My tea today tastes like old honey and mature forest floor. Something not too dissimilar from slowly decaying hay and the smell of a handful of warm leaves in fall. As it leaves my mouth, it reminds me of tannic apricot skins and long days spent out of doors. Of following the sunset as it migrates slowly across a valley floor, trying to keep its warmth on our backs and savoring the last kisses of its light on the earth.
I don't remember the provenance of this tea. I broke a chunk off of a cake and placed it into a resealable silicone plastic bag some months ago and have since forgotten its source. I can't remember whether it was cheap or expensive, where it was grown, or its exact age. There is freedom in not knowing anything beyond the tea itself.
I don't normally think this way. Normally I am concerned with whether there is something better out there. Perhaps this tea is good, but what about an even better tea? The feeling that I need to find it is usually all-encompassing. This feeling pollutes many avenues in my head. It stretches far further than the simple leaf infusion that I drink daily.
The second steep brings subtle wisps of smoke to its character. It wraps the other flavors briefly in the mouth, but its influence lingers much in the way that the smell of a campfire sticks to your clothes long after the embers have cooled. This steep also brings a smooth sourness as the tea cools, making it feel more alive somehow.
I honestly feel like my habit of constant dissatisfaction with what is before me is an immense detriment to my life. It makes me feel like I am always missing something despite not feeling like anything in particular is lacking. It is a feeling of continual imbalance, like the ground I am standing on isn't at rest.
I treat this dissatisfaction usually by one acquisition disorder or another. The exact class of which shifts from week to week or month to month. It has been tea at several points over the years. It has been a long list of shifting hobbies. It has been coffee. It has been games. It has been people. I don't ever feel any more whole through the process of acquisition. The itch isn't scratched, the floor is still off-kilter, and I am always a step away from slipping again.
The wet leaves have a warm, dusty wood character to their smell. It reminds me of the smell of my parents' garage corner where the table saw and drill press once sat. Old sawdust caked into the corners of smoothly milled steel. Hours spent hunched over one project or another, classical music playing on the ancient FM radio perched precariously on the edge of a cobwebbed router table. This garage doesn't belong to my family any more. Only the memories live rent-free in my head with smells drawing them forth unbidden but welcomed.
This feels to me, ultimately, like a simple sort of tea. It is uncomplicated. It lacks any particular aromatic experience. It has a slightly slick texture, but is mostly just easy to drink. Its aftertaste is not particularly exciting, but it is comforting in all the ways I have put to page in the last 600 words or so. My guess is that I didn't pay very much money for this cake, but it got me writing again which may be its most important contribution of all.
Maybe I am getting too philosophical for a Monday afternoon, but I appreciate the chance to reflect. I hope everyone else gets a chance to do so whether it be over a cup of tea or otherwise.
Happy Tea Drinking.
