When I was in university, my roommate/best friend and I started a tradition. Once a day, usually shortly after our evening meal, we would have a cup of tea together.
Now I live in a culture in which a cup of tea is a standard seemingly every few minutes, but our tea break was different. Our tea tradition had ground rules – the cups had to be lovely (hand made pottery, obviously); the tea itself was whatever weird or wonderful herbal tea we were currently obsessed with; and we were not allowed to talk about uni work, no matter the deadline.
Instead we spoke of our roses & thorns – best and worst moment of the past 24 hours. And then whatever conversation resulted.
Our roses ranged from cute boys to exciting, life changing news and everything in between. Our thorns included broken hearts and empty tubes of toothpaste.
As superficial or deep each one had the potential to be, what it was was sacred.
Even still, more than a decade later, I struggle to take a cup of tea lightly. I struggle to allow what was once a breath of fresh air in my day to become a mundane, forgettable repeated occurrence.
But then, I struggle to allow anything to be a mundane, forgettable repeated occurance…