How long can one call themselves a “writer” and go without writing? These days I do boring shit. Mostly. I listen to podcasts in traffic. I read nonfiction books about science. I scroll Instagram for animal meme reels like the anointed millennial that I am. I take pictures of my cat sleeping in funny positions. I go to work, and I come home and think about work. I look for healthy and “easy” recipes. I call loved ones and worry about their health. I run on a treadmill (literally and metaphorically). There are no high-society cocktail parties or extravagant bull fights and so… I am no Hemingway.
But yesterday I woke up to the sound of rain and the smell of coffee. G put on a soft ambient record—as he does most weekend mornings—and we delighted in a slow beginning. We talked about the philosophy of existence, sipping our single-origin brew, and then we dressed in our finest Gore-Tex (a PNW requirement) and drove to pick up J. Then, the three of us set a course north, to journey to a well. A literal spring-fed well.
When J first suggested the idea, I imagined us in a forest huddled over a brick cylinder dropping a wooden bucket into some dark, mysterious depth then hauling it up to peer at our own reflections. One bucket at a time, we would fill our jugs. The idea of going to a well was a flat cartoon in my mind. Water is now just a grocery item, after all. Or merely the byproduct of a turn of the tap. Who goes to a well.. and why? But J, G, and I are tea lovers (students, I would even say) so the pursuit of excellence has led us to a search for pure, mineral spring water.
The well we arrived to was not in the cartoon style I had imagined. Dating back to the 50s, it was not nearly as ornate as I anticipated. It had a parking lot and, frankly, the only spectacle was the line of people waiting to collect some water. Like a grocery check out line, it was made up entirely of average-looking people. Dressed in leggings and Patagonia vests, they clutched 10 gallon jugs and waited in the rain for a turn at the spigot. The well itself was just a two-sided spigot! Almost hilarious in its utilitarian modernity.
And so we collected our well-water and drove down to a small beach along the Puget Sound to make afternoon tea on J’s portable gas stove. First a Gyokuro— a type of green tea that is shaded for weeks before it is harvested, to arrest photosynthesis and force the plant to produce extra chloroplasts and more chlorophyll. The result is a deep, rich tea prized for its unique flavor profile. A good cup hinges on a short extraction time (and crisp well-water, of course). I sipped mine with all the joy that holding a warm cup of tea on a rainy day brings. The trickle of water on the canopy above us, and runoff streaming into the Puget Sound, added to the ambiance of a perfect afternoon.
Next came the Matcha. J’s tea collection is impressive and of the finest quality. This Matcha came from Taiwan. It was a gift. Watching J prep two matcha bowls, it occurred to me that part of my love of tea is tied to my appreciation for the ceremony of tea-making, and Matcha is especially ceremonial in preparation. Brewed in a bowl, it requires a technical hand and specialized tools to whisk the tea into a frothy texture. J asked me to pick which bowl I preferred and I selected a red clay antique which was textured and a bit more shallow—a characteristic of summer bowls which don’t need as much insulation. The Matcha was bright and earthy at first sip, settling into a creamy decadent aftertaste. It warmed my nose to sip from the bowl. The rain picked up as we finished our well-water tea ceremony and walked the foot path back to the car.
When does the seed stop being a seed and become a tea plant? When does a tea leaf stop being a tea leaf and become a tea? When does a tea stop being a tea and become me? Are these things truly as separate as language suggests? From this perspective, aren’t all phenomena part of a continuum?
I went to the well with uncertain expectations and discovered the value of letting the hard outlines of definitions become a little more permeable; of letting go of expectations and leaning in with a curious, open ear; of letting things bear their own, unique magic—even a parking lot on the side of the road. Even a two sided-spigot. Even a cup of water becoming Gyokuro or Matcha.
I went to the well and saw myself as I truly am—a consciousness that is sometimes stuck in traffic listening to a podcast. Sometimes a writer. Sometimes a cup of tea. A series of buckets emerging from a dark, mysterious depth, each full of the same magnificent source.