You’ve discovered the Elixir of Life! Here is a video in case you’d like to watch prior to reading the story below:
Tea
I pour my elixir –a shade of “rabbit’s blood”–, or the Turks say given the way it’s tinted, a dark red mixed with brown.
It is a potion I’ve concocted with care, a shade achieved by boiling leaves through the means of fire and air.
Having traveled east to west, it exists in almost every part of the world, a drink considered so mundane as to be overlooked while sipped; except in Japan where the symbolism of its warmth,
hospitality and simplicity have been recognized to be powerful enough for ceremonies to be conducted in its honor; the secrets of these ceremonies safeguarded by the Samurai for centuries and conveyed by masters to the keepers of their schools.
Tea.
As a weirdo who grew up swimming through different cultures and not knowing where I quite fit in, I learned of the significance of tea for the Japanese after coming across it in the passage of a book. The Japanese have devoted centuries to preserving “The way of Tea”, their distinguished Tea Ceremonies built on the principles of making others feel welcome within a small, tea gathering while inspiring guests to find immense beauty in things that are overlooked—like a blossom that’s been carefully clipped, the season in which it has bloomed and its choice of vase; a scroll on a wall containing a profound message; the placement of prized utensils, cups and dishes–all blending to foster a sense of unity with nature and guests; learning to hold a stirring spoon properly, sometimes taking a lifetime to master, or ensuring the tearoom is deliberately small, so that when guests enter through the door, they must crawl, ensuring there is a sense of equality once inside. From a western perspective, one built on rationalism, the notion of tea being served from the heart might seem sentimental or cheesy, but this precept rests on eastern philosophy revolving around a different set of values. The tea used in the ceremony differs from the one I’m pouring, theirs being matcha, a powdery green with a leafy taste, distinct from the black variety I pour.
After the last drops of “rabbit’s blood” trickle into two cups, I take them, walking from the kitchen
to hand a cup to my lovely mother. She is lounging in the family room on a blue sofa, the edge of her scarf dangling past her shoulders, as she pulls a of string prayer beads. She looks up at me. Though I’m a married 28-year-old woman, I still haven’t quite left the roost as I’m here all the time, which also means I’m chided, doted on, fed, complained to, complained about, cared for and loved all the time. One need not be in the same house to be the recipient of all that–but
being under the same roof calls for a more heightened experience I seem to enjoy.
“Make sure you eat something, did you find the pilaf in the fridge?” she asks, her round face scrunches up in worry, her cheekbones rising higher. Always worried, she looks me up and down—from my raven hair to my toes. I’m not terribly thin, but I’m thin enough to have that slight pooch at my waist be noticeable, and when paired with slouched shoulders, the combination gives me the look of an inverted question mark–much like how I feel about my existence most of the time.
“will eat later , sorry mom, I have to do stuff downstairs…
“What? Haven’t you put in enough effort into these ceremonies?” she calls after me. By this time, I’ve returned to the kitchen, opening my parents’ basement door and flip on the light, treading down the burgundy carpeted-stairwell, swinging my mug–its drops drizzling on my fingers like burning mist. A mini volcano in my hands.
It’s not much of a descending hike reaching the base of the stairs where I turn on another outlet.