This morning, I took myself out for coffee. I breathed in, and breathed out, and sipped. I observed as stallholders put the finishing touches on displays of vegetables and cheeses, listened in as the barista answered a customer’s questions about the milk they use in their coffees, watched with tension as a market staffer careened at speed going in reverse in a forklift.

This time last year, I began a 5-week sojourn in Paris, just because. Before I left, my dear friend Bec asked me to send her a photo of my coffee whenever I had one. And so began a daily ritual.

On settling into my sweet apartment in the 15th, happily away from the madding crowds, I explored, and after some trial and error, found the perfect morning café. Bistro Mon Rêve (mon rêve means my dream) was situated on a corner, at just the right angle to receive the early morning sun. When I arrived in the final week of May, mornings were cool and fresh enough to want that hit of warmth as soon as possible. And so, like a cat, I chased the sunniest spot available on the terrace and waited to place my order.

‘Madame, bonjour, que ç’est que je vous sers?’

‘Bonjour, Madame. Un café allongé, s’il vous plâit.’

When the steaming hot coffee arrived, often with a bikkie clinging onto the saucer, I snapped a photo of it. Once I had sent it to Bec, I put away the phone and sat there and sipped, looking out onto the unfolding scenes of the morning. That ritual was a 15-minute meditation where the only things I focused on were breathing in, breathing out and tasting my coffee. I watched the world through calm eyes of love and curiosity.

A red Vespa slows down to take the turn into Avenue de Félix Faure, the rider’s long blonde hair streaming out from under her blazing red helmet; a world-weary man brakes to a halt in his large delivery van as someone failed to give way and almost ran into him; a slim young man in a snappy blue suit with tan dress shoes, no socks, ankles showing, strides to the metro, briefcase in hand; a chic woman with tousled grey hair strolls by with her morning baguette; an older lady of the neighbourhood pulls her purple shopping cart on the way to Marché St-Charles; parents drop their kids at the day care centre across the road.

Once, I caught what appeared to be an Instagram photoshoot taking place, where the director had the subject walk towards the camera in several takes till they got the money shot. He was wearing pink short shorts and pretending to bite eagerly into a pastry from Le Grenier de Félix up the road. The scene captivated an older gentleman who stood stock-still on the footpath, baffled by this brazen display. The man committed to a series of vigorous head shakes as he huffed off, questioning where the youth were taking us all.

The palpable joy of being in the present as consciously as I can, it’s unmatched as a life experience. Being with myself fully and openly. Connected to my inner world and participating in my outer. It took a long time to feel comfortable in the present. When I first tried being in the ‘now’, I quickly realised how little I liked myself. But doing the hard work of getting there has been the best investment of my life.

From a place of being, the doing is infinitely easier to achieve. The ideas are better, the obstacles fewer. My daily to-do list is no longer overwhelming but brings a sense of achievement as I make my way through it. I’m quicker to laugh and play. More interested in others and how they are faring. I feel in control of my life rather than the other way around. The switch in that power dynamic is glorious: it’s entirely within my power to approach the day as I please, and finding a way that feels good and connected to Divine flow is simply incomparable to any other approach I’ve tried.

Being available to make eye contact with others, share in a chuckle with the man at the next table over a bird that swooped on a chunk of bread someone left behind, eavesdrop (endlessly entertaining), smile and nod my head to the kind woman who served me each morning at Bistro Mon Rêve, hold the eye of a man opposite the café who looked at me with a penetrating gaze of appreciation while he prepared to jump onto his motorcycle, and return the appreciation to him – those are the moments I miss in daily life, unless I decide to partake in a similar ritual on my home turf. They are precious moments of connection with others; those moments are the ones that enrich my mornings, days, life.

A year on from that 5 weeks in Paris, that beautiful bubble out of space and time, my simple daily ritual continues. And all I’m required to do is breathe in, and breathe out, and taste my coffee. Bliss.

Daily rituals