I recently went out with some old friends of mine whom I’ve known since my college days. One guy in particular has great stories to tell from his past. By great, I mean they’re really funny and often quite scandalous. And they almost always involve quite a bit of alcohol.
Three glasses of red wine later (a very delicious, bold and deep Syrah, I might add) one drunken friend asks me:
“Rich, why don’t you have more funny stories like mine? Maybe more alcohol would help. I haven’t seen you since last summer, what drama do you have to share?”
Perhaps we are, methinks, a different breed. I am a tea drinker. I dwell in the present, sipping each cup of brew as I take in the moments that pass me by. However, I can still recall the bountiful bouquet of the Syrah that we enjoyed. The aroma and depth were alluring. Wine was, after-all, once a deeper passion for me than tea.
The magic of tea is that it reminds me to be aware of the present. Wine, however, can become an escape, each goblet of it can alter my reality and my understanding of myself. Tea can stabilize me. Each beautiful brew reinforces the awareness of my present self. I am here now, enjoying an oolong that will never be the same again, happy and cognizant of the fulfillment of my desire at this one point. Wine may lead me to heightened states that reflect upon me an imaginative view of who I’d like to be. A good cup of tea reminds me of who I am as a whole, dwelling deeply in a continued understanding of my satisfaction in the here and now.
It’s a good life. Drink good tea.