Response

 

This week looks to be busy, so imagining that I am pausing with a friend over a cup of tea reminds me that I can only do one thing at a time. The moments are worth savoring. Perhaps there would be less nastiness in the world if, as words become heated, we would pause and say, "Let us heat water instead, and sit together with a cup of tea."  For our upcoming trip to Bountiful, Utah to have our new ( to us) Tahoma truck fitted to be a camper, we have ordered a tea kettle so we do not have to always boil water in a pan. Spouts do come in handy.  Maybe that is what poetry is for.  I am hopeful about seeing a dark sky.  I have promised the sacred voices that I would keep a record of what I see, and while it might be a little chilly, I will, for a few moments, play my flute, and listen for the response of All.   At the Tea Garden    My friend and I mull over the teas displayed in square jars with beveled glass labeled by type. Each name seems part of a haiku: “After the Snow Sprouting.” “Moon Palace.” “Mist Over the Gorges.” I’m drawn to green teas with unoxidized leaves that don’t wither, hold their grassy fragrance like willow under snow in winter. The proprietor offers real china for the Chinese tea. Animal bones, fine ground, give whiteness, translucency and strength to the porcelain that appears delicate, resists chipping. The rim of the cup is warm and thin. My friend’s lips are plush: her lovely mouth opens to give advice I ask for. We talk about memory of threshold events, like a first kiss or a poem published. She can’t remember… I tell her about my brother-in-law’s chemotherapy—his third bout of cancer. He wants his family to put a pinch of his ashes in things he liked: his banjo, the top drawer of his desk, the garden. I wouldn’t mind becoming part of a set of bone china that serves tea in a cozy teahouse smelling of incense, cinnamon, musk, and carved teak. I’d like to be brought to a small table, sit between friends’ quiet words, held in hands so close that breath on the surface of warm drink makes mist rise over their faces. ~ Margaret Hasse from First Sip  image: San Leandro, December, 2023