Potential

I’ve started a morning practice. Not that I’ve never had a morning practice— five animals definitely deliver some sort of routine. But a month of so ago, I began expanding on my morning— a cup of coffee, read a chapter from a book, and mediate.

I have a 8 year old set of patio furniture. It’s mostly stayed inside as furniture for my sunroom. The sun room is currently in the midst of what has become a very long remodeling project. I’ve taken the set outside to the front patio. It’s again, nothing special. It’s a woven wicker set of two chairs and a loveseat complemented by a inset class table with wicker on the trim. I’m sure I bought it after season during my time at Lowe’s. This is the first year though I’m really enjoying it.

Yesterday, I continued my morning routine. I sat on my front porch, drinking my coffee, reading my book, and enjoying the start of the day. But for no particular reason other than the hope of inspiration, I brought my writing journal. I placed it on the dusty patio table and begin my morning of coffee, reading, and enjoying the sound of the bees humming about the milkweed and the birds sharing their morning gossips.

It is in all, perfect starts to the day.

I usually just read a chapter or two, and after I took the last sip of coffee I casually laid my favorite coffee mug on my journal as I turned another page of the novel I was reading. I looked down though and realized my journal wasn’t flat. Where the wicker and the class meet there is a slight difference in elevation. I stared at my mug for a moment and then a single word popped in my head. “Potential”.

I loved this mug for a number of reasons. It’s a solid 14 ounces that keeps me from going back and getting a refill often. It’s white and on the side it has “Oh for sake” written in cursive and fox intertwined between the words. At the bottom after I complete my beverage, it says, “What Now?”. It was one of the last gifts from my father gave to me. I suppose I love it most for that. It was in some ways a gift that came from a place of knowing me. When you’re a child of divorce, the easy route a parent usually takes is here’s some money, get what you want. And for 30 years that was pretty much it.

It’s funny, I can’t remember if it was the last Christmas we had or not. But there was a sense of pride and joy he had giving me those gifts that year. Like he knew he did well. I think I love that mug not to hold on to his memory or him, but his joy.

So when I noticed that I had placed this mug on my uneven journal I had pause. It’s is not as it we were talking about a 35 degree angle or anything but it did give pause. And all I could think of was, “potential”?

Potential. I folded the corner of the page and placed my novel down and pondered more. Potential. The mug could roll off and hit the cement shattering itself and my heart for a moment. (we can discuss attachment another time). No longer the piece that is was. Fragmented into hundreds of pieces now spread across my patio and flowerbed.

Potential. It could slide off my journal and hit the glass top and crack either or both. Maybe take a chip from the lip. It would be different of course. Different of course. Only one side to drink. Still usable. Still able to enjoy a hot morning beverage and revel in the joy of it. But it would be changed.

Or it could just stay put. Sit on the journal and the law of physics let it stay in its place. The angle of my journal wasn’t too much to take serious. Is the potential lost then? Or does it have the potential to stay as its best self?

Potential is a funny word. I’ve been ruminating on it for more than a day now. And as I begin the final quarter of my forties, it does beg the question what potential do I have over the next 10, 20, 40 years? Does potential just redefine itself based on the situation? Is there a moment when you have reached all that you could or wanted to be?