Coffee Readings with Yaya
Coffee reading is an art - one that requires you to see with colorful intuition. I am first generation Armenian and Greek American. My parents settled in the US in the late 70s, from Lebanon and Turkey, and such my siblings and I grew up with a melting pot of culture and tradition - something that wasn’t very common with most Americans around us. In our Armenian bubble community, coffee gatherings were morning traditions - our house was perpetually alive with jittery voices and cigarette smoke. “Make a wish,” my Yaya would whisper, as I stirred the coffee in a cezve over the stove. “Clockwise, close your eyes, feel it with your heart...”She filled the espresso cups herself and set two aside for us. “I’ll drink with the child in here,” she said as she handed my mother the coffee tray, pastries, and cigarettes. I was seven.
Yaya always read my cup with a furrowed brow, a deep sigh, and a knowing, curious glare. If the bottom of the cup was dark, it meant emotional darkness. “Quickly, wash it out!” She would say with panic in her voice. Yaya diligently inspected a vast array of symbols and pieced together every prediction with caution, knowing fate can turn the dial at any time. As years went by, our readings became Sunday traditions as she patiently taught me to decode and define shapes created by coffee grounds; to understand the significance of dark versus light patterns, and to always put instinct first. She taught me that the cup is a map of every aspect of our lives, and the placement of the symbols reflected the future associated with them. Most importantly, Yaya taught me that the heart of coffee readings is in the ceremony of its creation, as every step must be curated with intention - from wiping the cups to stirring coffee clockwise using measured breath, and even and succinct pours. My intuition grew stronger with every divinatory battle between student and master.
After Yaya passed thirteen years ago, my mother refused to indulge in coffee readings as she perpetually grappled with the existential dilemma of playing with forces beyond her control, whereas I continued diligently with the craft. Every Sunday morning, I go into my kitchen and begin my ceremony, stirring clockwise, and making wishes with careful attention. When I feel the fine grounds of the cup touching my lips, I place my saucer gently on the cup and turn it upside down, topping its porcelain base with my jewelry while I wait for it to cool. “Hello, Yaya.,” I say, after five minutes as I flip the cup again to begin reading her messages.
