Steeped in Ritual

The way of the teapot

Some things have to break for us to know how much they mean to us. The teapot my sister made and gave me years ago was not one of those things.

I steeped my green and ginger teas together in that teapot each morning.

Two fat teapots made by Sarah Heimann (neither is the one she gave me)

Every time I picked up that pot, the swirls she had delicately etched into the handle tickled my palm. The finial on the lid was a miniature armchair with cushions carved to fatness. I sat my index finger in the seat of the chair to hold the lid tight to the pot.

I imagined my sister shaping the body, smoothing the spout, joining the handle to the body. She would have palmed the lid, then used her tools to cut in the mouth of the body against the stopper, her expertise telling her when the shoulders would perfectly meet the lid after the flames shrank them to size. Spirals of sky and royal blues and deep black surrounded burnt umber winding stems and leaves. The outside surfaces of both the body and the lid were coarse except in the smooth grooves, where the clay held the glaze and shone through.

I pictured my sister picking out this particular teapot for me—perhaps choosing it for its perfect stoutness, the puffed chair that graced its lid, the colors, the carvings.

I know nothing of tea ceremony, but when I poured from that pot, time slowed. No matter what I was focused on previously, when I poured my tea, life paused and for a moment I was completely present with the roughness of the handle, my fingertip light against the lid, the steaming tea. Tea flowed a perfect arc from the spout into my favorite mug. Before the first sip I wrapped my hands around my mug, felt the warmth seep deep.

These days I steep my teas together in a tall blue metal canister with a black plastic lid. It has no spout. It was a gift, too, but not from my sister. I bring it into my yoga studio without worrying about broken shards hiding in corners waiting to cut yogis’ feet. It is useful, sturdy, solid, and occasionally tips over. Tea flows slowly from the opening, so it’s easy to clean up if it spills—in the studio or at my desk. When I pour, it gurgles, sloshes. Drinking tea from that canister allows me to focus on other things—my yoga practice, my yoga teaching, my editing, my writing.

The rhythms of my life are no longer in sync with the ritual that accompanied the teapot gifted me long ago. When my sister offered to make me a new one, said that she would make a few and give me a choice, I could not choose. I had not chosen the first teapot. It had been chosen for me. I had felt chosen by it.

Yet the ways that arose with that teapot—experiencing the texture of the handle, admiring the perfect arc of the pour, bathing in the warmth, inhabiting those moments of pause—I still embrace within me.