Each time, including today, I don’t know what I’m looking for. Or I do, but it’s something that resists words. I already know what’s in here, having done this just last week, but something compels me to look again. I lift out the felt mobile that once hung over my crib, the one she’s saving for my future children, beings so abstract and theoretical they may as well be aliens. Next comes the blouse she sewed in high school, and the coral dress she wore to her city-hall wedding.

Then my fingers bump into something new. Something angular and hard. A book! I pry it out from beneath the weight of blankets and pull it into the light. It’s a pale yellow diary, with a faded drawing of a little girl sitting in a chair, and a tiny, dull lock on the side. My heart beating wildly, I pat around the bottom of the chest for a key. I’m running my fingers into the far corners when my mother comes up from the garage with a basket of laundry.

“Whatcha doin’ swee-” she says warmly, stopping short when she sees what’s in my hand. “I’ll take that, thank you very much!” She takes the diary from me, tsk-tsking in a gentle way as she heads upstairs to her bedroom.

That’s the last I see or hear of the diary for the rest of my childhood and adolescence, leaving me to question the details lodged in my memory. Could I really have made that up? Did I long so much for a deeper sense of who my mother was that I invented a locked book and missing key, symbolic of all that was unspoken between us, that ancient dilemma of mothers and daughters?

Years later, in graduate school, I read Terry Tempest Williams’ When Women Were Birds and felt a strum of self-recognition in the image of her mother’s journals—dozens of beautiful books inherited after her death, all of them completely blank. When Women Were Birds is written into the brink, filling in the silence of those pages with conjecture and memory.

My mother’s journals are an expanding and collapsing universe each time they are opened and closed, Williams writes.
My mother’s journals are an act of defiance.
My mother’s journals are capable of receiving my words.

Fast forward a few more years and I’m a mother now: two daughters, one son. My relationship with my own mother—once complicated by my need to know her more, and her need to keep the past at a distance—has eased under the weight of my children. We connect over our shared wonder at my babies, and a common love of sewing for them. Maybe, too, the effect of motherhood on my energy and pride have worn away my former tendency to expect more from a conversation. I find myself more able to enjoy a spell of silence in my mother’s company, feeling a passage of understanding between us that doesn’t need words.

My mother’s diary is the conversation I longed to have with her at sixteen.
My mother’s diary is a bridge to who she was before I was.
My mother’s diary is a chimera, stand-in for a shape-shifting, unanswerable question.
 

Here’s my own version of a hope chest, kept in a large basement cabinet: Four overflowing banker’s boxes and counting, each one filled with the diaries, journals, and spiral notebooks I’ve kept since age seven. There’s also a locked wooden box, about the size of a toaster oven, given to me when I was five, originally filled with a doll and doll clothes. The well-dressed doll is long gone, but the box contains more diaries, including my first one in pink vinyl, its cover bearing a photograph of a sleeping orange kitten. There are also letters from a boy I liked in third grade, with sentiments such as You are pritty and I will give you one marble.

I’ve carried these boxes from rental to rental for over a decade, until last year, when my husband and I bought what we think is our forever home. With each move, I’ve sorted the journals again and thought about burning them all, more out of fatigue and disgust at my one anti-minimalist habit, this uncharacteristically sentimental bit of excess, than any sense of shame or scandal. We have the storage space now, but we also have plenty of room out back for a burn pile. On an ordinary Wednesday burn day, they could all be ash, decades of my ruminating voice drifting up in one big sigh, gone.

The possible absence is appealing. Whenever I think of reading them, a sense of dread overtakes me. Each book is an immediate portal into a former self. Though my seven-year-old anxieties make me smile, the words are mine, the emotions instantly palpable. You know how you never want to repeat middle school? Rereading my old journals is a little like that. Maybe my mother felt the same way about her diary, her adolescence: better to let the past be the past.
 

But the sheer volume of journals is part of it, too, and their lack of a narrative arc. I filled just about every book, but irregularly: there’s always a spate of daily entries, then months before the next one. Huge events on the national stage—Columbine, 9/11, Katrina—get an abbreviated, anguished entry, followed by gaps in time and a descent back into the banal: a shopping list for my college dorm, extended analysis on what my first real boyfriend meant when he said, It bothers me that you don’t need me.

