I have never really understood what a "bold" coffee is. I have observed many people use the term as a security blanket––"Oh, just give me the boldest one you have;" and while I may refer to my coffees as familiar, kind, smooth, and every now and then as a mistake (ok, more often than not), I have yet to have been greeted by one boldly. There is an inescapable ambiguity with the term "bold," like "beautiful" and "standard." I find the patina on on my great-grandfather's metal oil dripper to be beautiful; but that is not to suggest that you, or anyone else for that matter, will find much interest in the oxidized marble swirl paired with scuff marks and caked dirt. Like beauty, we all define life's standards differently. My standard is my morning. It's standard. It begins with a not-so-graceful stretch in bed, a throwing of the expired charging cord, and the regrouping of last night's scattered pillows. I often start the day's genesis only to immediately fall back into bed. Some mornings the sun greets me; others, I get things started for him first. Regardless of what my mornings consist of or what position I wake up in, I treat my mornings all the same: as a standard. The morning is something that no one can take away from me. The beginning breaths, ticking at an early hour are mine. The day's start is a full set of lungs, it is the opening of eyes––whether or not one wants to––and it is a refreshening of the senses. The new day is a new opportunity. Call it bold, call it beautiful... but my standard yields a new start for every day. Don't we deserve that? Don't we all?
A knife and fork at the dinner table should not be anymore standard than the morning's white light or the soft sheets keeping me in bed. The day's exposition is not to be identified as a luxury but I choose to handle it as such. The early hours spent during the start of the day are perfect for their simplicity. The time caught in soft illumination contrasts the busy day to follow. I value the time I have to speak with my body, to find color, to open my eyes. Perhaps I am at fault for finding comfort on the left side of the clock; maybe I am no different than the man searching for a bold coffee.
Standard is not to suggest that my mornings are static; please, do not misinterpret my words.
Bold, beautiful––standard. Mornings are expositional to the day.