Tea

I’m trying tea, but so far I just like the warmth of the mug while I look out the window, and the idea of a ritual that grounds me, and being a part of this community corner – friends and strangers who also love and live by huddling around a warm cup of tea during the winter months and beyond. I’m not sure if I’m a part of this group yet, but I want to be. I once played tennis on a team because I loved the skirts, and I decided I liked watermelon so that I could spit the seeds with my brothers, so the pull and power of wanting “in” is not to be underestimated. Our mailbox will soon hold a yellow tea kettle from amazon; I assume it will be easy to use. My parents never made tea but my grandma had an old kettle that whistled loudly from the reddish-orange-linoleum kitchen and so for me, the sound is rooted in nostalgia, puzzles and board games, and love. I hope my new yellow kettle sings like our house is warm and welcoming to things like gentle music, dog-earned book pages, lumpy chairs, and talks over a table holding the warm mugs, like drinking tea will suddenly make that more true, and like all tea-drinkers are nestled cozily into their peaceful lives, and like a yellow kettle’s brightness is guaranteed visual joy in these gloomy short days. I sip my tea, unsure of the taste, and decide I am clearly searching for something, and I’m fairly certain tea is not the answer to the unknown question, but here I am, drinking it while writing and my children play outside in the last of the days’ sunlight so maybe the magic is already working, you think? It’s worth a try, I believe.