Tonight, at close of day, I celebrate a small thing.  My cup of tea still steams, and its smell crosses the desk to me.  I love tea at bedtime, on cold nights.  I love tea at bedtime when I travel.  The making of tea is therapy; it requires attention.  It may be microwaved, but is diminished by those beams of energy bouncing around the water.  It can be produced in a coffee maker with reasonable accuracy.  But it is best made with water from a teapot, heated over flame.

The tea-bag, or loose tea, must be allowed to give their gift.  Tea is a tiny speed-bump.  It cannot be rushed and yield its greatest delights.  Tea requires cooperation.  Heat, water, sugar and milk in reasonable and appropriate amounts make tea a thing ineffable.

At bed-time, tea relaxes me, despite the caffeine and carbohydrates.  Maybe it is the action of making it; maybe, the life in the moment that it requires.  Or perhaps, it’s a reminder that something so unnecessary in the grand scheme of things is quite capable of bringing me pleasure.

To analyze it too much is to analyze the reason we love autumn orange, yellow and red.  The reasons we love the smell of freshly bathed children, or the feel of a child light as air, rising up in our arms as we lift them.  The reason it is always beautiful to watch a woman apply lipstick and jewelry before a mirror.
There are things that science may describe but will never fully comprehend.  So, I leave you as I enjoy my tea, in this dark house, on this cold night.  My wife and children sleep, the dogs prowl the woods because they must, and I revel in this moment, this time, this perfect confluence of all things.

God is in His heaven, and has sent me a bit of it.

It tastes a little like a cup of tea.

Edwin

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