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There is something so comforting about a hot drink in the morning, especially tea.

What a trivial thing it is, this sentence. Whether you like tea or not, having someone talk about it isn’t as riveting as one would think, but I do have my reasons. You see, I got COVID recently, and was stuck in bed for a couple of days. It had been a while since I had been sick, condemned to house arrest even. And I hate being sick; I had managed to escape the germs since the whole pandemic started, my luck was bound to run out.

I’m not going to lie, it was boring. So boring. It was uncomfortable. It was annoying. Overall, not a great experience, I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone (symptoms, am I right?). I struggled to find anything to alleviate the pain and dizziness I experienced during that time, both physical and mental. Paracetamol and cough syrup didn’t work too bad for the body, but my mind was foggy and bogged down with a buzzing anxiety I could’ve done without. Going back to a cup of steaming hot tea to start a never-ending, aching day, was a routine that quickly became providential, the smallest, sweetest spoonful of sugar to make the fever go down.

Now, I usually have tea in bed on Sunday mornings after breakfast, or during holidays. It’s a ritual I would have issues abandoning, this returning to my cooled sheets with a porcelain container full of boiling water, waiting for the indolence of the morning to stretch its cat-like features in front of me. That mug is a tiny pocket of warmth in my life, a point of anchorage I look forward to as the week comes to a close. I usually drink the same green tea, with a hint of lemon, that I steep too hot, for far too long. It gets sour, it loses its subtlety and any delicate notes it could have. But I like this unrefined bitterness, and I wouldn’t have that morning brew any other way than comforting and low effort.

Being sick, as well as assigned to residence, wasn’t half as fun as it sounds. In this uncomfortable and anxious quarantine, tea gave me lightness through an unexpected window. My wishy-washy tastebuds recognised the spirit of its sourness, and the boiling water echoed around my muffled palate, relieving my walled up sinuses. That mug of leafy liquid, every morning, meant peace and quiet, a suspended safe space in the overwhelming turmoil, a lighthouse faintly flashing against a rocky and choppy sea. It forced me into a stop, even if I didn’t want it, shielding me from the harshness of the morning light.

Tea is, through and through, a primordial ritual. So many people drink it every day, during a wondrous ceremony or in an old chipped cup of which the print has faded long ago. It’s a treasure, a luxury, a simple pleasure. And it’s intimate, isn’t it? It’s filled to the brim with love. “How do you take your tea?” This simple sentence is already overflowing with softness and acknowledgement. Do you take sugar? Milk? Do you prefer jasmin tea or PG Tips? I want to know, I want to make you feel at home, tell me how you brew your leaves. Remembering such a simple thing shows mountains of fondness and care for someone. Tell me, just tell me, how do you take your tea, what’s your biggest fear, what makes your heart beat? Sit down with me, at my table or down in this comfy sofa, we’ll break out the fancy china, or you can have my old anime mug I’m far too attached to. How do you take your tea? Tell me, I’ll engrave it at the back of my mind, that’s a promise.

Why do we do all this, anyways? My cup warming my palms, I sit and stew in bed, wondering why we need to start each day with so much fatigue already haunting our bones, deep with anxiety and future promises. The hustle and bustle of daily life is so tiring, and sometimes we even get sick, too ill for some, to ever fully recover. And what do we do? We drink tea, we eat soup, something warm to heat us up from the inside. It chases away the nightmares and brings order back to my head, anyways. Over and over again, I come back to the same tea, on these Sunday mornings, in the same two mugs on a rotation. It’s my escape pod, a cloud of solace on a stormy night.

For a brief moment, time stops, in these few minutes of respite. The sun’s lazy yellowish beams trickle through the blinds as I watch them fall behind me. The steam from the boiling water floats above the mug, a haze untethered from anything earthly. The soft linen brushes against my skin as I try to forget that my back hurts. There’s mayhem and chaos strewn about, here and there; I’ll take care of it later, or not. For now, I let my gaze wander on the notepads and books around, cut from rough daylight and threaded with golden sunlit strands. In that moment, for the shortest time, the troubles melt away in a serene bliss. I cup my bitter lemon green tea. Life is good again.