Do you have a favorite way to drink tea? What other daily ritual brings you comfort and joy? Share your thoughts in the comments below.
I can still envision my mother standing by our white GE stove when I was a child. She’d have on one of her caftans—long and floaty—and a pair of terry cloth slippers. Her hands, nails polished red, fingers unadorned except for her gold wedding band, would fill the tea kettle at the faucet, then place it on a lit burner. Normally a blur of activity, she’d ease into a chair and wait.
Soon, the kettle’s whistle resounded through our apartment like a brass trumpet. It heralded the time for a bit of self-indulgence: a momentary escape from the worries of life. She’d rise to pour the steaming water into her favorite mug, where her Lipton tea bag sat ready.
Mom needed that reprieve—that ritual of sitting and resting. Besides ensuring that my sister and I were involved in church activities and made our twice weekly piano lessons, she took care of my grandmother. Gran suffered with chronic heart problems, and during the week while my aunt, who lived with my grandmother, was at work, Mom looked out for her needs.
Soon, the kettle’s whistle resounded through our apartment like a brass trumpet. It heralded the time for a bit of self-indulgence: a momentary escape from the worries of life
After her tea steeped to her liking, she’d remove the bag and set it on a saucer. I’d often sit and join her, in my nightgown if it was close to bedtime, my hair styled in the three plaits she’d formed. I’d sip the warm drink, more milk than tea, that Mom had prepared for me.
As I became an adolescent, and then an adult, my teatime ritual increasingly mirrored hers. Like Mom, I added two cubes of sugar and a bit of evaporated milk. I emulated her unhurried way of drinking too, pausing between sips to reflect or talk about something on my mind.
Over the years, as we talked during our teatime, I noticed other dimensions of my mother. No longer the child sitting in my nightgown with three plaits in my hair, nor the adolescent feminist in afro puffs who refused to wear a bra, I was an adult, finding my way. She and I weren’t just mother and daughter, but two women with teacups as full as our lives, savoring the warmth as we bonded and spilled our own tea.
She and I weren’t just mother and daughter, but two women with teacups as full as our lives, savoring the warmth as we bonded and spilled our own tea.
It was during one of these chats that my mother told me about her father, who had died when she was around four or five. Grandpa, a soldier, had been stationed overseas during World War II. After coming down with pneumonia, he left the base and came back to New York City, where he was hospitalized.
While a neighbor watched her baby sister, and her three older siblings were at school, Mom’s mother took her to visit him one afternoon at the veterans’ hospital in Fort Hamilton, Brooklyn. She recalls being shy, not quite remembering him. Her father coaxed her to come to him by handing her a napkin off his lunch tray. This paper napkin, an item inconsequential to most, would become so treasured to her, because Mom’s father died a few weeks later, before she got a chance to see him again.
I placed my hand on the back of hers and waited for her to process her thoughts, to soothe that part of herself that was still a little girl longing for her father.
As my mother gazed out of her kitchen window, her mind seemingly faraway, I understood that that her memory of her father and his “napkin gift” was bittersweet. I placed my hand on the back of hers and waited for her to process her thoughts, to soothe that part of herself that was still a little girl longing for her father. After a few minutes, she composed herself and began relating a cheerier story.
Throughout my adult years, I spilled my own tea. I talked with my mother about personal things I was going through. I’d seek her sage advice about a problem I had with a supervisor at my job, or a disagreement I had with my husband, or a conflict with a rebellious teen. She’d always listen intently. No interruption. Then she’d say, “Things will work themselves out, Jeanine. Just be patient and pray.” And they always did.
She’d always listen intently. No interruption. Then she’d say, “Things will work themselves out, Jeanine. Just be patient and pray.” And they always did.
At times, there were ripples in our relationship. I rebelled as a teenager when she didn’t give me full encouragement to spread my wings because of her own fears about the world. I bristled as an adult after I’d become a new mother, and she felt I should heed her parenting advice over my own instincts. Over tea, we worked things out and smoothed things over. Having made her transition many years ago, Mom’s memory is solidified my own teatime ritual, in my ironing out of problems with a loved one, or of the challenges I’ve encountered myself.
Each mindful, sensory step is therapy. Listening to the water boiling in a kettle. Pouring it into my favorite mug printed with the words, “My Mom is My Bestie.” Watching the liquid darken as the teabag steeps.
Once in a while I’ll have a taste for a cup of green tea, choosing to savor its earthiness while diving into a good book. On another day I might have chai tea with its hints of cardamom, cinnamon, and clove, while writing in my journal. On another, I’ll want the comforting floral taste of chamomile tea, while sitting quietly at my kitchen counter. With a spoonful of Manuka honey, which I use for its touted health benefits, performing my teatime ritual is as self-nurturing as taking a candlelit bath.
My teatime allows me to slow down and be present for myself, which I’ve struggled to do for most of my life. I thought I had to live my life self-sacrificing to care for others. I didn’t know how to make myself a priority. So, it’s become a sacred celebration of me. It’s also become a time to acknowledge what’s been unrelenting in trying to steal my peace and joy, what’s been overwhelming, so that I can lay these aside. Between each sip, I intentionally take in a deep breath and serenely exhale to honor those neglected parts of me. It’s my chosen time to grow closer to God (no rushed talks or watching the clock) so I can hear His voice, heal what needs to be healed and pray.
My teatime allows me to slow down and be present for myself, which I’ve struggled to do for most of my life. I thought I had to live my life self-sacrificing to care for others.
Each mindful, sensory step is therapy. Listening to the water boiling in a kettle. Pouring it into my favorite mug printed with the words, “My Mom is My Bestie.” Watching the liquid darken as the teabag steeps. Adding a spoonful of honey, then stirring counterclockwise to produce a delicious amalgam of sweetness, herbal essence and heat. Holding the warm cup between my palms. As I sip I feel my mother’s aura. I see her beside me, dressed in one of her fabulous caftans. She is holding her own teacup and reminding me that all is well, and what doesn’t yet seem so “will work itself out.”
For thousands of years, tea has been used as an alternative medicine to heal the mind, soul, and body. It’s far from a simplistic drink, instead more of a spiritual and physical liquid balm. Whenever I hold my tea-filled mug in my hands and take a sip, I automatically begin a purging process of removing anything that doesn't hold love or purpose. I release what doesn’t harvest growth in my life. After setting my empty cup down, I can trust tea’s therapeutic powers to stay with me long after the very last drop.
Do you have a favorite way to drink tea? What other daily ritual brings you comfort and joy? Share your thoughts in the comments below.
