I have mostly spent covid days in the slow, but definitive surrender of that smidgen of reassurance that I/we are in control.
Gradually, over the weeks and months, I’ve had a stringent unlearning of much that I took to be true, small things I thought I thought I had a handle on, daily reminders of some iota of certainty even when the world has its way of turning topsy turvy, as it has been long before covid.
Thoughts on the economy? No longer sure. My personal politics? WIP and constantly shifting. Relationships? Vastly uncertain. The environment and planet as a whole? RUIN.
In the stripping away of all the things I cling to for solidity, and in embracing the natural order of un-knowing, I have found certainty in chai. I’m not even joking slightly, when I say that. Probably an extension of general homebody-ness and domesticity, but this has become something of an essential daily habit, but loaded with meaning.
In the ritualism of that single cup of tea I make every single evening, in that little-over-one-teaspoon of sugar I allow myself everyday, in having perfected the exact ratio of milk to water, and in actually finally understanding the right timing and sequence of ingredients to be added for the result the way I like it, I have found meaning.
Don’t ask me of what hahaha. But it’s there, and my days feel incomplete without it. It’s not just the making and consuming said cup of tea but the entire production around it. In ensuring there’s milk on hand, brewing it just right, thinking in advance about the little tea time snack for the day, getting it all done at the time, and then — the best part — sitting in my chair by the window and savouring it slowly.
Four years ago: Just read