I’ve been phasing out coffee. Not out entirely, because that would be grim, but I’m reducing my dependence down to weekends and sleepy emergencies; my anxiety just can’t take it any more. Plus, since quitting changing my job, those 6am starts have slipped back just a little, so my old justification is gone. I’m supposed to be slowing down, after all – why do I need so much rocket fuel?
Weirdly, I’ve found I missed the ritual of it, though – the grinding and smelling and brewing and pouring, sensory and soothing and full of simple joy. Somehow hot water over a tea bag can’t quite compare.
& so, I’ve started a small, slow ritual for my morning tea. I got a tiny glass teapot and sand timer from JING, along with a couple of their loose-leaf morning teas. I wasn’t very hopeful – anything that takes longer than is absolutely necessary is inevitably short lived in my life – but it turns out that brewing your tea properly really does make it taste a lot better than letting it steep forgotten for 20 minutes. Surprise! Who would ever have guessed?!
So for three minutes each morning I sit and watch the sand trickle down, and breathe. I don’t tidy or check my emails while I wait, because it’s silent and I’ll invariably miss the finishing point. I just sit, and take three quiet minutes, then I pour my tea and sip. Ok, sometimes I pour it then run to stop Orla painting the bathroom in suncream, but those three minutes are always mine, and they help clear my mind for the day ahead. That’s sort of the antithesis to my early morning coffee jolt, now I think about it, and it feels like a very good thing.
Do you have a morning ritual that helps keep you going? Are you team-coffee or team-tea?
ps – I received my tea kit as a gift from JING, but this post is all me!
Like an elderflower cordial, but just a little bit more fun; the sweet and musky perfume of elderflower pairs perfectly with the classic juniper taste of gin. Serve with cloudy English apple juice [...]
This whole house speaks. It creaks and yawns around me as I move, tiptoeing across the floor from the softly curled apostrophe of my daughter's sleeping form. A comma, a pause, she never quite hits [...]