Faith

Teahouse

This weekend I treated myself to an excursion into the Orange County countryside with my sister. Nestled in the middle of nowhere is an open-air teahouse crafted out of reclaimed wood and perched on top of an assortment of re-purposed shipping containers. Visitors to this aerie get a second-story view of more than a dozen raised flower and herb beds. There’s the vivid saffron yellow of the flowers that eagerly wave in the breeze as if to say to passersby and onlookers: “pick me!” Next to them is the spiky purple flower of the lavender plant. Lavender is the quintessential show-off plant: both herb and flower. Tall, impossible color, overly proud – perhaps even confident that it will be noticed before the saffron yellow of the neighboring bed. In spite of the cheerful beckoning of that sunny flower, lavender will garner the most attention with all that exotic fragrance and color. Standing watch behind this competition is a bed of very tall, very consistently-sized flowers with large, round blossoms in an elegant, deep, rust red. They have permanently withdrawn from the inelegant back and forth grab at attention between the nameless yellow blooms and the show-offy lavender. Even the bees seem to ignore the resolute presence of the rust red blossoms – unimpressed with their regal, aloof standing in this garden.

A woman wearing large sunglasses and a big, white apron tied around her waist is leading a tour through the garden. Several of the tourist/gardeners follow behind, juggling bags, baskets, phones, keys, sunglasses, clippers and discarded long-sleeve shirts. Some look perfectly at home in the garden – purposeful in their clipping and only half-listening to the woman’s guidance. Others cling to her instruction, straining visibly to hear what she says when she looks away from her pupils, pointing to this plant and that for both illustration and emphasis. 

  

Darting between the beds with the bees is an ageless, wiry man with mysterious tattoos. He moves quickly – almost as though in a race – from bed to bed with practiced efficiency. He picks the tops of this flower, pinches at the base of that herb and drops his collection into a resourced plastic bin. When he returns to the tea house, he moves directly into the kitchen to transform his motley collection of flora and fauna into a nourishing, gentle salve for 21^st Century wear and tear. This man takes seriously the care of his clients. He doesn’t ask if they seek an herbal remedy to counteract the effects of last night’s wild party. He doesn’t ask whether they will waste the benefits of his tonic on the next night’s wild party. He just does his day’s work for whomever approaches the counter and asks for his skillful ministering. I find myself staring as I follow closely his focused movement – he too engrossed to notice my impolite, nearly unblinking gaze.

I find it both heartbreaking and inspiring to watch people toil in the generous care of someone else’s needs. And here I sit with a giant streak of judgement in me. Were I to work with this quick, wiry alchemist I would hope to adopt his seeming lack of judgement. Or his capacity to observe boundaries. In fact, he might be very judgmental, but perhaps he’s managed a way of separating his judgement from his ministrations to his clients. Whatever – I want some of that. I want that focus, that efficiency as I minister to the needs of my workplace, the needs of my home and family. And finally, I want to minister that effectively to my own needs. As I absorb the activity that unfolds in this rural theater-in-the-round, I try to remember occasionally to breathe deeply, listening to the jumble of music, grinding blenders, birdsong, human chatter and the almost imperceptible click of my keyboard. I have given myself two hours in this space. I sit next to my big sister, who works in quiet contemplation of a new project. She nurses a Chai something. At my side sits a now-abandoned compostable cup with a thin residue of smoothie wreckage at the bottom.

Self-care looks different from one person to the next; from one moment to the next. So too does adventure. Chatting as we have been about this moment and what we bring to it, my sister suggested that in fact adventure is perhaps moving out of one’s comfort zone. Or perhaps leaping out of it. What’s occurring to me now is that radical self-care is, for me, an adventure. It’s a leap out the usual ministrations to others (however inadequate those efforts may be for the care of others) and turning that effort inward.

This is not to say I’m selfless. I’ve fed, clothed, entertained, even pampered myself for most of my adult life. But here’s the thing – I’m not sure that qualifies as care. I’m thinking this whole self-care thing has to do with the lack of judgement the wiry alchemist seems to exert when taking care of his clients. Of course, I need to love myself. Oy – that’s another conversation. But I think on this day – in this adventure – I’ll not judge whether I make the most out of this time at the teahouse with my sister. I’ll not judge how often I do this (too often? For entertainment purposes only? Not often enough to provide the respite I need?). I’ll not judge whether I “deserve” this care or whether I’ll waste its benefit when I return to whatever stresses or influences dull the sparkle of this garden in my mind’s eye. I’ll just leap into the moment and experience it fully. I’ll try to hold on to its benefits as long as I can, but when I feel the tension in my neck, I’ll make a quiet, pinky-swear promise to myself not to judge and not to roll my eyes (inwardly or otherwise) in derision of the morning’s relaxation lost to the day’s worries. This is the adventure.