They Know Me

No longer anonymous

Have I shown you this before?

When I walk into Olive’s coffee shop, the Barista has inscribed my cup before I get to her. She knows me as Chuck. Much simpler and friendlier name than the foreboding Blayney.

I love the mocha espresso drink, but that’s only a fraction of why I go there most days.

It’s being known, in a world where I seldom am. Smiled at, welcomed.

Now, I make a couple of things from this.

Maybe the first is that I think I have written about this before. Which tells me that it really matters to me. And that my aging memory is aging ever faster.

The second is that I long to be known. For 30 years as a parish priest, I sought anonymity when I was off duty. I’d lived 10 years in La Jolla, and could hardly walk down a public street without being stopped. We’d owned the place in Vermont for 45 years, so it felt like home even when I didn’t run into someone I knew.

Moving to Newburyport in our 80s, has been a new experience. Happily, it’s a friendly town, so even though I know few people, most at least greet me when we pass each other.

If there’s a third lesson in this, it spills over into the noise about the breakdown of community and civility as we divide ourselves along political and social lines that have always been there, but perhaps were once considered a normal pattern of human civilization.

Maybe the Olive shops can begin to bridge these gaps that leave us lonely and bitter.

I recommend the Mocha cappuccino. Goes especially well with meditation.

Mellow.