I'm of the (perhaps, uncontroversial) belief that there is a spiritual dimension to coffee. Sipping it, mindfully, slows down time and spurs reflection. As Nietzsche says, all of life is a dispute over taste and taste and for Muslim mystics, Sufis: He who tastes, knows. The fact that coffee makes us more awake seems, symbolically, meaningful -- as paying attention and becoming awakened are the goals of spiritual discipline.
As coffee lovers, the world over, recognize: to really savor the flavor of a good cup of coffee can be both a centering and transporting experience. What's more, in some cultures, not just the consumption but the actual preparation of a coffee can be considered part of this spiritual practice.
Coming from Egypt, my proper initiation into the caffeinated universe was Turkish coffee. Back home, how coffee is prepared, how much sugar to add, when to remove it from the heat, and how to consume it are near sacred ritual. In coffee shops across the country, possibly with a hookah close at hand, Kahwa (coffee, in Arabic) is the impetus for wide-ranging conversations and meditations, from paltry politics to sublime metaphysics.
Also, not uncommon, following this centuries-old ritual of drinking Turkish coffee is to submit to having your fortune read. That can be done either casually, or professionally, and involves having your consumed cup flipped upside down in a saucer, swiveled around a few times and set to cool, before the residual coffee grounds – fateful lines and shapes portentous or auspicious – might be deciphered for divination.
Here’s a praise poem by a dear friend and published poet:
Making Arabic Coffee
The dark brown liquid, almost black,
the color of hickory, bubbling up. I lift
this small pot as water rises.
Foam. Heat. Steam.— Lift it, away
from the fire, until it settles
down again. Let it boil once
more— lift up— the same up
and down bobbing above the fire,
until the foam no longer rises.
The water has taken in
the flavor, color, taste
of our ground coffee beans,
and I remember quickly, the words
in Arabic; my mother warned,
Latt khaleeya’t foorr. Foorr.
To overflow. To rise up.
To foam. Still, I cannot find
the English translation to suffice.
I had not remembered this
one Arabic word, foorr, until
memory rose up like water
I color into coffee; the moment
brought me back to that place,
over the stove with my mother;
her behind me warning,
Latt khaleeya’t foorr.
Ay, haykee. Yes, like this.
And so she taught me not to let
things overflow; and so she taught me
the way things rise.
—Marian Haddad
By the time I left Egypt to make the USA my home, over a decade and a half ago, I might’ve consumed five or more of these mini cups of ‘rocket fuel’ to get through a work day. Worse, I was mixing potions, and would often start my day with a shot of home-brewed Italian espresso. All of which might explain why, when I settled into my new life in America, I steered clear of that muddy, candied water sold at Starbucks.
After such authentic riches, I could not settle for poor impostors. Fortunately, I did not have to. As an honorary Colombian citizen (my wife is half-Colombian) I soon made the rewarding acquaintance of Colombian coffee and was back on good, strong footing, again. Perhaps, it’s sacrilegious to admit this (at least, in family circles) but I also enjoy Brazilian and Cuban brews for similar reasons.
Still, as I approached middle age, I found that I had to admit, with (T.S. Eliot's) Prufrock,
I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
More prosaically, this translated into, eventually, not being able to hold my coffee (palpitations, insomnia, etc…) And, addictive, extremist personality that I am, I could not settle for just a cup or two, so I went cold turkey! Well, that’s not entirely true. Rather, I eased into the world of tea, and eventually, sighed my way into the garden of green tea.
And, in the interest of full disclosure, a further humiliating confession: for a time, I even began my days sipping warm water with lemon. Ah, the insipid indignities of ageing… Yet, strange to say, I have come to find another clarity in my decaffeinated daze. Which is to conclude that, even at this stage of our relationship, coffee still offers me (at least, two) opportunities to practice spirituality: renunciation and longing.
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