Making tea is poetry for the senses. Is there a sweeter sound than to make ready the pot and cup? The kettle crescendos in it's own time, not mine. I wait for it. I see the color. I smell the fragrance. I taste the tea. Repeat. Repeat. The song goes on, beginning to end, and is heard again tomorrow.
For me, the essence of tea, the ritual, seems somehow unnecessary to my friends. My friends are great, and I'm thankful for them, but somehow they don't get what I get out of tea, and I find myself wishing to share some tea detail with someone and realize it's just me being...well...a tea head. Anyone tracking with me?