A Time for Tea {Denver, CO: Personal Reflection & Fine Art Photography}

Those who have followed this blog for a few years will recognize this post. It was published two years ago, at the beginning of my musings about rituals, havens and what makes family special. I still think of this post often...it just comes from such a deep place in my heart and it rings as true today as it did two years ago when I wrote it. With the launch of Haven officially this week, I wanted to share it again. It's the perfect example of the kind of writing and ideas I want this blog to be about. Instead of recreating it for launch week, I just wanted to share it again for anyone who might be new here. 

This post is dedicated to my amazing Father, or Papa as he is better know these days. And to all the cups of tea, including the one in my hands right now, that have been and that will be.

I drink coffee.  I wait for the dark liquid to seep through the black grounds as a yawn escapes me and I hear the first, faint cries of my Little Man. It is morning and as the creeping sunlight calls me into a new day, I find courage and energy to face it with the perfect, cream stained pour-over warming my hands.

And yet…dare I say, despite all it does for me, coffee is not my drink of choice? For long before coffee called my name, there was tea.  It was as black as night, sweetened by a local clover honey and tinged with a few drops of lemon juice. At least that’s how my Father always made it for me, and is there really any other way to partake of a cuppa? 

No matter the season or the time of day, my Father always had the kettle warm and waiting to make a cup of tea.  Each and every evening he’d pose the question to me: ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Even if I didn’t particularly want one on a warm summer’s evening or I already had something else in my hand, my answer was always yes. And as we’d stand in a darkening kitchen, with the light of the stove casting our shadows long onto the wall behind, I’d wait for him to pour, steep, and stir, while I’d bare my soul and he’d share his quiet wisdom. Teatime was not a tradition with flair and delicate china, but a time for sharing life with one another.  It was a time for honesty and vulnerability.  It was a time to be known.

My husband makes my tea most evenings now.  After a long day of adventuring with our Little Man, I am most often found staring down a bright computer screen late into the night.  I often don’t even notice when that steaming cup appears before me, but there is always is, still smelling of honey and lemon, the most tender of scents.  Sometimes I drink it.  Often times it goes cold in my hand, a victim of my distracted state.  And yet, just the fact it was there brings me comfort. 

And so, without knowing it, these great men have fed my soul through their preparation of hundreds and probably thousands of cups of tea. It is here I am quiet.  It is here I reflect. It is here I have known my self.

This is my ritual.  This is me at peace.