I have always loved the café life where I can sit by the endless river without leaving the river, where I can remove myself from the sweeping current but still drink from life. Known as “schools of wisdom,” the first cafés were opened in Damascus, Mecca, and Istanbul in the 15th century, places to stop before making the trek across the continent.

The English word coffee comes from the Italian word caffè, which in turn comes from the Arabic term qahwa, which originally referred to a type of wine. But after wine was banned by Islam in the seventh century, the name referred to coffee.

I wonder: Who was the first to brew and open his door? Who was the first to stop and share his story? And what was that story? Was it one of wonder or betrayal? In 1640, a coffeehouse opened in Venice. Twelve years later, Pasqua Rosee opened the first café In London in St. Michael’s Alley. By 1739, there were 551 coffeehouses in London. They were known as “penny universities.” Patrons told stories, played checkers, sketched portraits, and read poetry. Weary travelers listened and laughed before picking up their burdens.

Keith Jarrett is a legendary pianist and composer who is part of the pantheon who have led us into new realms of music. His legendary ability to improvise is astonishing as are his renditions of classical music including Bach, Handel, and Mozart. Like so many, I have been both softened and strengthened by his company my entire life.

On January 24, 1975, you arrived from a long wet drive from Zurich. You had not slept well due to back pain. You kept shifting the brace in the car, only to find they had the wrong piano. You were going to cancel when the young promoter pleaded in the rain. So, at 11:30 p.m. you walked on stage at the Koln Opera House to a sold-out crowd of 1400 who each paid $1.72 to get in. For the next hour and three minutes you were a nameless spirit rippling in a musical wind, your hands fluttering up and down the keyboard in a more than human way.

I discovered the recording a few years later and your devotion to playing only what you hear helped me be the poet I was born to be. I have played the Koln Concert everywhere: jogging, swimming, walking in the woods, and on airplanes peering through the clouds. Then, in 1985, you released “Hourglass,” a waterfall on piano that you plucked from the gods. Like so many, I have let it unravel my soul countless times, including while huddled in the nook of a boulder on the edge of the Continental Divide. The mountain jays were swooping to the rhythm of your hands. Your disciplined abandon has taught me much about immersion.