Before the Phone Comes Out
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There's a window every morning, somewhere between eight and twelve minutes, before the day has had a chance to ask anything of me yet. The coffee's going, the kitchen is quiet enough that I can hear the kettle think about boiling, and nothing on my plate has a deadline for those few minutes.
For a long time I skipped it. Phone first, inbox first, the day already moving before I'd poured anything. It took me a while to notice what that cost me. The actual morning, the one before it turns into a task list, just disappearing most days without my noticing it went.
So I protect it now. Kettle on, grinder running, phone stays wherever I left it the night before until the first cup is actually in my hand. It's a small rule and it doesn't fix anything big. But it means the day starts with one thing done slowly, on purpose, for no better reason than that it felt good to do it right.
Lately that cup has been Velvet Dawn, our French vanilla. Medium roast, warm, with a sweetness that shows up more in the smell than in the taste if I'm honest. It's the kind of coffee that doesn't ask you to pay attention to it, which might be the whole point on a morning built around doing exactly one slow thing. Some cups are for noticing. This one is for not having to.
Have you ever tried to remember an actual morning, not what you did but what it felt like, and come up mostly blank? I think that's the case for a ritual, even a small one. It gives you a few minutes to actually be present for, before the rest of the day starts happening to you instead of the other way around.
That's the quiet case for a shop like this one, if I'm honest about it. Coffee and tea exist to hand people back a few minutes they'd otherwise lose to their phones before anything gets its hooks in. Belonging comes before becoming, and some mornings belonging starts with nothing more than standing still in your own kitchen before the day needs anything from you.
Choose to be kind. Choose to be grateful. Choose to be happy.
— Nina of GiaNina Collective