I drink a lot of teas, everyday. I visit forums and read blogs; I scour vendors’ sites; I get excited as new teas arrive with the turns of the seasons. I appreciate the leafy drink with the long history, myriad of practices, and elevation into an art form. I look forward to my every cup. Yet, for all this, there’s a distinct streak of anti-intellectualism in my tea habit.
Tea leaves, an infuser big enough for the leaves to expand, a coffee mug, and boiling water comprise almost the entirety of my tea kit. I don’t invest in stoves, charcoal, yixing clay pots, hagi cups, special water — all the things, big and small, that transform teas from a beverage into a contemplative art. I drink; I enjoy, but I don’t explore. I don’t analyze; I don’t try to improve my brewing, to transcend beyond flavor and smell.
Why? As somebody who dwells, who squints her eyes at things, who replays experiences past ad nauseum in her head, my approach to teas is a bit out of character. Perhaps we humans are always a bit inconsistent here and there. We’re not entirely linear, and our behavior can’t be perfectly extrapolated from other instances of our lives. That, readers, is why, despite the name of this blog, you won’t see me writing very much about teas. That, and the fact that “don’tworryyoucanchangethislater” was already taken as a blog’s name.