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SHE STEEPS
She has taken in all the details of circumstances she can’t fix. But she can make tea... with what she holds. Ceremony asks her to surrender all the dry, sense-less bits she’s turned over and over in her head, in her busy hands. The things she doesn’t understand. Drop them in a vessel stained over time where they will wrestle with heat. In the water they steep, breaking down until aroma is found in the release. A wait that can’t be rushed, her heart is hushed as her stirrings are slow, clear, and defined. Worries refined. Drink the sweet and leave the bitter behind. This is the cup she can hold.
There is a beauty and burden in womanhood. She carries and drinks more than she can bear, taking it to bed at night, a daily fight. Yet she has been gifted with a rite, making tea with the burden at hand, sorting it out in a way she understands. Not dismissing the bitter, but leaving it after being stirred and strained. Not missing the good, but slowly pouring it to fill her cup. Smelling and drinking it up. What has bound her tight loses the fight.