Afternoon Tea

Time for tea

The bell was sounding time for tea as monks walked barefoot into the empty parlor. Every monk wore a flower pinned lightly to the top of his long brown robe, and the room smelled delightful.

Once all the monks were settled in—there were ten or twelve altogether—the bell ceased its chiming and the tea was poured. Green, black, hibiscus leaf—each cup was chosen according to the mood and sensibilities of its drinker. If the tea was too hot, a monk passed the cup to his neighbor, who would blow on it politely with a modest puff of wind, and then consider it cooled by the breath of the Spirit.

Meanwhile, outside, as the monks enjoyed their tea (one slow sip at a time), a nightingale-bird began to sing a beautiful song. It was the sort of melody that made a man remember all of his sweetest loves and the happiness of moments long ago lost to time. But since it was still only afternoon, the appearance of the nightingale caused some surprise, and the monks widened their eyes in glee. Most remained silent, though one or two laughed or hummed with pleasure. In the corner, the oldest and most venerable of the holy men—whose name has been forgotten with the haze of years—smiled mysteriously and closed his eyes. The tea bubbled warm in his belly as the nightingale sang, taking him, as if in flight, to distant lands of the most impossible beauty and the simplest repose.

One comment

  1. A fairer House than Prose

    “A poet is a nightingale who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds; his auditors are as men entranced by the melody of an unseen musician, who feel that they are moved and softened, yet know not whence or why.” ~Percy Bysshe Shelley

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