Over time, my spelling and handwriting improve, and the entries gain length and complexity, but it’s the rutted track of the same mind, leaving its wheel-prints across years, as I work out ordinary fears and dreams, crushes and skirmishes. I wonder about my life’s purpose on one page, and gripe about the neighbor’s leaf-blower on the next.

I wonder: did my mother’s diary contain a similar assortment of mental debris? If Terry Tempest Williams’s mother had actually written something in her journals, what kind of inheritance would Williams have gained, and which would she have preferred—the real thing or the thing imagined? These are the questions that keep me from striking a match, now that my once-hypothetical children are living, breathing beings, peppering me with requests for stories about my childhood.

One day I FaceTime my mom to tell her about this essay I’m writing, about my journals, the dread, the pyromanic thought I’ve lugged from house to house alongside the banker’s boxes. I tell her about my memory of finding her diary and she immediately smiles, stretches an arm outside the frame of the phone and suddenly brings it into view: the little yellow diary with its bronze lock! A chill runs over me. It turns out it contains only a few pages of writing, most of it about her pregnancy with my older sister. She says she’ll bring it with her next time she visits.

What an unexpected gift. At ten years old, such a diary would have bored me, but now I can’t imagine anything I’d love to read more than her experience of entering motherhood for the first time, a snapshot of the woman she was before she became my mom, blurred with the coming-into-focus of the mother I know. I can’t wait to meet her on the page, this version of my mom as she enters the phase of life I’m in now.

It strikes me that this might be the answer to my match-hungry question. My oldest daughter is six, a year shy of the age I was when I first started keeping a journal. Maybe I’ll dig out that pink kitten diary, reading myself at seven as I raise my own seven-year-old. Maybe it will help me empathize with her more, remember what I worried about and what I wanted to understand. Maybe I’ll buy her her own journal and let her read mine if she wants to.

My journals are an uncompleted task.
My journals are nettle and ivy.
My journals are a map read backward, handed forward, leading to where I stand.
 

In-post journal photos by Lyle Poulin

 
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Read Making the Perfect Cup of Tea
Read Re-Covering Time

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THE END.

She typed finality across the center of the page and closed the laptop with a snap.

What would it be this morning? She turned to her tea cabinet and opened it quietly. Maybe a green jasmine. She could tweet about it later and make Megan smile. Megan would have tweeted something about a new Earl Grey, and they would share fantasies about each other’s kitchens and tea cups. Or did Megan use a mug?

This would explain it. Why she typed, “The End.” This lack of attention to detail. Shouldn’t she know by now what Megan took her tea in? Hadn’t she read a few hundred tweets or more, about English Breakfasts and new green blends, a white tea for afternoon, and a cataloging of how many cups Megan had drunk by 9 pm? She had. Over and again, she had.

But she could not recall Megan’s imbibing-receptacle-of-choice. A novelist would remember these things. She would even be willing to research about tea, wouldn’t she? To create a believable character based on Megan? An authentic character who knew her basic pekoes from her golden tippys?

Novelists were like that. The real ones, anyway. The ones that Nobel Prize winner Mario Vargas Llosa wrote about in Letters to a Young Novelist. Flaubert, Proust, Thomas Wolfe.

She hadn’t made it past page 5 in Proust, had gotten hopelessly lost in his detailed descriptions and a vague sense that maybe he was in love with his mother. Really in love. Like maybe he would like to nurse again, but not quite like that. This could be wrong. She could have heard that somewhere and not picked it up by page 5 at all.

And had she even read Wolfe? She couldn’t remember that either, beyond what Vargas Llosa quoted, which she had just read on Monday. Thomas Wolfe likened the life of a writer to being infected by a worm that fed on his insides.

A worm?

It got worse. Vargas Llosa loved this image, had thought of it himself and was simply quoting Wolfe to say, You see? Being a writer is like having an insatiable parasite inside you.

Vargas Llosa’s worm was a tapeworm, and he had rolled out a few anecdotes about real people with real worms, including a few nineteenth-century ladies who purposely swallowed tapeworms that would eat their insides out, for the sake of social effect—along the lines of impressing the in-crowd with their stunningly slender waistlines.

She hated worms. Her own German grandmother had strung them on fishing lines, turned them loose by the hundreds in her garden, even smashed the “bad” ones between her thumb and middle finger, until their green insides popped out like a bilious pearl.

Laura put her hand to the edge of the granite countertop, feeling suddenly sick. A light sweat broke out across the back of her neck and a warmth spread through her limbs.

