Saturday morning, and the weather is behaving a bit april-like, windy and with showers of rain. But the sun is out now, and through the open balcony door I hear birds like the little munk. There is the wind in the trees, and the mother-of-pearl windchime. And the sight of the glittering sea.
My tea setting today is WHITE. A woolen blanket in off-white as a tea cloth, chabu, a white gaiwan, white cups, both small and big – because it´s only me. And the reason: I will open a 100 gr pressed white tea cake, “High Mountain White Peony Cake, 100 gr”, from http://www.teaforyou.co.uk!
The white wrapping has fibers woven into it, and the label has golden specks of colour. He starts his own review with pictures of white cherry blossoms, and “It´s spring now… and as you can see, the cherry blossom is out now”. I myself have a little flowering hawthorn branch in the vase, from the nearby golf course. It reminds me of, that I soon want to visit the old royal huntings grounds north of Copenhagen, Eremitagen. It is famous for its old and crooky hathorn trees, that are scattered around the open plain. He describes the scent like hay, also in the cup later, followed by a cooling sensation, later brews with more fruitiness (5 gr, water just of the boil).
Beautiful wrapping, and un-wrapping. Structured paper with bits of “hay” fibres in it! The scent is like a meadow, yes, where the hay is lying, cut, on top of the ground, wet… Big, furry leaves and buds, woven together in an organic pattern, with colour hues ranging from dark brown, over dark green, to light off-white and grey. The cake seems light, and tapping with my fingers, it sounds hollow… the sound would make a very good ASMR video, it it so meditative pure… Finding my way in with my fingers (forgot the “knife”), I find the leaves lying in layers, so I break of a part of the upper layer, it comes off in a moon shaped oval. Whole leaves, both green and white, fall off. It is like collecting leaves in the forrest underwood… pure nature.
The big leaves stick out of the gaiwan. I am pouring water. 30 seconds. I fill it in three small cups with black laquer ´saucers´ underneath. Smelling the wet leaves, I get more hay, but I also go back to a norwegian summerhouse and its dark red shed, where we as children sat and waited for the mice to come out – I think they stored hay on the upper floor. But now I also smell underwood, wet earth, and forrest.
The tea colour is golden yellow. A surprising thick mouthfeel hits me, golden thick drops, sweet, round, hay, SUN. It is like drinking sun. After the reading about the tea, then observing, watching, and smelling, right NOW it becomes a body sensation. Now I am drinking, now the tea is my body, it becomes me. And it is starting to warm my whole body. I awake. Every cell in my body awakes. The mind stops, giving way to a feeling from inside, and an awareness, a calmness, that wasn´t there before. Such a mild tea – but what a rich tea, heavy tea, awakening the body like this. And maybe even – the soul.
With a green tea, I drank recently, I remember to have had the same so surprising mouth feel of thickness. Here it is again, but with this pressed white tea, not a green one. What experiences tea can give… an adventure, an lifelong exploring for the senses… and again, the soul.
While brewing again, and waiting, there is a quietness – like listening to the tea brewing. This 2. brew, after 35 seconds, is more orange in colour. The taste deeper, more fruity, HAY – just a little less round. The water getting closer to the cores of the leaves. I earlier had the thought, tastewise, of “books”, in a good way. The taste of golden books… Looking up, at the horison the rapeseed field on the island of Hven is flowering: bright yellow golden, too.
3. brew (1 min). I fill the tea into the bigger cup, by a swedish potter, it is now golden orange. I open a book I choose for this morning, browsing my bookshelves, about Canterbury – and incidentally open on a page, which has a golden watercolour of just the same hues as the tea. The motive is the old Greyfriar building in the center of the town. I have seen it – and memories go back to that, a sunny day, full of flowers and birds.
I feels like I am grounded by a golden lake now, I feel warm, round, calm, happy. I breath in, and my whole body breathes.
Turning a page: “This is the birthplace of Christopher Marlowe, one of the nests of Elizabethan singing birds -“. No better way to conclude this morning, than with his words: “With mouth of gold, and morning in his eyes.”
Tea greetings, Ulla
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