There's a coffeeshop cafe in town that's one of our main meeting places and hubs, and where I was the main cook for three years. Sadly, I came to hate the place, yet continued working there long past when I shoulda bailed. When I did finally leave, I was so bitter, angry, and worked up, it took a full year before I was again able to step foot in the place. And even then not sure I'd ever be able to forgive them.
But life is funny; or maybe it's just me. When a local magazine emailed, requesting love-themed essays and such for their upcoming February issue, I found myself writing an essay telling why the cafe held such a soft spot in my heart. As these things happen, when that February issue came out, the page containing my essay was torn out by one of the cafe's owners, laminated, and given a prominent place on the front counter.
However, life (or I) wasn't done yet. A handful of months later, when fulfilling an assignment for another magazine's "Sacred Spaces" issue, I found myself, once again, writing about the cafe.
Currently, I'm polishing a short piece for NPR's, This I Believe, and guess what I'm one more time again, using for the central metaphor---that's right, the cafe. (And this blogpost makes yet another one.)
I smile while shaking my head in pondering how a place I was so wrecked asunder by now presents itself as such a fecund and verdant source of positive material.
"This is the sorcery of literature. We are healed by our stories." -Terry Tempest Williams.
