Photo credit: Flickr: Tarun Narang
Originally appeared on Medium, April 2018
“When I drink the tea, there is only me and the tea . . . This is an act of life, in one pure moment, and in this act the truth of the world suddenly becomes revealed: all the complexity, pain, drama of life is a pretense, invented in our minds for no good purpose. There is only the tea, and me, converging.” ~ Thich Nhat Hanh
You might assume it starts with the water. It doesn’t. It starts with the kettle.
Me, I prefer the classic stovetop variety, the kind your grandmother probably used. Preferably copper, one with a throaty, guttural whistle that rises to a siren at the top. The kind that pulls me out of the modern hustle. But my husband is a gadget guy, so we have a slick, silent monster with a digital screen. Our lamps flicker whenever we run it.
Don’t just grab thoughtlessly your kettle. Pick it up with care. Hold it. Feel its heft.
Now comes the water. Filtered or tap, pick your poison. Watch carefully as it flows. Take note of the water creeping up the curves of the kettle, meeting and merging with droplets clinging to the sides from the last batch.
Add heat. With my dream kettle, I would plunk it, water sloshing side to side, on a gas burner and watch the flames flicker up. In my modern kitchen, I hit a button with a slightly satisfying click. I watch the lights flicker.
Now it’s time to choose the your tea. For me, mornings are for matcha. Green tea, extra earthy, all the good stuff. Otherwise, it’s peppermint or lemon-ginger, because it’s after 2pm and I’m not 20 anymore. Later it gets even worse. I really show my age. Lavender.
How is your water doing? Keep an eye on the temperature. 200–2012 degrees Fahrenheit for black tea, 150–180 for green, 200 for herbal. My fastidious brother has somehow convinced me that this matters.
Next step is the mug. This is crucial. You want one thin enough to feel the heat when you wrap your hands around it, but not so thin that you scald your palms. I bounce between inspiring mugs and funny ones. Extra points given to grammar jokes.
Watch the water again as you pour. The tea bag dances lightly on the surface at first, then becomes saturated, leaf by leaf, until it drifts to the mug floor. Steep, and think about the steeping. Imagine the water swirling through each cell of tea, soaking up its essence. Each cell merging with the next, blossoming into the water like an overblown rose.
Now sit. What’s your favorite spot? Mine is the mid-century turquoise chair in a bay window. Light reflecting off white shutters, bird song blending with the city’s signs of life. Sit, and realize that you’re sitting.
Wrap your hands around the mug. Let the warmth soak into your fingers, your palms. Watch for steam rising from the lip of the mug, like morning mist rolling off heavy hills.
Hold the mug against your chest. Feel the heat spread along your sternum, seep into your heartspace. Imagine it like a liquid, golden light.
Lean your nose close. Breathe in, through the nostrils. Make it long and slow, soaking in the scent. Fill your lungs to their limit, and then drink in one sip of air more. Now breathe out, through your mouth, down to the bottom of your lungs. Make it audible. Feel the air vibrate in the back of your throat like an ocean wave. Feel your shoulders relax, melt down your back.
Do this again. Is your heart still pumping a work-a-day rate? Do it again. Feel your eyes, your temples, your jaw soften. Do it again. Feel your breath merge with the steam, the scent, the cells of tea.
Welcome to the moment. Welcome to the world, to your life, in a cup.