Eccentric Tea Woman

  I wonder what it will be like When it is all over. She asked me to comb her hair Yet I refused; at least, I still Have that choice. Promise, my love, That you will not waste such Freedoms on me. Pain is merely art, One that comes with tongues wagging. It’s not her, but I wish it was Me.

  I am not the average Tea drinker. Although I do enjoy a cup of sencha green in the morning, or perhaps a chamomile tisane blend at night, Tea is more to me than just leaves in water to enjoy on a cold day or night. Several years ago, I attended my first Japanese Tea ceremony and it changed my life. Every move and every utensil had meaning, taking the act of drinking Tea to a higher level, yet I knew that there was more to discover. Chado was the answer - translated to The Way of Tea. In the study of Chado, one learns to incorporate Tea into their life, giving the person time to pause and reflect as they sip on their cup no matter the time of day. To sip your cup of Tea in silence is to breathe. To smell the Tea allows us to appreciate the process of bringing the Tea to us. Every sip is a chance to strip away all of the unnecessary noise and junk and instead focus on what matters most to us. Whenever I enjoy a cup of Tea, I enjoy that moment in my Life. It is of the here and now t...

  Gracefully upon the word sea, the figure dances. Darling sailor come closer and see, see What the sea of ink that came from squid Shall tell me today. Shall it be a song of loss or a song of revenge? Give me your ears, darling sailor, and listen to the winds That carry such smells, old and forgotten by those Who refuse to see with metal eyes. Darling sailor, read to me, read to me What the word sea says. I place my hand into the ink that flows So slowly and pull out a single word - Love. Grace. Anguish. Delight. Salt. Tears. Darling sailor, take care upon the ink of squid That festers and boils when not used by silver tongues Slip downward into the murk and free me, free me. Here in the prison that no one can see. Do you not hear my pleas, my darling sailor? That which is never used, that which is overlooked. Gracefully, gracefully, upon the word sea Tell me a story, darling sailor, and let it be free.    

  A dead leaf Reminded me of when You said you loved me. Autumn, a season of Changes and the Fae, Came upon us like a Bear searching for trout. We both had a cup of Tea – me oolong and you Earl Grey – when you told Me you loved no one else. I thought you were lying Then and still do now. The dead and dried leaf Can never return to its Previous state; all I ask Is that it can.

  The dragonfly died last night And I wonder if that was a sign That things may get better. My body is covered in bites - Signs that mosquitoes like my flesh. The good feeling music continues To play While I’m crying my eyes out. A stronger dosage of giving a care Is needed. I don’t seem to recall Whether or not you still remember But I’m slowly disappearing.

(Elmwood Cemetery - Memphis, Tennessee) When we see ourselves truthfully, a little bit of our shadow selves begin to die. Crumbling like a lost book, the information dead and long forgotten. We must be ready and willing to shed our dead skin - wake up refreshed and sensitive, our new skin glowing without the aid of glorified lies and stories not researched well enough. We have lost, I think, a little bit of what it means to be human, but still it is a small sacrifice to weigh – the shedding is painful and long-lasting.  

  We are in an ever-growing state of change. We thrive, we die, we live again. Suppose, then, if the cycle were to stop? What would become of us then? Are we timid animals, seeking only out next crumb? Or shall we rise beyond said crumb to become what we are truly meant to be? We can seek solace and comfort within ourselves, yet how far will that take us? Do we fall to the ground or stand and fight? Do we love with every fiber of our being or do we fade? Choices, none of them ours. We breathe and desire in that one moment. That one space where nothing is held accountable. I treasure that space. It fills me with something beyond hope, something beyond a good night of sex. I listen. And understand. The words are not enough. The symbols are not enough. To become what we can not fathom, we must become more. We must delve into that which does not kill us. Here. Never. Being. Sacred. Together. Alone.