A version of this essay first appeared in my now-retired email newsletter, The Drafting Desk, in December 2017. Obviously, a lot has changed since then! I am, frankly, not doing a good job of holding my coffee with two hands right now. (You’ll see what I mean.) But the idea I wrote about 6 years ago is resonating with me today; perhaps you need these words, too.
My husband and I have been talking a lot about attention lately. He thinks he suffers from ADHD (it runs in his family) and wonders if it’s hindering his productivity at work. He may be right, but I’m constantly asking him if it could be that he just has bad habits. Is that too harsh? Maybe. Truthfully, I think I just recognize my own bad habits--the ten million ways I allow my attention to be stolen and derailed throughout the day. (When I started my first draft of this essay, I counted that I had 9 tabs open. A few days later, and now it’s 21 open tabs.)1
At home, I flit around from task to task and carry my phone with me, pausing for social media breaks or to switch to a different podcast. My 2-year-old asks, “Trucks-a-me, Mama?”, and I sit and play for a few minutes before hopping back up to tackle a chore or add carrots to the grocery list. I pick up my phone at red lights and in check-out lines, almost without thinking. My distraction is constant, subconscious and, frankly, annoying as all get-out.
I chose dwell as my word of the year in 2017, due in large part to this sense of distraction, coupled with a heaping side of discontent. I wanted a word that could remind me to focus, sit still, and settle down. I wanted to cease wishing to be elsewhere, doing something else.2 Over the course of the year, I’ve learned that distraction is an issue in my heart as much as my mind or to-do list. Usually, I’m distracted not because I have too much to do or because there’s too much on my mind, but because I’m not content, because I don’t find the work I’m doing valuable enough on its own, or because I don’t want to sit for too long with any uncomfortable feelings. I look for escape, almost constantly. Over time, these patterns have become habits that are very, very hard to shake.
I once read a story about a doctor at a hospital who intentionally started carrying around a ceramic mug instead of a disposable to-go cup. She wanted each of her patients to know she was focused, not in a hurry, fully-present with them. Similarly, I read a blog post years ago about the idea of drinking coffee with two hands. These images have stuck with me, and as I thought about what it would like for me to “dwell” this year, I kept thinking about my coffee.
Most mornings, I hold my cup of coffee in one hand while I pick up toys with the other. Other times, I pour my cup into a Tervis with a lid because I’m anxious to leave the house or am concerned I might spill while I do other things. Even the way I was drinking my coffee spoke to my life of constant distraction, multitasking, and a lack of presence. I’m trying to do better these days, so I’ve taken up the spiritual practice of drinking my coffee with both hands.
I pull a favorite cup from the rack on the kitchen counter. I fill it up—but not all the way—and then I watch a generous splash of half-and-half swirl around. I wrap all my fingers around the mug, hold it up to my face, breath in the aroma, and feel the warmth radiate against my palms. When I sit to play with my kids, I hold the mug tight in two hands until someone demands I drive a matchbox car across the floor. If I sit at the kitchen table, I don’t flip through a magazine or scroll through Instagram; both my hands are occupied.
The Christmas season offers up plenty of opportunities for digging in with two hands: gift wrapping, gingerbread house building, stuffing greeting cards into envelopes. Because I am so used to scrolling, double-tapping, keyboard-shortcutting my way through life, it feels foreign and unfamiliar. What am I missing when I divide my attention—and the work of my hands—between so many different tasks at once?
Drinking my coffee with two hands has become my own quiet rebellion against multitasking, distraction, and hurry. In the stillness, I proclaim that this moment is the only one that matters. I defy the tyranny of the urgent. I savor. At the very least, I try.
I think about the life of Jesus. I remember how Emily P. Freeman has often described the way Jesus was certainly busy; he faced constant demands for his time and attention and power. But when you read the Gospel accounts of his life, he never seems to be in a hurry. Take the situation with Lazarus in John 11: Jesus is told that Lazarus is sick, but he waits several days before travelling to Bethany, where Lazarus lived. In the time that passes, Lazarus dies. A similar thing happens in Mark 5: Jairus’ daughter is sick, but Jesus is slow making his way through the crowds, and she dies before he arrives.
Jesus is compassionate and ready to act and yet…slow. At least that’s how it seems to us. But surprise, surprise--God doesn’t seem to operate on our timelines. Had Jesus hurried, would there have been need of resurrection? We need Jesus to remind us of the same thing he told Lazarus’ sister: “I am the resurrection and the life.”
Now we are walking through Advent, waiting for God to make his dwelling among us. As usually happens, my thoughts have already turned to the new year, and I’m brainstorming plans and projects. Everywhere I look, I see advertisements for fancy planners. I received an actual email with the subject, “3 new ways to crush your goals.” And of course, I’ve been considering what my next word of the year might be, but I don’t feel quite ready to move on.
The rules (aren’t there rules about these things?) say that come January, it’s time for a new word, new resolutions, new me. But I am skeptical. The work of transformation is often slow; my soul doesn’t operate according to arbitrary twelve-month deadlines. If this year has taught me anything, it’s that I shouldn’t be too quick to move on to the next thing. I want to be a person who is willing to sit, to ponder, to be fully present for as long as it takes for the work to be done.
There’s no rush. The coffee is still warm.
A note from 2023: My husband has since been officially diagnosed with ADHD, and while I don’t keep that many tabs open in my browser anymore, open windows may be the death of me. (Or, if not me, at least my laptop’s processing speed).
Reading this now, I’m struck by the fact that I chose “present” as my word in 2022 for many of the same reasons.
So glad you reshared this. Love this idea of drinking coffee with two hands and the larger implications for this kind of presence in our lives.