A POEM FOR THE 45th ANNIVERSARY OF TRIDENT BOOKSELLERS & CAFE

I’ve been coming here since 1992, when I would come out every summer to go to Buddhist Seminary, at Drala Mountain Center, up in the mountains.

My friends worked here, we partied together, I’d help them janitor late night so we could go to Round Midnight, down the block.

I don’t think I ever came here as a child in the 1980s. I was a Penny Lane (another famous Boulder cafe, that’s sadly long gone now) boy, because that’s where my mom went before school and work.

I’ve put in countless hours here, and gratefully. I wrote much of two books here, and finished my first in the back yard while a torrential rainstorm poured down. I’ve interviewed countless folks, many famous folks, when Elephant hosted our talk show here in the back yard. I’ve hosted a City Council party here. I’ve been interviewed by the Daily Camera and Denver Post and others, here, because this place is my favorite third place. I’ve had dates here, probably, as have so many. I’ve worked here on deadline with my fledgling staff. Spent countless hours with Redford, my past dog, and now Winfield, my present dog. I’ve come here when I’m depressed, for company. I’ve come here mostly to do work on my laptops, probably 7 of them over the last 22 years of Elephant Journal, so that I don’t fall into the screen and drown in my work.

I miss the Rain Table, the table by the barista with a brass plaque saying “the Rain Table” because of the occasional spray of water that made it over the bar. I miss the table on the bookstore side, that was hidden but had a wonderful view. I miss the round children’s book section table and little chairs around it. I miss the racks with newspapers. I miss Mike, an old owner and mentor to many who dusted things constantly and sweetly and awkwardly introduced people and cared deeply, though I understand he had to go at some point.

But now there’s the bigger backyard, and the bricks with messages on them set there by patrons, including me and my best pal Ryan. Mine says “Waylon & Redford: Elephant started here.” Something like that. And now there’s amazing evening events, just constantly, including right now.

Adam Rubenstein, who has a chair dedicated to him, here:

I miss the used books. There’s still a few but mostly new. New books smell like plastic, and often are. Used books smell like vanillin, and have almost no carbon footprint.

But now this place is mostly employee-owned, which is sweet, and an improvement over the usual. This place is in a renaissance. They hold tastings—coffee, tea. There’s a grassroots activity to this place on the daily.

It’s better than it’s ever been, and it was better before.

That’s how a healthy institution should be: always better, but best before. This place is both. It has some of the only mature trees and flowers and not-concrete earth that soaks in rain in West Boulder’s downtown.

I miss the thumbprint cookies, that weren’t too sweet. Perfect to dip with cappuccino or cortado, my old drinks. Now I’m an Americano man. I used to say 1/3 of my body was made of those cookies and the muffins at Trident. These days, zero percent, since I’ve been vegan and don’t like plastic packaging.

Trident was founded 45 years ago in an old yarn shop. Then it expanded into what is now the cafe space. It was modeled after the great cafes, the great Italian or American cafes. It had this new thing called “good coffee,” espresso, fresh coffee. It was founded by Buddhists. A song of one of that generation still works here, we just chanted Ki Ki So So and he did a Tibetan Buddhist lhasang juniper purification blessing in honor of this occasion.

So I’m at an anniversary party for the beloved Trident, downtown Boulder. 45 years.

Folks are happy. Cake. Jake, the GM, a longtime staffer given to black tee shirts and petting dogs, gave a great and short eloquently speech honoring regulars and employees past and present and this sacred, ordinary space that has seen so much over so many years, now.

The world is like that, all the things at once. Trident holds all of it, a space for people and coffee shipped 3,000 miles and birds to alight on the fountain and trees and roses to bloom with bees in the back and folks to fall in and out of love together.

The cake has butter in it, “you don’t want to know how much,” when I ask, assuming it’s not vegan, which it’s not. But it’s lovely, with a calligraphy, the Trident logo, on it that means ‘Mountain’ in Japanese, the logo modeled after Shibata Sensei’s calligraphy. I studied with him when I was young.

Butter means momma cows to be tortured throughout their life and murdered early, and baby cows to be kidnapped and killed after torture at 3 weeks. Life is like that, unseen and untold suffering behind joy, and vice versa.

But a guy is playing interesting music on the stage. Sometimes the feedback is too loud and mostly it’s beautiful.

Many people are having ordinary days. Some are likely insecure, or having a wonderful day, or reuniting. Folks are sitting in sun and shade. A big white dog with its owner, by children playing in the sandbox. I’m sitting on a British Green wood bench below the great red brick wall and pink roses. The sagging bench is perfect for typing things. The old bench is in the old style with wrought iron legs on the sides.

Some people are dressed up. Some are dressed down. A longtime friend is having a really, really, really hard time with her ex and children and many things. Some are doing work on their laptops, not knowing about the anniversary party. Some are reading. Some are on first dates, at least one I’m pretty sure. Some folks are heavy, feeling as if their mind or heart or health or marriage or relationship isn’t working, or they have recently lost a colleague or family member to ICE or cancer or they’ve lost their job or they’re the most beautiful to themselves they’ve ever been, today, right now, for one moment at least.

The weather is cool, sunny, perfect.

But our spinning globe is also overheating, glaciers melting, fish dying, the basic ecosystems upon which we all depend crumbling.

But most aren’t thinking about the butter or the globe.

They’re thinking about the taste of chocolate cake, the fun of celebrating this meaningful anniversary, the depth of their sadness or joy or boredom or all of it, together.

Life is like that. Incomprehensibly sad, or ordinary, or joyful, or all of it.