One of my favorite times in the day is the hour I devote to tea in the early afternoon. I’m never certain to take it, but most of the time there is a lovely hour while Yarrow is sleeping to sit at my table with a cup of something hot and a good book. My favorite book for this time is my own notebook, full of thoughts and dreams and memories. If I can find a good pen, I add to it in this time, and if not, I page backward, remembering. Another recent favorite was Ray Bradbury’s Something Wicked this way Comes; but now, in the midst of a June monsoon, I’m burying myself in cozy, far off places. I’ve run through Sherlock Holmes, Hemingway, and Lewis’ Narnia. I’ve delved into the minor prophets, and walked Abraham’s long road to Moriah again with Kierkegaard. I’ve read my spring journals over and over again, not only in my tea time, but in the loud nights instead of fretting over my drowning garden.
On clear days, I like to take my tea outside. I have dreams of a garden table, a writer’s nook in the yard, with lavender, wild roses, mugwort, around for inspiration. For now though, I’m content on my rock, watching the chickens scratch around. The point is to find balance. To rest my soul in the quiet world around me, to mingle with good company and revive a bit with a nice Cinnamon-orange oolong.
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