Sometimes at a coffeeshop, one of my favorite places to be anywhere in the world, I peer into my cup.
I think about the family who planted that coffee tree. What drove them to farm. Why they picked that soil, at that altitude. How carefully they tended to their crop.
I think about the people who harvested, who processed. What may have been happening in their lives as they toiled. And the weather that day.
I think about the transport. Who loaded these beans into bags and who shipped them. Whether, during their drive, they thought about their cargo. And the people responsible for producing it.
As I do.
I think about the roaster. Their training. Their passion. What they did later that night, after roasting.
I think about the people who designed the machines responsible for this cup. Who used their hands to make them look and work beautifully.
I think about what type of morning my barista had. At home, before they came in to work and prepared my cup. Who they shared it with. Whether it was a sad morning. Or a happy one.
I look around and wonder if others are thinking the same types of things.
And then I drink, savoring every bit of my cup.
And the people whose lives were responsible.