A CUP OF TEA WITH SIMPLICITY

Simplicity arrived unannounced and sat down next to me for a cup of afternoon tea.

I didn’t invite her, but it was a quiet day, and she knows that back gate is unlocked, the sliding door is open. The sky was overcast, and I settled beneath a blanket on the couch by the window with the last pages of a great memoir opened on my lap and no calls, no commitments, no carpe diems anywhere near me.

“It’s so nice to see you here,” I greet her. I am sincere.

“Yes, it’s been too long,” she says. “You’ve been busy.”

“I don’t mean to keep you away,” I lift my cup and take a small sip to test the heat of the tea, and a bigger one when I realize it’s not too hot.

“Is that so?” She is skeptical.

I am slightly defensive, “Were you waiting for a formal invitation?”

“Not at all. Performing some sort of streamlined ritual that you think you may get wrong is not a way to reach me. I’m much more natural than that. Really, all I ask is that you remember me,” she peers out the window. A monarch butterfly has landed on the flower and is opening and closing its wings, surely about to take flight again.

“Have you felt forgotten, then?” I ask her directly, but she is turned to the butterfly who is surprisingly still resting on the flower.

“Have you forgotten me?” She says without moving her gaze.

I don’t answer. I’m considering the difference between forgetting and not remembering.

“I haven’t forgotten you…it’s just that I don’t remember to prioritize you. Life gets hectic. So many demands – obligations and responsibilities. I’m figuring it all out and strategizing and analyzing and thinking upon thinking…” I roll my eyes, “basically, I’m overthinking. My headspace is jammed packed,” she nods. She is understanding and I am safe to admit what may be a hurtful truth, “It’s like you slip my mind…”

She doesn’t flinch.  “…but also, you’re in the back of my mind – you’re there, but I’m not remembering you’re there. It’s strange like that.”

She leans back, a soft smile floats across her face. The butterfly flutters past the window, a blink of orange and brown and black that is gone as soon as it appears.

“I hear this a lot,” she sips her tea. “People assume I require so much of the mind. What they don’t realize is that I come from the courage of the whole heart.”

I know immediately she is right.

My heart is why she and I have met today. I need to recover. I’ve been meeting too many moments lately. It’s time to stop, rest, read. To get still this afternoon has taken effort and discipline. I have been intentional about my time leading up to this time. I’ve been determined to have a simple day.

And it’s always like this.

Knowing that I need to clear my schedule is not the hardest part of clearing my schedule – having the courage to say “no” and uphold boundaries is way harder.  Wholehearted commitment to the experience I most desire is the hardest – because often, I’m not sure what I want. Or I’m unclear if what I’m doing is what I truly want or if what I’m doing makes me feel good because it’s what someone else wants from me.

She must notice the doubt on my face – am I brave enough to live a simple life? A life that is true, beautiful – authentic to me.

“We’re not strangers you and me,” she smiles big now and peers across the living room, “I remember when this space was filled with empty cardboard boxes. You and the children tumble through the door at 4 pm. You set out bowls of paint and brushes, primary colors for mixing. You made pasta and chicken nuggets – edamame and cut strawberries while the kids made art. Box art or body paint art. It was all very lovely. I was here every afternoon. No time for tea – only time for play.”

This image floods my memory and pictures of my younger years – in this house, with the kids, the dogs, the buttered noodles – roll through my mind’s eye. Everything about our life was simple. I did only and exactly what I had the energy to do.

“It was easier to have you over back then…” I tell her.

Of course, it was. Children don’t need anything fancy – they thrive in the consistency, and I was in charge of everything.  Food, bedtime, bath time, screen time – I was the leader, and they wanted to be led.

“It’s different now,” the sun has broken through the cloud cover and there is some light streaming into the room. “Teenagers, young adults, my older parents, my changing moods, my shifty levels of motivation, my ambition, the attention I wish to give to my marriage, the ways I want to show up for my friends…things can get complicated, the Unknowns feel scarier.”

“Life is dynamic to be sure,” she says, “it has always been this way. It sounds to me that there was a time, when you were younger, that you wanted me around – it was beneficial. Now, you are older, and you need me around. It is still quite beneficial. This is my point, dear. You may have forgotten. Whether you want me or need me is of no consequence to me – what matters, is that you remember me – and receive the relief that only I can bring.”

I watch the light dance across the top of the piano. The dogs stretch their paws on the floor. The cup in my hand is warm. I add a drop of honey before I sip some more tea.

“You don’t have to wait until you’re exhausted,” she leans close – “too many people find me at the end of their rope. Don’t be mistaken, I’m happy to be found there – but, darling, you should know – and tell everyone – if you dropped the rope and looked around, you’d find me everywhere.”

She is everywhere. She is in the fuzzy socks that my mom gave me for no reason. She is in my nightly bubble bath and my crisp new white walking shoes. She is in the article my dad mailed to me about the power of empathy – even though he doesn’t usually read articles about empathy. She’s in the daily photo text that my husband sends to our family text chain. She’s in the sunrise and the sunset and every skyscape in between. She’s in our Sunday family dinners and the movies we watch on Saturday. I can find her in the deep breath I take to adjust my expectations, dare to disappoint, examine a goal that no longer seems urgent. She’s in the deeper breath I take to release comparisons, face my fears, own my limitations and decide that even though the circumstances of my life today could improve, they are perfectly acceptable the way they are.

All the sudden I am overwhelmed with gratitude. The everywhere of her is a gift I didn’t realize I’d been given – a gift for me to receive day in and day out, night after night. A gift that I have fully received many times over, and one that I’ve forgotten, too many times to count.

“Thank you,” I reach out my arms.

She holds my hands close, and I say, “I just realized the best way to remember you forever is to appreciate you right now. Thank you for being everywhere.”

She stands, “Thank you for being here.” And when she leaves, she is still with me – a presence in my choice to read my book, gaze out the window, and enjoy the last of my afternoon cup of tea.

Photo by Daniel Klein on Unsplash