The Coffee Spill That Changed Everything
There’s a before and after. Before, I measured worth in flawless arguments, polished lectures, and the absence of visible cracks in my own life. My office was a shrine to order: books aligned, coffee always at precisely 140 degrees, and my own flaws carefully cataloged as “inconveniences” to be corrected. I’d spend hours dissecting a student’s flawed logic while ignoring my own tendency to interrupt, or the way I’d rehearse conversations for days, terrified of saying the wrong thing. The philosophers called this aisthēsis—the sensory focus on self-perfection—but I’d never asked: But what does that actually mean for how we live?
The shift happened over coffee. I was rushing to class, clutching my mug, when a student bumped my arm. Hot liquid splashed across my notes, my shirt, the floor. My first reaction was a sharp gasp, then a surge of shame—How unprofessional, how clumsy! I braced for judgment, ready to apologize with rehearsed precision. Instead, the student, Maya, just knelt, grabbing paper towels. “Whoops,” she said gently. “Happens to the best of us. Want to grab a fresh cup?” Her calm disarmed me. I’d been so busy judging my own spill, I hadn’t seen hers—a quiet, human moment.
That’s when it hit: I’d spent decades treating flaws like stains to be scrubbed away, but they’re not stains. They’re texture. The philosophers called this eudaimonia—flourishing—but not through perfection, through presence. I realized my fear of imperfection had made me rigid, distant. I’d been so focused on avoiding the spill that I’d missed the warmth of the moment, the connection in Maya’s quiet kindness.
After? I still spill coffee. I still interrupt. But now I let the spill be. I notice the way my hands tremble when I’m nervous—not as a failure, but as proof I’m alive. I’ve stopped correcting students’ grammar in class, choosing instead to ask, “What were you trying to say?” I’ve even started sharing my own missteps—like the time I mispronounced “epistemology” for a decade. It’s not about fixing flaws; it’s about letting them be part of the story. Flaws aren’t cracks in the foundation—they’re the mortar holding us together, making the whole structure real.
Here’s what I’ve been thinking about: Maybe the deepest wisdom isn’t in avoiding the spill, but in learning to breathe through the splash.
— Ray Bates, still asking questions
— Roger Jackson, finally at peace with the man in the mirror