A Pursuit of Art(isan coffee)

Another match catches my finger, as the oppressive moisture cloaking my logs thwarts yet another plan to produce a flame. I’ve been at this for over half an hour, my fingers are red with irritation. Even Mick, my canine companion, once intrigued by the process, had resigned himself to a shady spot on the porch; preferring to watch my spectacle from afar. Cursing aloud at myself for not having left the logs closer to the dry sanctuary of the porch entrance; hearing my own words taunt me as they reverberate off the trees, only to slingshot themselves back to my ears. “Fuck this, I’ll go without.” I contemplate giving up my efforts and choosing to forgo my mornings delight, the reason I am quick to wake, the lifeblood of my energy: my morning coffee.

This previous Fall, feeling suffocated by the pavement walls, screen scrolling hauls, and constant telephone calls, I decided to retreat to a brief farm-stay. I would perch up in a cabin with Mick, my sidekick, and a few limited resources: I had a small sink with running water and a miniature power box with enough electricity to charge a phone, and not much else. I knew I would have to take a hose shower and trek to the outhouse, last seen in the movie Shrek, for all my restroom needs. I had anticipated those obstacles, and planned for them: In preparing my food, I brought all foods that were ready to eat, safe to survive in my cooler, and able to be cooked on an open fire. I even brought a kettle and pour-over set to produce my coffee each morning. What I had failed to anticipate, was the voltage required to operate a kettle is evidently much higher than it is to charge a cell phone.

The first evening I had no issue producing a steady fire. Mick and I grilled on the open flame, flipping steaks as I stoked at the embers. We ate, enjoyed a few beers, and for the first time in a while, chose to let my thoughts rest in the silence of my mind. Allowing myself nothing by the distant nosies of the farm to entertain me. We tucked in early with full stomachs and rested minds. Mick slept guarding the cabin door.

We woke to the soft stampede of cows outside our window migrating to their first grazing spot of the day. I stumbled out of bed and threw on enough clothing to keep warm as I began to assemble my coffee tools. After 5 minutes of struggle and checking voltage rates, I realized my grand idea of using an electric kettle for my coffee, would not be happening.

This is where Plan B begins. I reassemble my fire from the night before.This time my logs, weighted by the dew of the morning grass, for which I left them to slumber. I knew I should let the sun’s heat dry them as it rose, but I was too impatient; I had to make my coffee now. After much struggle, I looked around to find whatever I could to produce flame. Taking momentary breaks to nurse wounds, mainly my pride, lowering myself to the ground to softly encourage a spark to grow to a flame. I used the paper towels I brought as makeshift tinder. Scouring a nearby field for dried grass, which too, had been glossed with the morning’s mist. An hour and twenty minutes passed before a single flame had been produced; but that was all I needed. I nursed that flame like it was the Son of God. Finally, the flame stabilized; it was the encouragement I needed to keep going. I grabbed the only pan I had brought and filled it to the brim with enough water to produce 2 cups of coffee, and placed it with intention over the flames.

Now we wait. All that work, only to wait. We say, “it’s like watching paint dry,” when we should say, “it is like waiting for water to boil,” but the agony is far worse. I remember my Mother once saying that if you watch the water, it won’t boil. So I found use of my tedium and chose to take Mick for a walk to visit the goats. Upon returning, the water was warm, but nowhere close to a boil. I picked up my book and read until Mick demanded my attention. I lost track of time between reading chapters and giving head scratches. The next time I checked, the water had hit a rolling boil and I knew I had to move quickly. I had my set-up ready, and with a rag, carried my boiling pan of water inside to gently and painstakingly pour it over my grounds. I poured half before returning it to the flames to keep it hot while piercing water dripped through the filters. I carried on until all the water had been poured. I left gravity to do it’s work, using a spoon to encourage it’s power.

After almost 3 hours of work, I removed my filters and poured my coffee into my mug. I then rested by the fire to gingerly savor every drip of the Ethiopian blend. Hours of effort reduced to barely 8 oz of dark liquid. Labor, knowledge, and fortitude condensed into a chipped metal mug worn in from previous camping trips. I still maintain that it was the best cup of coffee I ever made, and it has hardly anything to do with how its tastes.

Since moving to Los Angeles many of my thoughts are spent thinking, what the fuck am I doing? Why am I doing this painful and isolating craft? Why did I move cross country? Why did I pick a field with such engrained rejection? Why am I working jobs I’m overqualified for while making next-to-no money? The list continues until I have sent myself into such a spiral that I need to sit down and have a cup of coffee. This is the thought of every actor. These are the thoughts of anyone who strives to make art for a living. Choosing to pick a career in the Arts is as bizarre to some as choosing to take a vacation with limited running water and voltage. It is acknowledging that there is visceral beauty in discomfort, strife, struggle, and mostly - in the tenacity of hope.

It took years of camping trips, paired with lengthy lectures from my Father to ever learn how to start a fire. It took many more years of practice to improve my skills and consistency in building one. Then, when presented with the opportunity to do it alone; I faced obstacles I hadn’t foreseen. I was missing tools that would have made setting a fire much easier. I could have dried my wood inside, or I could have brought a fire-starter. Yet, I had to make the most of what I had, not focus on the tools I was missing.

But then, even with all that training and skill, I had to be patient. I couldn’t rush the process of the flame forming, nor could I will the water to boil. I had to be patient and trust that with diligence and nurturing, eventually it would provide me with boiling water. It was a long few hours of failure with signs of progress that would quickly fizzle out. I could have given up many times through that process, and many times I swore I would. But, my will to have my coffee, or pursue my art, was stronger than the threat of failure. I trusted, I nurtured, I walked away to let it simmer, and eventually, as I let the steaming water cascade through the cavern of grounds to the bottom of the hour-glassed carafe; I knew my hours of work had been worth it. The victory of persistence had made it worth it. The cup of coffee was just the cherry on top.

This is how I choose to look at pursing a career in acting. It is a flame in need of upkeep: trainings, workshops, and chronic updating of headshots, resumes, and reels. It is often as isolating as being in the middle of a field, with only yourself to keep you motivated. However, as much as I am working toward that sweet cup of coffee at the end, the great luxury and joy of being able to create films for a living; I am learning to fall in love with the tenacity of it. I am learning to admire all the failed attempts, because at least I was attempting. I welcome the moments when it feels too heavy to continue to carry the weight of my goals, for every time I manage to go on, I am all the stronger for it. I am learning to not watch water boil. I am building a life with joys, passions, and people. I am crafting a life that doesn’t depend on acting to fulfill me. I am seeking things that peak my heart and my mind’s interests, even if they don’t further my artist career, because not everything needs to. I am acknowledging that I have room to grow without doubting my abilities, even when they are relentlessly tested.

So right now, I am blowing on the flames, shoving paper towels in my metaphorical fire-pit, cursing at myself for all the things I could have done differently - knowing it won’t help; but it’s part of the process. I am accepting that process graciously. I am not here for 15 minutes of fame. I am here for the lifelong pursuit of a career in telling stories. It will and should, take time, patience, and all the tenacity I can muster. One day, as I sit on my porch, drinking from my full cup and letting every note of coffee spread across my tongue, I will reminisce on the years in which I treaded and trekked with fortitude; fumbling and perhaps falling, but clenching enough gumption to keep moving. To keep looking ahead with the knowledge and trust that all of my efforts will be worth something.