A Mug of Tea

Everything inside and out is still damp, but it is not raining and the sun is valiantly trying to smile.

My good friend, up the hill, is finishing off the last pages of Anne Lamott’s latest book. She is a favourite author and soon it will be my turn. I can hardly wait.

I started a fire. The room is beginning to warm up. The kettle is starting to boil. In no time, I will have a perfect mug of tea in my hands. Pure well water is the secret.

My mother used to sing a song her grandmother taught her.

   Tea. Tea.

   What would the world be

   For we poor old ladies

   Without our cup of Tea?

There are other verses but I think they are lost to time.

In Nova Scotia, when a world starts to slip in a wrong direction, the common advice is “What you need is tea, toast and a bath.” This advice is not bad advice to follow. The world may not immediately shift right back on kilter, but it is comforting to be reassured some of the finer things in life remain.

So here I sit  squeaky clean, in front of a vigorous fire,  comfy clothes,  cozy socks with a perfect mug of tea  in my hand. My little rabbit hound snores on the couch beside me. It is a good time to begin to get to know a new sorrow.

The sun begins to smile.