Saturday, October 1, 2016
I love it.
It isn't the kind of mug I normally drink out of. Most of the time, I use a travel mug, even at home, because I am prone to getting lost in my book or a task and then finding my coffee gone cold. I'm also clumsy. I like my coffee cups to have lids, for that reason.
But some mornings call for a cup with a handle and steam rising and the image of a cup of coffee... know what I mean? It's not just the drink itself, it's the atmosphere of morning coffee... the book and the natural light seeping through blinds on my window.
It's a ritual, this cup of coffee.
This cup is different from my other mugs. It has no bright colors, no literary quotes, no sarcastic phrases etched on the side. It is not like the Aerosmith mug I bought after facing fear and riding Rock N Rollercoaster at Hollywood Studios. It is not like the Shakespeare mug I won at a writing conference in Memphis. It is not like the mug from last year's mug swap, with the bookshelf painted on the side and the words "just this."
This mug is plain.
It is brown.
Why has it become my favorite?
There's something about the feel of the clay that molded this mug. It is soft in my hands, smooth to my touch. The warmth fills it in a certain way.
My husband chose this cup for me.
It feels like his hands in mine... warm and somehow smooth but also rough, earthen, real.
When I sip from this plain brown mug, it feels anything but plain. It feels like home, like love, like luck.
In two months, we will celebrate our 15th wedding anniversary. I still love that man, the kind of man who can look past all of my usual brightness, all of my sarcasm and intellectual snobbery, and see the part of me that is a plain brown mug, smooth and rough, made of earth and water and love.
I am still so in love with that man.