So I have this friend.
We were at breakfast together a few weeks ago on one of those blisteringly cold mornings, well below zero. In Minnesota, you can tell how cold it is based on how the snow sounds when you walk on it. When it squeaks underneath your boots, you know it’s frighteningly cold.
Minnesotans were grumping our way through that morning, so very done with the polar vortex and school closings. Garumph, we said to anybody who would listen.
My friend ordered a large Americano, and he wanted it to be served in a clear, pint glass. When it arrived, he asked for cream, and when it came, he had a gleam in his eye.
“Watch this,” he said, unable to contain his excitement.
He poured a tiny bit of white cream into that black Americano, which gracefully spun and danced down into it, creating a stunning piece of living art. As it swirled and showed off, we giggled. We honestly did.
“Let’s do it again!” he barked. Without waiting for a response from me, he poured more cream into it, and we watched the whole show again. It was delightful.
It was a cup of coffee.
He did something magical for me that morning, taking my gaze off the snow and wind and cold and cancellations. He invited me to look up, to look out, to look towards. He invited me to notice a moment that I would not have noticed. He invited me into delight, a place with open access to everyone. The only entrance fee is only that you’d stop long enough to see it.
So, Minnesotans, today is another one of those days. Another school cancellation. Another driveway full of craziness. Most of us will need to juggle our schedules, sighing a lot and garumphing our way through the day.
Stop for delight at least once, I dare you. Throw a snowball at your neighbor. Order someone a pizza and have it delivered to their house. Organize a spontaneous dance party in your cube.
Delight is contagious, and we need it.