When I walk in the early morning passing by homes with lights that burn in what appears to be a kitchen window I feel a warmth as though I am in that space. I imagine it to be quiet in that room as one or two people move around slowly, taking time to wake and embrace the morning. I smell coffee and hear the shuffle of feet. Perhaps someone sits at the table reading a book or a newspaper and at the same time mindlessly draws a cup of coffee with both hands to her lips to take a sip.
Then I remember my own experiences of waking in the morning, a gentle light welcoming the beginnings of a new day. In one memory my grandfather has prepared his coffee and it is percolating on the kitchen counter top, bubbling cheerily. The smell is familiar and pleasant to me as a young girl although a sip of it is too bitter for me. I hear my grandfather’s laugh and see the twinkle in his eyes as he spies me in the morning hours. He slowly moves to a table by the window, coffee in hand. Mindful, always mindful, his movement seem to me. He pulls out a notebook, a pen, and his Bible. And this is the way he begins his day, nourished by the Word of God and his strong, black coffee.
I remember a trip to the finger lakes with Wayne and staying at a bed and breakfast where we are the only guests on this particular morning. We sit at a table in a long room of an old home with windows through which we see the last minutes of darkness give way to a beautiful autumn dawn. Familiar smells of breakfast wrap around the corner into the dining room. I feel warm and cozy sitting with my beloved. Our hostess talks with us a little taking care to respect our space, our precious time together and she serves us a breakfast prepared with what can only be described as love. Maybe there are waffles and toppings and eggs made to order, juice, and coffee and a selection of teas. Holding a cup of tea in my hands warms them and I feel the damp steam rising under my nose. I think how good it is to be here in this moment.
There are breakfasts at Holden Village which are quite different that these. Long, sturdy wooden tables fill the room around which eight or ten people can sit. We can see the kitchen from the dining room and the cooks and waitri hustling to get food onto the tables. It is not as quiet as the morning in my grandfather’s house or in the bed and breakfast, but still the conversation is subdued. People are still waking up. The smell of warm, freshly baked bread permeates the air as does coffee, of course. There are the pleasant sounds of hushed chatter as Holden villagers gather around the tables, picking up a mug of coffee or tea en route, talking about their plans for the day or something they saw on their way to the dining hall or mostly likely sharing opinions about the weather. We sing a prayer before we break our fast. And then the music of silverware clinking against the plates and bowls become a fugue with the conversational voices. It feels warm and welcoming and holy.
So, when I walk by kitchen windows that are softly aglow in the morning, thoughts and memories such as these fill my heart and I am aware of how grateful I am for the morning hours and the slow passage of time as life slowly wakes up, for the sense of comfort and well-being I also feel, and for the awareness of something sacred and holy that fills my being.
What experiences of holiness or sacredness do you have from being in or near the kitchen?