She’d better sit down on the floor, right here. Maybe someone would find her dead a few months from now, when her bills went unpaid and the repo guys jimmied the door.

Her laptop was plugged in, though, and the Word file was still open on the desktop—a single page of a novel she had never started, with the words “The End” typed smack in its center. As she sank to the floor, she managed a laugh. “The End.” They’d think it was a suicide note, wouldn’t they?

And there she’d be, where she was now, finally, thankfully. Cheek to the cool oak floor, having died of a worm.

“If you are a writer, stop whatever you are doing, unless you’re actually writing, and read The Novelist. From page one, Barkat dives deep into the writer’s mind as it really is… At times I felt I was reading the book and listening to the radio in my own head, and the words were identical. The Novelist soothed this writers soul, made me laugh, and uplifted my confidence. Hemingway said, ‘Writing is easy, just sit at the typewriter and bleed.’ Barkat covers all the in between moments so creatively. I thoroughly enjoyed The Novelist.”

—William Y., Amazon reviewer

 
Read a Rumors of Water excerpt
Read Making the Perfect Cup of Tea
Read Re-Covering Time

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Dip into the spoon of an oak
where emerald air steeps an inward morning
and you read the covering of leaves as home

—Bethany Rohde

Says Bethany, “I was inspired by How to Write a Form Poem, and decided to craft a freeform found poem. My source material is three articles at Emily D. Tea Traveler. I made minor [grammatical] alterations to three of the words. The three sources are…

Your Emily D.
Making the Perfect Cup of Tea
Re-Covering Time

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I will catch up with you next week.

Because it is true. There is excitement and work. Sorrow, deep sorrow. Birth of friendships, or maybe just deepening.

I will have tea with you then, I tell her.

I am overwhelmed.
 

Then I see this at April Harris’s Life and Times. She is writing about tea …

But it isn’t just the drink itself that is important, it is the ritual round it. Not that we have tea ceremonies like in Japan or anything, but the simple act of boiling water, pouring it over tea and serving it, is very centering. You see, whether you are making a cup of tea as a celebration, as commiseration and comfort, or to calm someone, the way you make it is the same. So even if your life is falling to pieces around you, or someone in an impossible situation has come to you for help and you have no idea where to start or what to say, making tea is something you can do.

April is right. I will catch up today.

Because I want to make tea, for the Haviland cup that Ann gave me.
 

I put water in the stainless steal teapot. I boil it. I measure Creme Earl Grey into a ceramic container with its little nylon tea basket. I smell the scent that says, “Celebrate” and, on the other hand, “I am so sorry.”

I run my finger along the fragile line of the tea cup. It tapers to a fine edge. I can feel that it is indeed antique.

Light comes through the cup where it thins.
 

Remembering another friend’s tea journey, which centers on the outdoors, I choose to sit outside to drink.

Now the sky and autumn rides on the surface of Creme Earl Grey. Colors of both hope and sorrow.
 

But tea is something we can do.

So I am doing it today.
 

New photography with modified reprint from my first writing blog.
 

 
Read a tea reflection: Recovering Time

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Forget complicated instructions.
Ignore those who say you must try this you
must do that.
Buy tea that sounds yummy. Brew it.
If you like it sweet, add sweet. If you don’t,
don’t. You are not under surveillance by the tea police
as you top your fine English breakfast with Reddi Wip.
Sip.
People across this blue-green world drink with you.
Breathe flavor. Today — Joy.
In a few minutes, the leaves unfurl
and so do I. The laptop anticipates
my next move.
Most days the tea runs out before the words.

—Megan Willome, from Writing Rituals: Starting With Tea at Tweetspeak Poetry
 

Read more Tea Poems
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This is my letter to the world,
That never wrote to me, —
The simple news that Nature told,
With tender majesty.

Her message is committed
To hands I cannot see;
For love of her, sweet countrymen,
Judge tenderly of me!

—Emily Dickinson

 

Public domain poem from the volume edited by Mabel Loomis Todd and T.W. Higginson.

Read more Emily Dickinson poems
Read reflections on the Writing Life

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Mine is cold.

I look out the window, see oak and maple leftovers strewn across dead grass. Two dark brown leaves hang from bent stalks in the rock garden. In summer, these were the orange tropical plants, with flowers that looked like pearly goldfish, mouths open to blue skies.

