Every morning in Kauai, whether it held a kayak trip up the Wailua River to swim in the pools of the Secret Falls, a pre-dawn hike up the ridges of the Sleeping Giant to see sunrise over the island, or watching green sea turtles congregating in the tumultuous surf at Queen’s Bath, Lee and I had a ritual.
Every morning, we sat down with a cup of coffee to listen to the world around us wake up: Kauai’s legion of red jungle fowl (aka roosters) crowing in the distance, the spotted doves, common mynahs, red-crested cardinals and myriad songbirds calling, singing and cooing in the trees, the trees shrugging off the last drips of the previous night’s rain.
We didn’t mean for it to become a ritual…it just was one.
Our days in Kauai were busy. Most mornings, we were up before dawn, determined to make the most of our ten days in paradise. (Actually, thanks to an airline snafu, we were there for eleven, but that was just an unexpected bonus). It was rare that we weren’t on the road, beach or trail before six, returning to our little timeshare well after sundown and just in time to shower, unpack and repack our hiking bags for the next day, and tumble into bed and fast asleep.
Sitting outside with our morning cup of coffee was both a chance to process the previous days’ adventure and plot the current one’s, a brief respite from the swirl of activity. More than that, it was a chance to anticipate the day to come. For ten or fifteen minutes, we just existed not in the moment, but sandwiched between the memories of the best day ever and the promise of the best day yet.
That’s what every moment should be, right? The perpetual crossroad between memory and promise?
Looking back, these morning moments were the most mundane part of the trip. They are also among the most precious.
In our daily lives, we just…rush…an awful lot. At least, I know I do. From the moment my alarm goes off, I’m just moving, either physically or mentally — off to the gym, then putting together my lunch, picking out and ironing something to wear, and all the autopilot routines of getting cleaned up, put together, and ready to head out the door to work.
I read my email. I check my calendar. I strategize and plan my day, running through my task list and to-do’s. I mentally arm myself for the workplace battles that may or may not come.
And that’s all before 8am.
There are quiet moments slipped in here and there — the half hour drive to work, the sitting down with a quick cup of coffee while catching up on social media, news, and cat videos.
But really, that time is not quiet quiet, save for the seven minutes I’m sometimes successful in blocking off to meditate.
And in the evenings, nothing really slows down. If Lee is home from work that day — and thanks to the weird scheduling and twelve-hour shifts of ICU nurses, that’s never a given — we have a bit of time to decompress before dinner. If he’s at work and it’s my turn to cook, there’s another whole level of busy as I occupy myself with not burning down our home. On those evenings, I’m even more…stressed…by the time he gets in between 8 and 9pm.
One thing we’ve learned through the course of over a decade together is the importance of connection, of talking, so rarely a night passes that we don’t find at least fifteen minutes to chat over a glass of wine or iced tea on the patio. There’s always a lot to catch up on — the latest office gossip, the trials and tribulations of the workday.
But even these quiet moments are busy — processing, unwinding, mentally organizing, categorizing and shelving away the components of our day in a sometimes-futile effort to be ready for the next one. There’s urgency, even to decompression.
Lately, I’ve taken to keeping a stash of the coffee we picked up in Hawaii in the kitchen cabinet.
It’s rich and sweet, and fills the kitchen with the aroma of macadamia nuts, vanilla, and cocoa. We don’t drink it all the time — I can’t find it locally and my Amazon account doesn’t need another subscription arriving at the door weekly. Truth be told, it’s not my favorite coffee — but it evokes something wonderful.
When I brew that coffee, I’m dropped right back into those sensory memories — the smell of trees and earth damp from an overnight rain, the morning sunlight filtering through delicate green foliage and glistening off pooled orbs of water, the building chorus of songbirds excited for the new day. I’m returned to that state of awe and anticipation, the satisfaction of just existing a moment between the best day ever and the best day yet.
It’s all a bit cheesy, I know. It’s just coffee and mental associations, whimsy and nostalgia.
But it’s more than indulging in fantasies and memory. It’s strategic. It’s a reminder to take a mental time-out.
It’s a cue to put away my phone — to stop browsing social media and its nonstop feeds of global warming or US politics or school shootings, to consciously not check work email or consume myself in drawing up the day’s battle plans — and just exist.
It’s a reminder to pay attention to birdsong and the morning sun peeking over the horizon. In taking myself mentally back to that stretch of precious moments nestled between memory and promise, it’s a reminder to carry a sense of wonder and anticipation into every day.
It’s my gentle challenge to myself to filter out some of the busyness and live in the memory of the best day ever, holding every day as a best day yet to come.
Red Jeep Diaries 
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