Rituals*
We all have rituals.
Some are grand—like weddings or funerals, complete with pomp and tradition, repeated through generations. But most are small. Private. The kind that go unnoticed unless you’re the one performing them. They’re the invisible choreography of daily life, and they tell you more about a person than any résumé or CV ever could.
Coffee
Fogy is a tea drinker—or was, until he came to Brazil.
When offered that first cup of sweet black coffee on the flight from RJ to SP, there was an awakening of the juices across the palate and the soul, and Fogy was hooked for a great number of years.
When we awaken our senses, we cross boundaries into a different world—one not built of thought, but of scent, sound, and touch.
There’s a slight pungent scent hugging the early morning mist of a city bursting from the cocoon of sleep—or not, for this city rarely sleeps.
There is a clink, a rough scraping, then a tin is opened. The gentle rattle of small balls rolling, tinkling their way into the machine. The grind, the whirr—the aroma of freshly ground beans assaults the senses and pervades the space.
A splash, a stream—and the water washes up the sides of the tank. The dankness of wet wells hits the tender receptors in our noses as our tastebuds salivate in anticipation.
A silty shift—dusky grinds slink into the receptacle, awaiting stage two of this orchestrated ritual.
A shake, a click, a rattle—and the heated elements do their job, infusing steam through the filters into the cups below.
The coarse, earthy smell is replaced with the heady perfume of the black belched brew bubbling from filter to cup, more pervasive than before.
A dabble of cream. Sugar crystals dissolve as they descend, blending, coaxing the tongue for its first taste.
The cup is hot, warming—encapsulated by the hands that hold it while the lips tremble ever so slightly as the heat dares that first frothy flow upon their nakedness. The mouth expands and the cavern is filled with the taste that is coffee. A slight jerk thrusts this elixir over the tongue, past the teeth, down the throat, to scald and swaddle the awaiting stomach below.
The lips chap and clap in unison—in celebration of this holy cataclysm—as sip after sip is supped.
The mind clears. The heart beats stronger. And all around, the world smiles—and the ritual begins anew.
Return to Habit
There’s no moral here—no lofty sermon about mindfulness or productivity. This isn’t about controlling the day or seizing the morning.
It’s simpler than that.
It’s about being.
Rituals are the scaffolding around our chaos.
They hold the mornings together when the world doesn’t.
They bring the soul back to center—one grind, one click, one sip at a time.
So yes, Fogy drinks coffee now. And it’s not just a beverage.
It’s a beginning.
Every day.
I didn't know you already had sponsors. I'll grab a cup for me, too.
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