The quiet satisfaction in fixing things

This morning, my Sage coffee machine suddenly went on strike. Instead of its usual reassuring hum of grinding beans, it just made a strange clicking sound and sat there doing nothing. My immediate thought was: “Great. How much will this cost to fix? Is it even worth repairing?”

Usually, at moments like this, I’d already be halfway to the manufacturer’s website—double checking the warranty, seeing if I still had the receipt filed somewhere safe, that sort of thing. But before completely resigning myself to emails and customer support lines, I figured I’d just type the issue into YouTube. Sure enough, someone had already uploaded a six-minute video showing exactly how to fix a jammed grinder on my exact model.

I propped up my phone next to the coffee machine and carefully followed along, step by step. Unplug everything, remove the hopper, unscrew the top burr assembly. It wasn’t long before I discovered the culprit—a stubborn lump of ground coffee, jammed tight where it definitely didn’t belong. A toothbrush and a bit of careful poking sorted the problem out. I put everything back together, a little hesitantly—feeling like I was defusing some intricate bomb rather than just fixing a coffee machine.

When I plugged it back in and pressed start again, the grinder spun up normally. Moments later, coffee appeared. It was a small thing, but I was pretty pleased with myself. The whole process hadn’t taken more than twenty minutes. As I drank my coffee, I found myself thinking: Why don’t we do this more?

Fixing things ourselves doesn’t come naturally to my generation (or at least, most of us). My grandfather wouldn’t have hesitated for an instant—opening the cover, poking around with tools, finding the problem himself. Things were built differently then, made to be repaired, kept running for years with just a bit of care and know-how. These days, it almost feels a little rebellious to fix something yourself before checking warranties and calling tech support.

All of this brought to mind a book I read recently—Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. At the time, it struck me mostly as an interesting story about a road trip and some abstract philosophy. But now, hands still dusted lightly with grounds of coffee, it clicked for me differently. The book asks us to see quality in what we do, to slow down, understand our machines, our environment, and ultimately, ourselves—by simply paying attention. Whether it’s rebuilding a motorcycle engine or just cleaning a coffee grinder, there’s something quietly satisfying about working directly with your hands, focusing carefully, and bringing something back to life.

I’m not suggesting I’ll be tackling a motorcycle restoration in my garage anytime soon, but maybe next time there’s a problem—with an appliance, a loose cabinet hinge, or anything else—I might skip straight past the warranty paperwork. Instead, I’ll reach first for a tool (and a toothbrush) and see if there’s a YouTube video to guide me.

Fixing something myself made my coffee taste better today—or at least that’s how it seemed.