tea

This morning while I was in my courtyard, obsessively planting flowers in pots, with every door and window wide open,  letting the cool, late morning springiness inside, Little Miss Hummingbird flew into the house.

I only know this because on one of my way-too-many visits to the bathroom (coffee) she buzzed thisclose to my head on her way to the ceiling. Panting frantically at the staggering altitude of nine feet, she tried her best to find the sky by repeatedly banging her wee head into the drywall. Meanwhile, I attempted to calm her by pointing out all FIVE available exits, in my best flight attendant voice——and then sat patiently in a chair nearby waiting for her to figure it out.

Throughout my time on planet earth you guys, hummingbirds have brought out the best in me. They reinforce my belief in magic and tiny birds with neon feathers who zip around powered by wings that beat a gazillion times a second yet seem chill and wise and speak a lyrically chirpy little language that I’ve only recently forgotten. Dr. Seussical in all the best ways, when they deem me worthy of any visitation——I want to scream with glee and grab a frilly pink skirt and my best party shoes.

As an aside, she’s the first visitor I’ve had in eight weeks, so…yeah…

Anyway, in between desperately searching for her freedom, Miss Hummingbird rested on a pussywillow branch in a vase by the window and clearly channeled my mother by finding every cobweb in every freaking corner of the living room ceiling (in our family that is called cob-shaming you guys!) Circumnavigating my living room wearing the webs on her head like some kind of Quinceanera veil, she eventually found one of the five doors while I had my back turned making her a cup of tea.

As happy for her as I was, I couldn’t help but feel a tad disappointed.

Number one, she didn’t even say goodbye. Number two, I selfishly wanted to spend more time with her, you know, so she could impart some of her hummingbird juju and tell me what the energy was like out there in quarantine-land, and number three, I was curious about her inability to see her way out. I mean, how do I say this in the least judgie-Mcjudgerson way possible?

All she had to do was look around.

Which she did eventually, but in the meantime she got visibly overwrought by fixating on the ceiling.

Uh…WE do that, you guys!
I totally do!

As hard as I try, and as much practice as I’ve had at advocating doing THE EXACT OPPOSITE, sometimes often, I am completely incapable of turning my head that three inches to the left where the flashing red, EXIT is beckoning me home.

Why? Why do we do that sweet Lord?

Fear? Inability to focus? Laziness? Wanting things to be where we want them to be (ie) where they’ve always been?

I was about to say human nature, but maybe it’s just…nature.

I wonder how Ms. Hummings (how I imagine she refers to herself) tells the story of her morning adventure? Is it framed around her chance encounter with a woman in sweats and dirty hair but a nice smile—or is it a horror story centered around a room with no way out? I’d be curious to know.

As I’m writing this you guys, there’s some kind of giant fly or winged insect circling my tiny she-shed, totally mistaking my right ear as their way to blessed freedom while completely bypassing the WIDE OPEN DOOR less than a foot away. Trying hard not to kill it but thinking maybe natural selection is in order.

Carry on,
xox

“I’ll know that I’m finally happy the day that I invite the demons knocking at my door to come in and sit down for tea while I take a seat nearby and smile at how old and tired they all look.”

~Marisa B. Crane

Enjoy your tea, loves!

xox

I heard this story recently, about a woman who went home for the holidays.

Don’t twitch with anxiety, this isn’t about family hijinks – it’s about worthiness.

While she was in Ohio, Illinois or Iowa, you know – the cradle of civilization for transplanted Californians – she met with friends who were also there serving their sentence – I mean visiting family.

Inside one of those knotty pine kitchens with the avocado appliances, we all know the ones, they haven’t been touched since 1970; they all sat around the table catching up. Life it seems, had been good to this cross-section of her friends. They had kids in college, long-standing careers, minimal health issues, at least one living parent, and all their teeth; yet, the entire first hour was a bitch session.

It was as if the Complaining Olympics had come to town. She got so caught up in it, hoping to at least medal, (she could picture herself atop the podium, National Anthem playing) that she embellished her story about a car insurance claim gone south.
In actuality she had a pretty good life, would they judge her for it if she just said so?

Meanwhile, the host made a pot of coffee in a percolator, and cut up a Sara Lee pound cake to give them just the right amount of caffeine and sugar to maintain their energy – in order to keep the complaints coming.

It was the house he’d lived in since he was four, a two-story colonial, which since his mom had passed was occupied solely by his dad, who by all accounts continued to be robust and health -– but apparently clumsy as shit.

“Sorry guys, I can’t find any cups that match” he said sounding embarrassed as he laid out the cake with a selection of several random cups.

There was a mug from the local University, a flowered porcelain teacup with a tiny chip on the rim, a green Pottery Barn ceramic mug that looked as if it had once been part of a set, a plain, clear, glass cup, a tall, white, fancy looking cup that was fluted and flared at the top, and a large styrofoam cup from a stack on top of the fridge.

He, being the gracious host he was, poured his coffee into the styrofoam cup, everyone else jockeyed around, silently sizing up the remaining cups.

The one friend, a mom with five kids, took the plain glass one, handing the nice white one to her friend the attorney. “Oh, that’s too nice” her friend said, putting it back on the table, taking the dainty teacup even after she noticed the chip.

One of the guys took the college mug, after picking up the green cup from the set, and putting it back. After the other two got their cake, deferring the cup choice until everyone else had picked, one grabbed the Pottery Barn mug and the other reached up and got a styrofoam cup off the pile on the fridge.

No one chose the nice, white cup.

She was sure no one else noticed, but she did.

It was so interesting for her to observe what cups people chose.
It was like a small social experiment. Everyone left the fanciest cup for the other guy, until it stood alone, un chosen.

One of the men would rather drink from styrofoam than a fancy white cup. One of the women put it back and chose one with a chip.

What was all that about?

Worthiness. Apparently no one felt they deserved the nice cup.

Now, I’m gonna level a HUGE generalization here – that is SO Midwest.

If this little kitchen scene had taken place in LA – people would have pushed each other down to get the nicest cup; the chipped teacup would have been thrown in the trash, “That’s just dangerous” –– and NO ONE would have dared drink a hot beverage from styrofoam! “Studies have shown styrofoam to be carcinogenic and bad for the environment,” I can hear the attorney saying, citing a current class action suit that’s pending.

So, two questions: do you find yourself competing in a bitchfest when you reconnect with old friends, not being able to admit that you’re actually…happy? AND which cup would you have picked and why?

Don’t say you don’t drink coffee, this story works for you tea drinkers as well.

Xox