I’ve come to believe the entire purpose of my morning cup of coffee is to get me to the next one. Even with the many instances I’ve stopped drinking the stuff completely, I always come back to those two cups.

Maybe my brain has always been a bit slow, or sluggish, requiring some kind of external encouragement to get it going. Whatever the case, I take solace in knowing I’m not alone on in my morning endeavour.

There’s something about a morning ritual, even one as innocuous as coffee, that centers us for the day. It starts us off on certain footing, allowing us to tackle whatever may come.

Ritual is at the heart of human experience. The one qualifier that unites us even if the details differ across households and cultures. It unknowingly gives us a sense of purpose and helps us make sense of the world.

It may not always give us the desired outcomes (in fact, it probably rarely does), but helps us grasp a sense of time that is much larger than the moment we live in.

Sure, two cups of coffee isn’t much of a ritual and almost seems silly to call it one. But hey, it’s mine.