also interesting to really think about how tall the cross was, and how close indeed people were to the face of Christ as he was hanging there.  Since the cross was only about eight feet tall, and the head of a crucified person would be hanging far below his arms, Jesus would have been able to look into the faces of those at the crucifixion, including his mother.

7.  After The Refinery my husband and I discussed the possibility of me acquiring one of the studios at the arts center to do my art, writing, and teaching.  I was so excited I didn't but about three hours Sunday night.  I've since realized that I will probably be unable to commit the hours required of the artists to be in their studios, but it was a lovely thought, and something I will be keeping in the back of my mind for the future.

8.  ...whoa...I just realized...today is Tuesday...did I miss all of yesterday?  No, no...I taught an acting class last night and we did the farmer's market and went to the local organic market and got some local honey and organic lollypops and medicinal tea for my son's asthma.  Yesterday was fantastic and I didn't even realize it happened!

Energy giving activities - doing things about which we are passionate, that get us jazzed - when we do these things on a regular basis, even sleep becomes optional.  Today is one of those days where I quite simply love my life.

Caffeine has always been my muse.

Today is one of those days where I feel like I wish to feel all the time. It's strange because my most creative self is a little on the depressed side, but not to the point where all of life feels like a movie and I can hear the soundtrack blaring as I walk down the sidewalk in the rain and my heart feels like an empty shell in the middle of a prison and I'm surrounded by thick fog and my senses are dulled to nothingness... No. This depression is just the edges - the twinkling of the twilight, the fading of the sun giving way to the stars, the pink at the top of the silhouetted mountain...

I feel this way in the spring pretty much all of the time. There are days when I sink lower, let the fog surround me and pull me under until I'm struggling to the surface, gasping for breath, and then I let myself swallow the water and sink slowly, sullenly to the bottom, but today was not one of those days.

Today was a creative self day. Today poetry poured from my fingers like Greek columns and cappuccino steam and ebony braids down the back of an Asian beauty. Today my mind was my writer's mind, my photographer's mind, my actor, my painter - I saw muses all around me and my heart was full and overflowing with love for beauty and God's creation.

The morning was chilly and raining. My favorite sort of weather. I dream of moving to Seattle sometimes so that I can have rain most every day, covering the grass and flowers, turning everything a more radiant shade of green. Thunder rumbled over the normalcy of jet planes and military helicopters. The sun of the afternoon cast a brief shadow on my day just before I headed to rehearsal. Yes. Read-through. Read-through for that play: Butterfly.

I confess that when I admittedly skimmed it after downloading it and printing it on the government's tab I found myself disappointed. I had expected the characters to leap off of the page and perform for me right there in my kitchen. When they merely sat and looked at me and didn't dance I was dismayed. Was I putting myself on the line for nothing? Doing this piece that my parents would surely dismiss as rubbish on a whim? Were they right?

But then at read-through...

It was in the library. One of my favorite places on the planet. The smell of books, the steam of coffee, the ticking of eager brains hunched ravenous over papers, notes, blackberries, and books... pure human energy and beauty. It's almost as good as the art museum in Philly - I would move there if I could - but I digress.

After logistics discussions, we read the play.

This time they danced. A magnificent ballet of colors and light. At the end everyone was crying but Trish (the writer) and me. I looked up expecting actors who were now finished reading and saw human beings with tears streaming down their faces. I thought I'd missed something and then realized that my character was dead and couldn't feel anything. Senses dulled. Eyes closed. The end of him.

The play was previously performed in San Francisco. Trish has had plays performed Off-Off Broadway in New York. I wish if she moved back she would take me with her. Maybe that's where we should move, after all.

After rehearsal I was supposed to take Jonah to a movie.

We went, but the sound was so loud he began to cry. He's highly gifted and hightly sensitive to auditory stimulation. I don't say that to brag. I say it to state a simple fact of my family's young life. He cried. We left.

I took him to the coffee house in San Souci. We had tea and vanilla chai and a bag of Utz plain potato chips and discussed the making and growing of coffee beans, the fashion sense of the college females at the table before us, and why they would hang mirrors on the walls too high for anyone to see their reflection.

Now I am home. It felt good to walk here in the cool wind, to feel it on my scalp: a new sensation. To hear my son tell me he wanted to go back to the coffeehouse again, "Mommy, I like coffeehouses."