Quanked

What to do? When the clock is ticking, the rain pattering on the roof is more annoying than soothing and you have just remembered something that should have been done, but wasn’t. When sleep, that restful place you were just an hour past deeply into, is now what seems to be a lost cause, What do you do?

I took the book poised rather precariously atop my teetering TBR pile, descended the stairs to the kitchen and put the kettle on. In a cabinet where I keep my teas, I procured a sachet of Ahmad’s Decaffeinated Evening Tea. The tea was one of many “tea time” items in a raffle basket I recently won that had been filled with tea related items. This tea is quite tasty as well as calming. I was hoping it to be the perfect antidote for a restless night.

While the kettle heated, I threw a load of clothes into the washing machine and folded another before hearing that slow, rolling sound that commences just before water starts to boil. Cup and saucer ready, I turned off the flame just before the teakettle began to sing and set my teabag in the cup to steep. It is amazing how much can be accomplished while brewing a spot of tea!

I fired up my laptop as the tea steeped, checked my Facebook feed and discovered that my long-time blogging friend Kate had just posted a gem that fit my immediate circumstance; the obsolete word of the day!

A serendipitous moment for sure.

QUANKED

To be overpowered by fatigue is to be quanked!

Infused to perfection in a vintage, handleless lustreware cup, upon which I cupped my hands. I sipped my tea, listening to the soft sound of clothes tumbling about in the dryer. I read for a bit, then closed my eyes and drifted off into the second chapter of sleep.

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Be Still

 

Be Still

They come to me, these simple words, in times of trouble, of worry, or distress. They come, as well, in times of happiness, solitude and joy.  They comfort me; a soft and simple prayer that gives me strength in the darker hours of woe. They settle me. They calm me.

Sometimes, I just say “Still” or “Still my heart Lord“. The words come bidden, and sometimes not. They are often just there, hanging like morning mist upon my thoughts. Always, my heart IS stilled and my hurt, or worry, or anxiety lessens.

Monday afternoon, after running a few errands and starting our evening meal, I set the teakettle on a slow flame, for tea should not be rushed, and I picked up this great “find” my son-in-law Tom gave me. He knows my interest in Laura Ingalls Wilder and, a kindred biblio-spirit, he caught a university book sale that was not to be missed. I snatched a pinwheel cookie, my book and my tea and settled onto a favorite reading spot. 

This mug was a gift from Jennifer and Jason. The flower looks much like my blooming Amaryllis bulbs, brilliant in their papery essence; delicate yet strong. The words, Be Still, sit perfectly inside the rim of the cup and meet my gaze each time I take a sip of something warm and comforting.

This mug is thinner than most mugs. In fact, it feels much like a teacup. It holds the heat in well and it fits my hands just so, letting my fingers wrap around to snuggle the warm, golden liquid.

So it was, on a wintry afternoon, just as dusk was starting to fall, the twinkle of candlelight dancing along with the steam in my cup, that stillness overcame me and that I embraced it, as it brought me back to where I should be.

Still.

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Reflecting

Come late afternoon, midwinter, as whatever warmth is left of the day wanes, I like to brew a small pot of tea. There is something soothing in the ritual of preparing tea; the slow boil of the water, the preparation of the teapot, the cup and saucer meeting up with a spoon. There is a certain sound that water in a kettle makes, just before it begins to boil. It heavy and anxious and eager just before it whistles, then insistent in its wail. I love to pour the water slowly in, letting it settle down in the kettle for a minute or so, like children coming in from recess, then drenching the tea bag or leaves, and catching the aroma at its most fragrant as steam curls upward. There is a rhythm in waiting for tea to steep – one minute, maybe five, depending on the tea chosen.

I know some think me silly. Just use the microwave. It is faster, I’ll agree, but the tea tastes flat and you don’t get the same kind of flavor, so, thanks, but no thanks, I’ll just do it this way, but I’d love for you to stay a while and have some.

Once again, I digress. One cup of tea, maybe two, is all I need. A few quiet moments to reflect upon my day, read a few pages in my latest book or browse a new magazine just brought in from the mailbox. As I sit and savor those first sips, which are always the best, and the light starts to fade, it is a comforting time to look at my day, where I’ve been, what I’ve done, what remains.

I wish you could come and have a cup of tea with me today.  I hope you can at least settle down for one, wherever you are, and enjoy a few sips, and reflect upon your day.

I think of half-past four at Manderley, and the table drawn before the library fire . . . the performance, never-varying, of . . . the silver tray, the kettle, the snowy cloth.

Daphne du Maurier, Rebecca

Tea. Mary Cassatt

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