Mugs of Tea
I am guilty of leaving a trail of of mugs and teacups behind me, half-full and tepid. I wake up in the morning, make a cup of tea and carry it to whatever chosen perch of mine to spend time in prayer. I get distracted, leave the mug behind and later make another cup, forgetting that I already had one, now cold and lonely. After a day of this, I might wander around and find the various drinking vessels scattered around the house, one on a windowsill, another on a dresser, and perhaps one in the laundry room on the dryer. I will even find some, days old, with the milk beginning to curdle in the brownish pale tea.
My obsession with tea started really after my return from Switzerland a few years ago. I moved in with a family, whose head is a British man. Their youngest son started drinking tea as a toddler, holding the china teacup carefully and sipping as elegantly as a Lord. The tea canister would run low at times, and a quiet fight would ensue to see who would get downstairs first the next morning to get that last cup of tea.
Still today, I find that I love to open the new box of tea from the store, breathing in the aroma of the tea leaves and packing my canister full with the round tea bags. Though I love a good cup of coffee, tea has taken that supreme place of that first drink in the morning.