I’m an autumn girl. You can tell by the way my closet is
fully stocked with sweaters, and my dresser full of tights and woolen socks—my
shoe cabinet, full of boots. I crave the first touch of cold, which doesn’t
come until early November here in Georgia. There is something about the way the
leaves start to change the lines of the Blue Ridge and the way the animals
start to run briskly after slow summer days of lounging to stay out of the
southern heat.
I imagine what makes that time of year so special, is that
it only lasts a brief moment—right before the leaves plunge to the earth and
the cold pushes everyone inside.
Hot tea is a staple in my life. It reminds me of the
fall—especially when I’m feeling really nostalgic for my sweater friends that
I’ve packed away for the summer. This didn’t happen until last summer, on a
trip where I went to Manhattan. One of my closest friends, Jacobi, and I,
ventured across the island together to a restaurant that we had been longing to
go to. It served tea, and neither of us really considered ourselves tea
drinkers.
I’ve never liked the taste of tea—which is often considered
strange in the Deep South, where babies are given bottles of sweet tea, and
it’s often the sole choice at formal gatherings. But I’d never tried hot tea
before. There is something different about it. It has a history—a secret to
tell, trapped in the spices.
Tea is simple. It uncomplicates things. In the Chinese
culture, tea is the upmost representation of humility and grace—something that
a host would present to his guest. It humbles the drinker, and serves as a
reminder that in the moment, there is nothing else more important that what you
are doing. It warms you from the cold, and becomes a comfort when everything
seems to be moving quickly—like the changing of seasons.
I’ve got a lot of changes coming up within the next month,
and I take solidity in knowing that not everything is as monstrous of an
undertaking as I make it seem.
