i threw away all the curtains
because i want to see everything
i’ve grown old on a mantle of marble
i’ve breathed love into statues of stone
i wrapped grey over hard faded rainbow
because gold is the color of own
…
it’s not that
everything’s rosy
or perfect
(the horror!)
but there are flowers
and sunshine
presiding over tea
and i have this minute
(just the one)
to marvel
at the color
of stamina
…
or the belief, at least, that somehow
morning always comes with a sun bold or hidden
bringing new chairs to sit in
beneath a ripe old sky
and gnarled hands knitting hope
by the basket
full
of memory and knotted bits
all the stars you gave
away
and all the sunshine
you gathered
.
.
.
and freshly fallen rain
passing through on its way
to far-off places
leaving sparkling bits of fractured light
and splashed up drops
of holy water
to reflect a laundered sky
gone back to blue
.
.
.
some moments in life change everything.
of course, the big ones do, first jobs, graduations, marriages, children, promotions, death. these moments are events, we expect them to take over, to change us, to get our attention.
but what about the small ones? the simple smile that opens your heart, or the first bud opening on the crab apple tree. what of the shimmer of moonlight through the curtains on the night you cannot sleep, or the sound of your husband’s snoring? what of the first sip of tea each morning, the one you have been taking so long it has almost become the same as breathing?
and what of the moments that pass by, unnoticed? the ones filled with repetitive motion?
there are the dishes i wash daily, again and again, and the bed that i make and this floor that i sweep. there is my hand passing back and forth as it sweeps the dust from a picture.
there is ritual in these tiny bits of life that make up the patterns of our days.
these are the things that keep us grounded, keep us grinding away. they may wear us down, but they keep us going.
creating order out of chaos is what keeps us sane. holding together the bits of our lives on our postage stamp of universe, giving us purpose, potential, comfort.
i am rich because i have a floor to sweep, a mirror to dust, a bed
to make.
this tea to drink.
and savor.
:
Every morning, I have my own little tea party.
For me, tea is more than just a beverage, more than a daily dose of caffeine. It is a ritual that grounds me, a habit that comforts me, tea is part of who I am.
Tea requires patience. No instant gratification here, even if you use a tea bag. You have to wait if you want it to taste just right, you have to boil the water in a teapot on the stove, always. The best tea is made from loose leaves, in a pot. The best tea requires that you bide your time.
And you have to sit at your kitchen table for the first cup of the day and stare out the window at your little corner of the world, noting the changing seasons and the antics of the birds, and the way the sun glints off the freshly fallen snow.
In summer, you have to have your first cup in the garden as you listen to those same birds singing their hellos. If you are lucky, you will get there in time to watch the sun rise. If you are lucky, the tea will be the perfect complement to dawn’s new dress.
No matter how busy the rest of the day will be for me, there is always that first cup of tea.
That moment of meditation, the breathing in of day’s beginning,
the drinking in of endless possibility.
Now that’s my kind of party.
