Nearly six years ago, I sat at a cozy coffee shop, slunk deep into a big comfy couch, on Goswell Road in London and wrote a blog post — Goswell Road Coffee. It was part vacation, part time to focus on art — mainly my ex’s who was there to perform his music. But I did my first international open mic (and probably my second open mic ever) while there, too. I was buzzing with happiness simply to be posted up at a coffee shop writing…on a weekday! Something I’d ached for every morning back at home in New York as I power-walked past my favorite café on my way to the subway to get to my full-time job.
Fast forward to today. It’s Wednesday. I’m sitting writing this at a corner cafe on Bleecker Street. The rain is coming down outside and I’m feeling particularly reflective. I have a great spot: my back to the brick wall, my laptop balanced next to my iced cold brew on a small wobbly café table. Original art framed in small squares adorns the walls. The handwritten chalkboard menus with blue bubble letters and a tempting display of bountiful baked goods are all in view.
It’s the perfect seat for people watching. Today is busier than normal, which is surprising, but perhaps the rain drives people to sit in coffee shops. I come here often…usually once a week after my early volunteer shift nearby and have a feel for the flow. There’s a wonderful blend of local characters — many of whom I’ve started to recognize, like the artist who comes in with paint-splashed sneakers and shirts and sits on his phone for a bit, perhaps to decompress; the priest who saddles up with his golden retriever — sometimes on a computer, sometimes to connect with others; the older couple who sit next to each other reading a paper and discussing the news.
Today, a stressed-out maestro is chatting furiously into his phone, pacing back and forth as he makes plans for an upcoming performance. There’s a rehearsal this afternoon. Then there are the casual meetups between friends, the tourists with their rolling suitcases, and the other remote workers like me tapping away on their keyboards. Two girls take the maestro’s place and talk about how quiet it is at the hostel they’re staying in. “It feels like a nunnery,” one says. “But it’s nice to have time to think,” the other replies. I agree.
Reading my original post back now, I am transported. To that coffee shop in Clerkenwell and back to that woman, writer, and activist who was tiptoeing out into the scary world of sharing her voice. She was only just beginning to claw her way out — pushing through through the fear of what it might feel like to be known. Fighting to figure out how to share what’s inside and break free of the shape she’d fit herself into…even as she felt like she’d already shed so much to get there to that café.
I still feel like that. I often feel like I’m jumping off a cliff into an abyss where I don’t know if anything will be there to catch me. I am building a business that I want to support me (and my ability to sit in coffee shops on rainy weekday mornings), which naturally has its ups and downs and seemingly constant trial and error.
But I’m grateful for the tangibility of the progress I’ve made. These breadcrumbs of writing I’ve left myself, the ones posted here and the ones still hidden on my hard drive and in journals. I now know with confidence that turning around or remaining in place is worse than whatever awaits me in the dark abyss. I will catch myself if nothing else does. I guess that’s life, which gives me hope…I can and will keep evolving. The world, the current circumstances will change…even if it’s slower or more painful on the way there than I (or any of us) would want. I know I must keep figuring out a way to keep going forward, sharing what’s inside, using and developing my voice.
I’ll end this post the same way I ended that one from 2019:
A mother asks her 4-year-old, “Do you find it scary or do you think you might find it exhilarating?” He promptly shrieks.
Scary and exhilarating. That’s where the magic is, she thinks. When you find both, run toward whatever it is.