Smokin' Hot-Tea
It is a stained black cup-- stained from the remnants of many-hued beverages drunk countless times and not washed soon enough. These stains are the tangible proof of many conversations that it was drunk over that left their color on me -- proof that they altered my consciousness. It also has ‘design-forward’ written on one side in white -- a good reminder of the work I am doing in the world. I have no memory of how this cup came into my possession. Curiously, this is true for most of my unmatching cups. With their story of origin forgotten, they become much more mysterious. I can make up exotic tales for each of them.
Right now, this mystical cup is full of a beautiful dark brown liquid — black Indian tea leaves brewed with pieces of ginger freshly cut from the root and smashed with my tiny marble mortar and pestle. This hot-tea is waiting for me to act on my desire to drink it. This desire starts every day when the sun fulfills its desire for shining bright. Like the sun, I die for a night, diligently leaving the past, even the recent yesterday sprinkled away in ageing dreams. This desire for a hot cup of tea starts the life of each day, giving birth to a new me.
As I watch the water boil in anticipation, this tea also communicates its longing for me — our mutual daily erotic ritual. Our mutual consuming of each other-- a becoming one!
Our ceremonial becoming one is marked beautifully through the dancing smoke. The smoke is the heat of our combined mutual desires that just cannot wait and starts to escape the surface to find my lips. This smoke twirls and swirls in joyful agony to find me at the risk of its death-- death by dissipating into nothingness. I blow at it-- sometimes-- as I giggle. I can be such a tease. But I long for this tea. Its familiar taste tells my being — I am alive. It is a new day. I am a new me. It also reminds me of my power to fulfill what I desire. This fulfillment is a good way to start the life of my day and the life of a new me. So many other dark and lofty desires are hidden-repressed. But with my tea in this old stained black cup, my wanting is seen and met with the erotic intensity of smoke reaching out for me every day, even at the cost of its own death. Who knew even a cup of tea can teach me so much about death and desire.
Photo by Zach Lezniewicz on Unsplash