on returning to a place
36 West Main Street.
Capital Joe Coffee . Denim Coffee.
I inhale a breath of anticipation as I approach from the left. The coffee shop announces itself through a deep stone archway and a set of broad curved steps worn smooth by decades of footsteps. This doorway carries a sense of permanence and history—standing in contrast to the newness of businesses that have moved in, pedestrian-friendly updates to the sidewalk, and the movement of people and cars along Main Street.
I exhale, walk up the familiar four front steps, and pull open the historic wooden door—crossing the threshold from the hustle and bustle of public life into the sanctity of slower rhythms and personal experience.
I pause in the entryway to take in all that has changed.
The walls are a new shade of sky blue.
The menu is displayed on four chic, black-and-white, poster-style boards.
The coffee bar has a new, faux-stone finish.
And yet I’m comforted by all that remains the same.
The small-scale basketweave tile—worn down by decades of use—still blankets the floor of the front room.
My favorite booth, alighted by a window, awaits me to stake my claim to the space.
The cream and sugar bar remains relatively unchanged.
And the back room still invites customers who want more of a quiet coworking space. I’ve always loved the comfort the fireplace brings to the space.
I enter with a bit of trepidation. This was “my spot” for so many years, yet I don’t quite feel like an insider anymore…and it’s not just because the coffee shop changed names. What was once my home is still familiar, but I am now a pilgrim passing through on my way to a new destination. Over the last six years, this coffee shop has changed, and I have changed. We’re recognizable, but we are not the same as when we parted ways.
I order a latte and a pastry, settle into my favorite booth, and pull out my notebook and laptop to begin writing. As I’m sitting here reflecting and soaking up my surroundings, I find myself most struck by the floor—an intricately constructed basketweave design of thousands of beige and black tiles. The floor bears the marks of time. Its carefully ordered pattern has been interrupted by fractures that stretch across the room—evidence of decades of settling, weathering, and footsteps. Yet the cracks have been embraced as part of the coffee shop’s identity rather than a defect to be hidden.
And I think, perhaps we aren’t so different.
Why did I choose to return to this coffee shop, of the dozen options I had in Mechanicsburg?
I mean, logistically, it’s a short five-minute walk from my friend Beth’s house, where we spent the morning catching up.
But also, it was a delightful three-minute walk from the apartment I called home for almost two years as I completed my master’s degree.
Long before I understood the importance of becoming a local—of walking around my city and investing in small businesses—I developed the habit of loading up my backpack with texts and my laptop and walking down the street for a few hours of focused work.
This place holds years of memories as I studied, wrote, wrestled, and dreamed.
I spent a year going through a spiritual formation program—learning about myself, God, interactions with others, and how it all tied into my vocation. In front of that cozy fireplace, I identified lies I believed and worked towards becoming a healthier, more whole version of myself.
I wrote many papers for my master’s program at these tables. I tried new things that made me uncomfortable because I couldn’t guarantee I’d be good at them. I’m pretty sure I even submitted a few grad school applications from this spot. And as a result, I grew—as a writer, as a scholar, and as a person.
This coffee shop is also a container for some memories of fond interactions I had with dear friends.
I remember all the times I sat across from Alison as we discussed grad school, life, and plans for the future.
When she returned from the UK and told me about her experiences abroad.
When I shared my intention of starting grad school.
When we celebrated and cried as I packed up to move to Texas.
This place grounded our interactions.
Fairly reliably, someone I knew would walk in over the course of the time I was hunkered down. We’d chat, and then we’d (re)turn to our separate work. That’s what it means to be a local: you are known, and you know others.
But today, I sit here with a different goal in mind. Six years later, I am pursuing my doctoral degree, and I am reflecting specifically on the significance of this coffee shop in my journey. Without this coffee shop, I might not be where I am today.
Coming and going can strengthen our attachment to a place, and I’d say that’s true of my relationship with this coffee shop. During my master’s program, I wanted to return week after week to meet friends or do work. And I wanted to return today, even if it’s under new ownership with a different name.
It feels weird to say that a coffee shop formed me. It’s not the coffee that shaped me, but the space and the people who inhabited it that slowly, over time, grew to be an inseparable part of my being, of my place-based identity in Mechanicsburg.
I wrestled. I grew. This place holds it all, and that’s part of what makes it so special.
Meaningful places are repositories of memory. They hold not just events, but entire seasons of life (big or small).
When we return to meaningful places, we are also encountering past versions of ourselves.
Remember a few years ago the trend where people took a past version of themselves out for coffee and had a hypothetical chat about all the life that transpired? That’s kind of what it’s like when we revisit meaningful places years after we’ve left.
Past Emma was a combination of insecurity and confidence. She was navigating the hurt of a career change and broken relationships in her early 20s while also developing her identity as a scholar-practitioner and becoming a better friend to the people in her life then and down the road.
Current Emma would say the same. The wounds are deeper, yet in it, she’s allowed God to develop a greater well of compassion for those around her and a drive to help others find wholeness.
If past Emma knew all that she would walk through in the next six years, she would not have been able to handle it. She would have run away and quit before she even started grad school.
But now, past and present Emma sit across from one another. Past Emma appreciates the endurance and commitment of present Emma—core attributes that she is glad were not stripped away. And present Emma thanks past Emma for faithfully following God’s leading—because as much as she would never want to re-experience the things of the last six years, she is deeply grateful for the person she has become, and she would not have gotten here without past Emma’s courageous steps into the unknown.
I think what makes places meaningful is the wholeness of the human experience that unfolds within them. These places witness our brokenness and participate in our self-exploration and healing. They become entwined with our identity in a beautiful way.
Wrestling through challenges, having epiphanies, growing as a result of heartache—these are the very human experiences that deepen our capacity for joy, excitement, celebration, and attachment to places. Yes, fond memories are important, but it’s more so the process of becoming that makes us attached to places. And formation cannot happen without struggle.
It’s a form of emotional and spiritual scarring. We get hurt, and we heal. And then we have scars to remind us of the beautiful journey.
With time and distance, our healed scars sometimes invite us to return to meaningful places with a complexified affection. It’s more than nostalgia for “the good old days.” This sort of affection acknowledges the both/and—the hurt and the healing—and how it has all worked together to form us into the people we are today.
As I pack up my laptop, I focus my eyes again on the tile floor and the numerous cracks that disrupt the pattern. What others might rush to “restore,” the owners of the coffee shop have embraced as character. These “scars” remind us of the life this space had long before we occupied it as a coffee shop.
Likewise, our scars are not imperfections. They are signs of weathering and endurance. Scars are symbols of our welcoming of the fullness of the human experience. They tell a story of where we have been and we are now.
We return to places not to reclaim the past but to appreciate who we were then and who we are now within a context that catalyzed the journey of being and becoming. This coffee shop matters because it contains traces of who I was and who I am, and who I am is partly a result of what happened within these four walls.
I close my laptop, place it in my backpack, and zip it up. As I walk out, I say goodbye to the barista. We will probably never see each other again, but she played a small part in my attachment experience today.
I step over the threshold, reentering the hustle and bustle of city life. I cross the street and turn around to admire the Romanesque entryway once more. I’m not sure when I’ll be back or even if this coffee shop will still be here, but I know 36 West Main Street will forever be a part of my story. I smile, take a deep breath, get in the car, and drive away.
