A Morning Tea, Without Hurry

Before light, the kettle.

I fill it from the tap and set it on the flame. While it warms I do nothing. I stand at the window. The garden is a grey shape, and the first bird has not yet decided to begin.

This is the part I would not give up.

The pot

A small clay pot, hand-thrown, with a lid that does not quite fit. I bought it at a market from a woman who said the lid was her least favourite part. I like the lid best.

I warm the pot with a little water first, then tip it out. A spoon of leaves goes in, loose and a little dry. The smell of them is the first thing of the day that belongs to me.

The water comes off the boil. Not furious. Not gone quiet. I wait until the bubbles stop crowding and then I pour, slowly, and put the lid on.

The wait

Three minutes, give or take. I do not set a timer. I watch the steam rise from the spout and curl against the window glass.

Some mornings I use the wait to think. Most mornings I do not. I listen. A pipe knocks somewhere in the wall. A neighbour starts a car. The pot ticks as it cools.

Waiting is the hardest part of making tea, and it is the whole of it.

The cup

One cup. Wide, shallow, with a rim that dips on one side where the maker's thumb pressed. I hold it in both hands because the first sip is better that way, and because the warmth is welcome at that hour.

I drink slowly. I notice the colour change as the leaves settle. I notice the taste shift between the first cup and the second and the third. By the end the tea has a quieter voice than it began with.

What I leave out

I do not read while I drink. I do not check anything. I do not plan the day. If a thought arrives, I let it sit on the table and drink around it.

I am not saying this is the right way. It is only mine. You might sit on a stair with a mug and a dog and do it perfectly well.

After

When the pot is empty, I rinse it. I leave the leaves in the sink for a moment, dark and damp against the white, then tip them into the garden.

The light is up by then. The bird has settled into its song. I put the cup upside down on the rack and the day can begin.

A cup of tea is a small thing. Done slowly, it makes a small room inside the morning, and I step into it each day for a quarter of an hour.

That is enough.