After thirty days away, the taste of tea feels odd on my tongue, causing me to question why I had grown to love it more than almost anything else in my life. I pondered the flavors, once again, of white, green, oolong, red, black, and pu-erh. I sat with each tea, asking why it felt as if we were strangers when we had known one another intimately for seven years. There was no answer, not for some long while.
Then, suddenly, the words appeared as if scribed on the wall in front of me: You left. We were bereft and therefore pulled away, going through our own sense of loss and grief. Then you returned. Should we trust you? Ought we to open ourselves to your presence once more, allowing our ancient healing powers to regenerate and renew you? Or should we remain hidden, keeping the secrets and mysteries to ourselves? We needed to discover if you were a worthy participant or merely a voyeur.
Like leaving a lover. Like forsaking a vow. Like stepping away from a mystical path. Like betraying a communion of hearts.
Nothing for me to do but sit with it, renewing my willingness to select which tea spoke the most fervently, wait while the water boiled, wait while the tea leaves performed their magical dance, wait for the right steeping time, wait for the cooling process, wait until each tea was ready to give and I was prepared to receive.
It took two weeks of patient diligence, but now the teas and I are in communication again. We are once more old friends, but we have come into a new understanding of one another. This is nothing short of a miracle to me. I am choosing to believe whatever they say, and they, in return, are trusting me to follow through with the messages they offer freely without expectation.
~LJ