Tea Tins and Ritual

 
I’ve been lucky this week. I picked just the right day to ride along to Portland with my husband. I spent the day basking in 60 degree sunlight, wandering the bookstores and picking up fantastic thrift-store necessities. My favorites by far are the tea tins - a set of three, made in England, and just the right sizes to house my coffee and two best beloved (after Weekend Morning) teas. I have a basic, organic Irish Breakfast tea in the smallest tin, and will very soon have Simpson and Vail’s Smokey Siberian in the mid-sized tin. I can’t wait. I haven’t actually had my Siberian tea in years, but it’s left such a mark on my mind I can’t forget the late-night taste of it.

The tea tins are in a way, representative of my renewed commitment to ritual and beauty. Like the life I’m trying to build, they’re beautiful, orderly, and simple. They store things that would otherwise mess up my shelves. And they’re beautiful..I’ve been trying to do things gradually - I don’t like to be gradual, I like to jump into things with so much enthusiasm. But my enthusiasm is hard to maintain, and when I’m too eager, I cut out things I should have kept, and keep things I should cut. Just as I do in my writing. So I’m slowing down, settling into rituals, welcoming the silence and the imperfection that comes with reflection. I’ve spent the morning cutting out the unbeautiful: words, phrases, dust, and junk; drinking tea with scones and cream; stoking the stove against the wind and cold. Our warm days are done, the windchill is bitter and the sunlight can only warm the soul, not the air.

On the advice of some friends, I’m planning to delve into my writing by posting poems here more often. Open and ready for critique. My hope is that it will encourage more dedication to the improvement of my craft. I’m also removing myself from the internet on the weekends to welcome in the peace of those days and nurture my little family more with my full presence. I love the new goals that come with each new year, especially those that slowly reveal themselves. The wind is loud now, a Friday wind, full struggle and anticipation. Yarrow is napping under blankets on the bed and I have a stack of poems to prepare for new eyes. Enjoy the weekend.