Saturday Morning

She is making a pot of tea and I am clearing plates from the table. We both step around the room, around the dog, around the circular table, around each other, by instinct. I could navigate this space with my eyes closed, if called upon to do so. From down the corridor, the voices of my children, playing with the array of toys my mother keeps in her cupboards, can be heard, rising and falling, exclaiming and negotiating. Tea-making is a sacred, circumscribed ritual in this house. I would never presume to undertake it, would never encroach on this most delicate of tasks. There are several steps that must be followed, one leading mysteriously from the next: I can never quite remember the sequence, have always been too impatient to learn, unlike my sisters, who enact the same ritual in the same way in their own kitchens. The correct pot must be selected, as should the most suitable cosy. Warming must take place, for a prescribed amount of time, and this water must absolutely be discarded, with a quick, derisive flick into the sink. Only then may the tannin-dark pot be filled, first with tea leaves, measured out with a specially appointed pewter spoon, then boiling water. On goes the cosy—knitted or quilted, mostly embroidered—then steeping occurs. On the draining board, cups (bone china, always) and milk at the ready.

Maggie O’FarrellI Am, I Am, I Am: Seventeen Brushes with Death (Feb 6, 2018)


Notes: Photo – Antique Passion. Related Posts: Maggie O’Farrell

Lightly Child, Lightly.

When in the morning I make coffee…
to what do my hands listen?
Once I had to tell them do this, do this, do this.
There are things a body learns.
There are things it won’t forget.

Hannah Aizenman, from “Notes Toward an Elegy, or What the Books Were For


Notes:

  • Poem via lifeinpoetry. Photo: Aberrrant Beauty
  • Prior “Lightly child, lightly” Posts? Connect here.
  • Post Title & Inspiration: Aldous Huxley: “It’s dark because you are trying too hard. Lightly child, lightly. Learn to do everything lightly. Yes, feel lightly even though you’re feeling deeply. Just lightly let things happen and lightly cope with them.”

Sunday Morning

It is a kind of love, is it not?
How the cup holds the tea,
How the chair stands sturdy and foursquare,
How the floor receives the bottoms of shoes
Or toes. How soles of feet know
Where they’re supposed to be.
I’ve been thinking about the patience
Of ordinary things, how clothes
Wait respectfully in closets
And soap dries quietly in the dish,
And towels drink the wet
From the skin of the back.
And the lovely repetition of stairs.
And what is more generous than a window?

Pat Schneider, The Patience of Ordinary Things, “Another River: New and Selected Poems


Notes: Poem – Thank you Beth @ Alive on All Channels. Photo: Colorinstantfilm

Monday Morning Wake-Up Call: Coffee!


Source: Mennyfox55

 

Monday Morning Wake-Up Call

There’s strength in observing one’s miniaturization. That you are insignificant and prone to, and God knows, dumb about a lot. Because doesn’t smallness prime us to eventually take up space? For instance, the momentum gained from reading a great book. After after, sitting, sleeping, living in its consequence. A book that makes you feel, finally, latched on. Or after after we recover from a hike. From seeing fifteenth-century ruins and wondering how Machu Picchu was built when Incans had zero knowledge of the wheel. Smallness can make you feel extra porous. Extra ambitious. Like a small dog carrying an enormous branch clenched in its teeth, as if intimating to the world: Okay. Where to?

~ Durga Chew-Bose, from “Heart Museum” in Too Much and Not the Mood: Essays


Photo: Paul Nicol with Walk Softly. Carry a Big Stick.

Monday Morning Wake-Up Call

Everything

begins

simply

enough.

~ Durga Chew-Bose, from “Heart Museum” in Too Much and Not the Mood: Essays


Image: Mennyfox55

Monday Morning Wake-Up Call

Coffee anyone?


Photo: Patty Maher with Concentric Circles

Saturday Morning

tasting,

But this morning, a kind day has descended, from nowhere,

and making coffee in the usual day, measuring grounds
with the wooden spoon, I remembered,

this is how things happen, cup by cup, familiar gesture
after gesture, what else can we know of safety

or of fruitfulness?

– Marie Howe, excerpt from “From Nowhere” in The Good Thief: Poems


Notes: Poem Source: via violentwavesofemotion. Photo: Cup Tasting by Jürg Balsiger

Dawn in the north. His nose stalks the air.

coffee

I want to describe my life
in hushed tones
like a TV nature program.
Dawn in the north.
His nose stalks the air
for newborn coffee.

~ Jim Harrison & Ted Kooser, Braided Creek: A Conversation in Poetry

 


Notes: Photo via Your Eyes Blaze Out

Monday Morning Wake-Up Call

morning-coffee

Here’s the true secret of life: We mostly do everything over and over. In the morning, we let the dogs out, make coffee, read the paper, help whoever is around get ready for the day. We do our work. In the afternoon, if we have left, we come home, put down our keys and satchels, let the dogs out, take off constrictive clothing, make a drink or put water on for tea, toast the leftover bit of scone. I love ritual and repetition. Without them, I would be a balloon with a slow leak.

~ Anne Lamott, Stitches: A Handbook on Meaning, Hope and Repair


Notes: Photo – Mennyfox55

 

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