Soul-Cleaning at Starbucks
By Susan Powell Brown

I am not a coffee drinker. Never have been. But Starbucks has this magical way to dress up a cup of coffee to make it so incredibly delicious, so very decadent, so, well, sinful, that I simply forget that its coffee. Not to mention I have always had an affinity for the decadent and the sinful. I attribute this to my addictive personality, which is precisely how I wound up in a 12-step recovery program. It's also how I wound up in Starbucks.


Oh, if only the walls of that Winter Park Starbucks could talk, what stories they would tell. Or better yet, if we could give those chairs a voice. Not the hard, upright wooden chairs or the metal chairs in front on the sidewalk, but the soft plushy brown velvet ones. I can still remember the way the nap of the fabric felt against my skin whenever I drew my bare feet up into the chair underneath me, which I did without fail each time I sank down into one.


The chairs were always arranged in pairs, tilted towards one another with a little wood table between them to enable us to rest our delicious, decadent, sinful, steamy beverages long enough to talk animatedly with our hands or reach into our respective purses for a tissue or two. My chair instinctively knew how to comfort and conceal me when necessary. And the interior armrest was slightly worn from leaning inward to share something with my 12-step coffee companion, be it crumb-cake or conversation.


I would meet my sponsor at Starbucks and we'd talk about whatever step I was (or should be) working. Or I'd meet a sponsee and we'd talk about whatever step she was (or should be) working. I preferred the latter. If you're not familiar with 12-step programs, suffice it to say that some of the steps might be considered rather confession-like. Unsurprisingly, the person making those confessions might feel a little, well, naked.


Consider that. Naked in Starbucks. A very busy Starbucks. Stone cold sober. No thanks.


It was always the same, whether it was me or someone else. Knot in the stomach, lump in the throat. Clutching the tattered little notebook of the pages in which we'd written down (sometimes in code) the things we'd sworn to ourselves we'd take to the grave. But instead, in the sanctity of those plushy, brown velvet chairs, we'd begin to share. The words came slowly at first. But the unsuspected relief that came from unburdening our souls soon made the words pour out quicker than those Starbuckaroos could pour coffee.


And along with the words were the tears. Oh God, would the tears flow. I remember a wise old woman with a lot of time in recovery who always used to say, "Go ahead and cry, honey. Those tears will wash the windows to your soul."


Hmmm. Soul-cleaning at Starbucks. Imagine that.


Inevitably, the tears would stop and the laughter would come. If not that visit, then perhaps the next. Who knew crying over a slice of marble loaf and sobbing into a piping hot grande white chocolate mocha with caramel on top would leave one feeling so light? Why, the strength of those chairs is unthinkable considering the amount of weight left behind in them.


Each one of us thought ourselves so different, so unique. But no matter who told them, the stories were all the same. Sex, drugs and rock-n-roll. Lost loves, lost jobs, broken families, broken hearts. Trips to jail, trips we couldn't remember. Trips we wished we could simply forget. Times we were caught, more times we should have been caught for something but weren't. But those were the early stories, before any recovery whatsoever. With time, nightmarish lives were transformed into dreams-do-come-true lives. Marriages, babies, degrees, graduations, promotions, retirements. Blended families, mended families. In retrospect, it all seems to have happened in the in the blink of an eye, in the comfort of those plushy, brown velvet chairs, over a cup of coffee and a piece of crumb-cake. My dreams included a new marriage, a change in careers, and a recent move to a small town where there is no Starbucks. I feel naked without it. I miss being able to call up one or more of my girlfriends and say can you meet me at Starbucks tonight? I miss seeing those plushy, brown velvet chairs that silently called my name and somehow possessed auto-memory for my form. I miss that place that went from being my dreaded confessional to my beloved sanctuary. But at least my time spent there left the windows to my soul sparkling bright.


Rumor has it Starbucks is opening a new coffee shop in a hip little area near where I live. I don't know if it will be the same, but I'm willing to give it a try. Guess I'd better get busy making some new girlfriends. And when we get there, you can bet I'll be looking for those plushy, brown velvet chairs.