Where have they gone to now? What seeds, like silken-coated ambassadors, might be ushering them through darkness to find Spring on the other side?

Inside, I turn to the task at hand. Making the perfect cup of tea.

It is said that the Japanese emperors used special water for tea. I can’t remember exactly what kind of water it was. Maybe something about dew gathered from cherry blossoms or water melted from snow.

My water comes from the tap. It will have to do. It’s important to use this water only once. Reboiling reduces the oxygen content, makes the tea less tasty. And besides, I like the idea of drinking air with my favorite teas.

I used to think that all teas were created equal. Not so. Loose tea is far more flavorful. The larger the leaves, the greater the quality. (In general.) Even though I grew up as a Lipton girl, I don’t foresee ever going back. Not since the Creme Earl Grey from Kathleen’s. Not since the French Bagatelle and Christmas teas. Or the Mariage Freres Wedding Imperial, which leans towards the flavor of coffee with its caramel and chocolate undertones.

Here is a list of what to do with beautiful tea…

1. Put hot tap water in the teapot, while waiting for your tea water to boil. Measure out 1 teaspoon of tea leaves and set aside in the steeping basket.

2. Is the tea black? Bring the water to a rolling boil. Pour it over the leaves immediately. Steep for 5 minutes.

3. Keep the teapot cozy. Tea likes to stay warm through the whole process. That’s why you gave it a head start by warming the teapot first. That’s why you’ll want to wrap it up. I use a towel. Or a charming old-time French scenes tea cozy rimmed with emerald velvet and gold, that Sara made for me.

4. Is the tea green or herbal? Catch the water before it reaches a full boil. Pour. Cozy. 3 minutes for green. You’re working with a more tender situation here. 7 minutes for herbal.

Letting the tea steep too long makes it bitter. You won’t do this though.

You’ll set a timer, gaze out the window for five minutes, or seven, or three.

You’ll get the cream from the fridge, think of orange tropical flowers, or Christmas which only comes in the season of dead leaves. And thinking of leaves, you will turn back to your tea, its leaves yielding to water, to the morning.

This is a modified reprint from my first writer’s blog.

Read Re-Covering Time
Read Becoming Emily

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Now sipping my Christmas tea, the eight minutes already a memory, I peruse two different books. One about tea, one about bread. I turn the pages slowly, write my favorite lines onto colored cards.

Tea cuttings, I learn, take around one year—or even as much as fifteen months—to reach a stage where they can be planted in the tea garden. Then they must grow 15-18 inches before they are eligible to be severely pruned, and once again take time to grow into a flat table, a plucking table.

Bread is similar, in regards to time. We can use flour artificially aged with bleach and bromate (bromate being outlawed in European countries, because it is a carcinogen). Or we can use flour set out in the air, where oxygen, the very thing we breathe, will refine qualities, ultimately cultivate taste.

We don’t have time for the line, said an essay in a book I once reviewed.

The line—a single row of words—have we really no time?

If we have no time for the line, we have no time for loose tea. We have no time for the tea bush, gently coaxed to golden bud. We have no time for finely structured bread.

Let me, let me re-cover time …

for the single line, the tea, the bread.

 

This is a modified reprint from my first writer’s blog.

Read Becoming Emily
Read French and Spanish Tea—The Voice of Passions

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On the third of July, I sat on my back porch with a cup of English Breakfast. I was there to write an essay about the Fourth of July. As is often my way, I look to the things around me to inform my writing path at any particular moment. It makes my life simpler to write synergistically (if you do not want to become part of my essays, you should probably leave the room, or the porch, when I begin putting words to paper).

In any case, for that patriotic day, I was searching for something just right. Nothing too controversially free-wheeling, nothing too hard-line nationalistic. Simply something to celebrate without making any big political statements.

This, of course, is the problem with letting your surroundings determine your writing path. I had brought a cup of English Breakfast to the porch. As I sat to collect my thoughts, I could not escape the irony. Why hadn’t I brought mint? Must it be English Breakfast for the Fourth of July?

One thing led to another and before I knew it I was also considering the imported orange tropical flowers in my herb garden, Benjamin Franklin’s technically “immigrant” status, and the diverse mix of people I had photographed at an evening fireworks show the night before. From a don’t-rock-the-boat standpoint, my morning writing got completely out of hand all because of the English Breakfast.

