Today I am taking time with the rituals of tea. I make a body scrub to slough off winter of green and jasmine bags ripped open and salt and oil and then to drink. This isn’t the bag dunked in hot water in the dubious borrowed mug from the cupboard at work however important that cup is and the gesture it makes when handed to you by someone else. This cup of tea shows I am loved. My mother bought me this deliciously thick red mug because she said it looked like a writer’s mug. Large and solid enough to not be knocked over during late night scribbling. I take the loose green tea from the tin we always kept the tea in and put it in the silicone strawberry diffuser my friend bought me. This kind of love is knowing the value of small luxuries of knowing you will be remembered in the everyday routine of life.
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