Tea as Narrative

Today I had lunch at ching ching CHA (a Chinese tea house). I wanted as my jasmine blossom unfolded for me and as my friend poured his tea from the clay pot into another pot and then into a holding cup and then the small saucer in which he drank the tea from, I found a sense of beauty and calm amid all the spastic breaths I've been taking. It was as if each of us had a metaphor for drinking our tea a certain way, or perhaps the one for the ways in which we try to carry out our lives. That which opens and slowly unfolds, and that which is about movement and continuity. In this I find the treads for story, for meaning.

I have a glass tea pot at home. One that I bought when Brady's closed in Kent and have never used. It just didn't seem right to drink regular tea from it. Last week it was irises. This week it is orange blossoms that make tea. I think of simplicity--of how much it means to really talk with someone and to be amazed by another.

I received my first copy of The Sun magazine in the mail and have already read the entire thing. None of that, flip flip, only read this, flip flip, look at the pictures stuff. It's quite an exquisite publication--it reminded me of Kent, the place that taught me that writing comes from the heart--poetry, fiction, non-fiction. No matter, whether the ocean or the flower, a true story is unfolding. And in light of the metaphors flying around like butterflies (DC is full of them now...I see at least one a day), I'll let you lead yourself towards the sun. No easy links this time.