In-Between Moments: What Two Small Coffee Cups Taught Me About the Meaning of Life

Every gift from a friend is a wish for your happiness.

— Richard Bach

Even before I opened the package I knew it contained something special. Something chosen for me with care by a friend known for thoughtful gifting. The label confirmed my anticipatory delight.

♡ kindred | mugs made for connection

I’ve written previously about my favourite coffee mugs. Surely here was a challenger for the crown. Opening the box I found not a mug but two ceramic beakers. I took them out. They felt good in my hand. I liked the simple two tone design. But surely they were too small? I stood them beside a regular coffee mug on the adjustable table that serves as my desk when I work from home. I was doubtful of Kindred’s assertion that “This joyful little duo is made for your in-between moments — just the right size for a flat white, matcha latte, or a slightly generous espresso.” Their website lists the beakers as 7.5 cm tall with a capacity of 195 ml. A small Americano at my local coffee shop is 227–300 ml. A medium (my usual choice) approximately 350–400 ml. Smaller than small, then. A single espresso is 30 ml. Even a “slightly generous” double would be lost in my new beakers.

My delight at receiving the gift was tempered by uncertainty. They were gorgeous but how and when would I use them? The beakers went back in the box. The box was set aside. Every now and then I’d take them out. Enjoy the tactile experience of handling them. Return them to the box unused. You might ask what changed, given that I’m writing about this now. That’s not easy to answer. I’ve yet to find a specific use or purpose for them. And yet, that very uncertainty has sparked something deeper. An inner journey. An exploration into the concept of meaning and purpose itself. What does it mean for something to have meaning and purpose? What does it mean for someone to have meaning and purpose?

I’m reminded of Robert Pirsig’s classic Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. I read the book many years ago. I could lay my hands on it in a moment but I haven’t taken it down from the bookshelf in decades. It’s a book that can be read on various levels. It begins with a journey, a motorcycle road trip by the author, his son, and two friends. When the friends’ brand new BMW bike develops a fault the author suggests repairing it with a piece of metal cut from a drinks can. As recounted by Phil Jones in Why “Zen and the Art” is a discourse on Quality that managers should read, “His friend is aghast. He must go to a BMW dealer and get the proper shims for his bike. A cut up aluminium can cannot be right. He wants quality in assurance of the right part from the manufacturers. The author, or course knows that the quality comes from the functionality, not the source of the component.” That function-over-form message has stayed with me. Faced with a repair or problem I instinctively focus on the properties the fix requires, rather than necessarily seeking the “proper” item. What’s the right size to fill that gap? What’s bendy enough or strong enough to replace the broken part? It’s a creative response to challenge that’s served me well over the years. There’s always more than one way to meet a need or accomplish a task.

There’s a parallel here with Nonviolent Communication. This is an approach to conflict resolution which Fran and I have studied in the past and still find helpful. NVC focuses on our needs and feelings. It can be summarised as: “When you do [some action or behaviour] I feel [one or more feelings] because my need for [one or more needs] are unmet.” It’s not about persuading the other person to change their behaviour. Nor does it involve compromising our needs in order to keep the peace. The focus is on identifying what triggers our undesired feelings and recognising that our underlying needs can be met in many different ways. Letting go of the expectation that this person or that person has to meet a particular need frees us to appreciate the connection for what it does offer, and satisfy that unmet need of ours in some other way.

“When you sit there on the table or I take you up in my hand I feel disappointment and frustration because my need for a cup appropriate to my coffee drinking preferences is unmet.”

And that’s okay. I have plenty of mugs that meet my coffee drinking needs. I can appreciate the beakers for what they are rather than what I wish they were. So what are they? Physically, they are ceramic vessels of a certain size. A certain volume. They don’t have to hold coffee. They could hold tea. I don’t drink tea but I used to. I lived in London in the eighties and used to enjoy a cup of Lapsang Souchong or Earl Grey, made with loose-leaf tea in the small brown earthenware teapot that once belonged to my father. It’s one of very few physical reminders I have of him.

The beakers don’t have to hold anything at all, of course. They don’t have to do or be anything other than what they are. Their ethical credentials seem impeccable. According to the Kindred website they’re “handmade by a family-run Vietnamese partner with excellent working conditions and ethical production standards.” They’re also beautiful. One has a tiny blemish under the glaze. This annoyed me at first but I can choose to see it as the kind of imperfection that characterises the genuine. The “I am enough / you are enough” message I’ve championed in such posts as It’s Not Enough / Never Enough and I Was Going to Write Today. The “you are enough” t-shirt I wear proudly to the office and the coffee shop because validation changes lives and maybe even saves lives.

I ponder the name of the beaker design. Rue. It refers to feeling “deep regret, remorse, or sorrow over a past action or event” or to wishing something hadn’t happened, as in “I rue the day.” I don’t do regret but it’s interesting how the word echoes my feelings about the beakers. Rue is also a bitter, strong-scented herb historically used in medicine and as a natural dye. It yields yellow and tan hues but also green and red depending on the part of the plant used. My beakers are mustard yellow but the range also include sea green, sage green, light blue, indigo blue, and earth red.

I think again of Pirsig. The second half of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance abandons the road trip narrative — ever an analogy for inner journeying — for philosophies so esoteric they left me confused and adrift. In recent years I’ve begun to explore philosophy at a very amateur Youtube video level. As I’ve written elsewhere the Absurdism of Albert Camus resonates strongly with me. It validates my lifelong certainty that there’s no ultimate purpose or meaning to our lives — or anything else — beyond any we find for ourselves. That may appear a harsh doctrine but I find it liberating.

The beakers may not work for me as coffee cups but in the words of American author Richard Bach (several of whose books sit on my bookshelves) “Every gift from a friend is a wish for your happiness.” Their value to me is not dependent on their utility. If nothing else they’ve inspired this exploration into the meaning of meaning in my life. That’s valuable in itself and I’m grateful for it. Maybe I’ll buy some Lapsang Souchong, fetch my father’s teapot down from its place on the shelf (so many shelves!), and treat myself to an in-between moment.

 

Illustration by Phill Brown at Unsplash.