Tea can be like that. I say I drink it as a daily ritual to comfort me. But in the next moment, I say it is filled with anti-oxidants, it reduces your risk of getting cancer. Green tea helps you lose weight. Red tea helps you sleep. Tea from Granada reminds you of how you walked cobblestone streets, and bought three kinds of tea and powdered saffron in the open square. Kombucha will boost your immune system. Japanese bancha will show you listened to a Mr. Scott Calgaro’s preferences and decided to try them on, to good effect (this is the third box you have bought for yourself, organic).

That is important. The organic part. And the Fair Trade part, too. You feel a twinge of guilt wondering about the Granada tea. Who picked the oranges and dried the meaty peels into little curls that smell so fragrant amidst grey-green pearls of dried leaves and petals of lavender? Who, in fact, grew and picked the lavender, too?

I say I drink my tea as a daily ritual to comfort me, and it is true. Also true are the health benefits, the Granada memories, the social connection element, and the fact that I prefer Fair Trade tea but do not always drink it because I can’t (and don’t want to) follow the path of every leaf and petal. How can it all be true? This is a source of recurring argument in my home. I say I did this or that, for that or this reason. I say five things that all seem different, and they are all true.

When I was a little girl, I lived in a difficult family. My stepfather hid the car keys from my mother. He took the knobs off all the lamps and appliances so we couldn’t use “his” electricity. Once, he choked my sister until she turned beet red. My mother threatened him with a knife, and today, I still have a sister with whom I can drink regular old Lipton. I have long since moved on from that brand, but my gentle mother still requires it when she comes to my house for a visit. She takes it with a bit of milk and hesitates when I offer her the evaporated cane juice sugar. How can it be real if it isn’t white like the milk?

A long time ago, my mother gave me the ritual of tea. It was a comfort, like the poetry she read to me each day before the school bus came. She taught me to drink black tea with a little milk and two teaspoons of sugar. Somewhere along the line she stopped using sugar, so I did too. Today I sometimes add honey. Mostly I let the flavor of the tea stand alone, except when I add milk to something like an Earl Grey, which surely benefits from the adding. My mother is diabetic now, maybe because she started using sugar again and eating donuts alongside her tea; so, when she comes she uses just a half a teaspoon of the evaporated cane or, if she has remembered to bring it along, she uses a sugar substitute.

Today I am drinking Kombucha. I am drinking it because I feel the need for comfort, and I didn’t want to eat chocolate without the companionship of tea. I am also drinking it because my throat feels mildly sore. Kombucha is good when you are sick. So is elderberry syrup, but I put a tea bag in my mug and poured steaming water over it instead. This was more artful than taking the elderberry syrup. Besides, I knew I was going to write about tea, or something altogether different.

But here is the end of the matter, or perhaps the beginning. I am drinking Kombucha tea for five different reasons. All true.

A modified reprint from The Art of Drinking Tea at The Curator.

Read Emily Dickinson Poems
Read French and Spanish Tea

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***

The table was set with our favorite teapot and mismatched teacups with saucers picked up in our latest thrifting adventure. Poetry books were scattered around the table, waiting to be opened and a favorite poem read. I called my children to the table for our first “Poetry Tea” and they ran through the house as though it were the best day of the year.

After pouring tea in everyone’s cup, and passing around the cookies I grabbed at the store the night before, I invited them to pick up a book and choose a poem to read out loud. To break the ice, I went first, reading a poem that they had learned to recite a year ago—one we all knew and loved:

There is no Frigate like a Book
To take us Lands away
Nor any Coursers like a Page
Of prancing Poetry –
This Traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of Toll –
How frugal is the Chariot
That bears the Human Soul –

— Emily Dickinson

Once I had gone first, they were eager to read the poems they had selected, and we spent an hour and a half reading poetry to each other on that rainy afternoon.

I hadn’t read poetry in years. My high school English teacher’s question of “But what does it mean?” still rings loud in my ears, but this time with my children made me start to see that poetry is not about meaning; poetry is about emotion. Prioritizing poetry for my children has become my own gateway to loving poetry. The more poetry I read to them, the more I want to read poetry for myself.

I started a poetry journal a few weeks ago and am learning to write my own poetry. There’s something so freeing about being able to write all my emotions without worrying about whether or not it’s appropriate. Poetry is the heartbeat of humanity, I’d like to think.
 

Read Emily Dickinson Poems
Read French and Spanish Tea (a “tea journey” with daughters)

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