Just read something on twitter that many blogs go as many as, if not more than, four months at a time without putting anything new on a blog. If anything I've erred on the side of over-posting. Sure, there are some blogs that deal with celebrity gotchya stories and those might need to be added to multiple times in a day, but leaving something new here once a day seems to be the speed I can manage.
That I keep finding things to talk about doesn't surprise me in the least, but then I don't necessarily write about things exclusively tea-related. Maybe you out there question whether I'm actually coming up with something interesting everyday, but for some reason you keep coming.
Tonight's musings are going to be rather simple. I've been tour guide, dutiful son, hungry writer and sleep-deprived citizen the last week or so, and I want to talk about coming in after a long day and brewing up one last pot of tea before I slip out of consciousness and into the land of my dreams.
That's where I am now. I had a pot of Formosa Oolong this afternoon, saved the bag and just infused it once more. It's absolutely perfect. It's got that nice aftertaste that some Oolongs have, but it's in no way harsh.
The older one gets, the more obvious it is that there are moments you just can't get back. I review my time with my mother the last week, and am incredibly aware that this time is both banal and precious at the same time. You deal with the simple inanities of where you'll eat for dinner or how many new postcard stamps are needed, and only in the late hours or the small hours of the morning can you recognise what value these glimpses have.
How many times did she go through this when I was a child and too lost in my own thoughts to look outside of myself? These moments where she didn't necessarily want to stop time, but to merely slow it so it wouldn't evaporate.
That's how this tea is helping me tonight. As I let it warm my thoughts and feel it soothe me so deeply, I'm aware that whatever lands I visit while I'm sleeping I will be carrying my mother with me. Not just the one I see before my eyes today, but that young woman who struck out in the world and did all she could to help me see that I wasn't alone. Not the wolf-child that was my nature. Only fighting to get his piece.
Now the teapot is dry, and I'm halfway into my nocturnal mountains. What beyond the next ridge might I find there?
That's wonderful writing. Make sure mother reads this, even if you have to "accidentally" leave it lying around by her bed. However, I recommend just giving it to her. It'll make her smile.
ReplyDeleteReally wonderful writing.
ReplyDeleteDid you ever thought tea could be a "Proust's Madeleine"?
I love this, it's beautiful, not just beautifully written, thank you for this.
ReplyDelete