I awaken and rise to make tea.
I take my first sip and then.
Immediately afterwards that moment expands,
Stretched apart by unseen hands.
I step into the opening as I swallow the tea.
Darkness which is not darkness enfolds me.
The taste of puer pulls the earth inside.
We rest in knowledge of primordial ground.
No beginning; no end; no self; no other.
I take a second sip and smile.
steam rises from the tea. consider these things
how did this cup come to be?
a skilled artisan learned from skilled potters who learned from their teachers and so on
a ceramic with multiple sources, and also the celadon glaze
a kiln in which it was fired; wood that provided heat
a building itself that housed this all
thus it is with the tea
tea farmers, masters all, helped by family and community and so on
(Only a village produces fine tea.)
trees dependent upon rain, earth, and light
countless different elements interconnected
change one, and the whole transforms
each lift of the cup and sip of the tea,
the entire world is joined
Steam rises from the tea.
Consider these things.
When I lift the tea cup, I do so with wonder.
I do not think, “oh, if only I had a different vessel!”
When I sip the tea, I do so with appreciation.
I do not think, “oh, if only this were a different drink!”
This is the cup; this is the tea.
Right here; right now; where I am in this moment.
I drink with gratitude and enjoyment.
Once, long ago, she wanted my heart.
I gave her a cup of tea and a poem.
She tied a cord of red thread around my wrist
And wept before she left.
What did that mean?
steam rises from the cup. consider these things
the cup shatters and the world explodes
celadon shards and tea float in the midst of primal debris.
chaos and noise and confusion
breathe, and then:
sit in silence,
sipping the usual cup of tea.
I rose before dawn in the late summer.
I sat on the porch outside my room.
The air was still and redolent with the salty musky scent of the bayou.
The bull frogs were still croaking from the night,
The crickets were chirping,
And a few birds had begun their morning calls.
I drank my usual Gunpowder Green in a hand-thrown mug
And realized I must make a trip to New Orleans soon.
I needed more tea.
The train sounds its mournful cry.
They are gone now,
No longer present to hear the whistle,
To see the graffitied cars roll past,
To feel the ground rumbling beneath their feet.
I can say no more
Let us have a cup of tea
And offer the latest from China.
But I can hold them fast
In memory and by recounting the many stories
Of how they lived while they were here.
Love and all we shared does not disappear.
Shards of a tea cup.
My hand trembled in the night.
Outside the ice melts.
Steam rises from the tea.
Consider these things.
Every being that had contact with this tea,
Be it an insect, animal or person,
Was just like me:
Each wished to experience happiness
And to avoid the pain of suffering.
So as I drink this tea,
A great happiness in itself,
Let me pause and wish for all of those:
May you be happy.
May you be peaceful.
May you be free from fear, judgment or ill will.
May you grow in compassion, wisdom, and love.
Steam rises from the tea.
Consider these things.
The tea did not brew itself.
The tea did not magically appear in the cup.
The tea will not float on the air to be sipped.
I have to act for these to happen.
Let me do so in a mindful manner.
That I might enter fully this moment in time.