Art Heals: Tea

I am a coffee drinker, the stronger the better.  No sugar, no milk.  It’s part of my identity.  In the morning, not a word is spoken until I am on my second cup, hands cradling the warm mug, letting the, to me, life-giving liquid enter me by osmosis alone. Later, as I arrive at the office, the aroma of our communal pot greets me, and I partake before greeting anyone else.  Throughout the day, I return again and again to the sacred spring.  Have a curatorial conundrum? (laugh if you must) I get a coffee.  Hungry before lunch?  Coffee.  4 o-clock slump? Coffee.  A goodbye chat with co-workers?  Please let there still be some fresh in the pot.  Monday morning, when the timer for auto drip cannot be set the night before, is my special kind of hell.  Waiting.  Maybe I’ll check my emails.  Is it ready yet?  One more trip to the desk.  Back again.  Ahhh. Slurp.
You get the idea.
Bu now, as for all of us, the familiar rhythms have altered.  I still need my morning fix, but the tempo of my day has slowed, and the coffee kick plays a jarring note, pushing me toward activities no longer under my control.
I have discovered tea.  There, deep in the recesses of my pantry, I find tins and boxes with unfamiliar names, probably kind, long-ago gifts from well-meaning friends.  The only one I bought myself is chamomile, left over from the days when my mother taught me to cure a cold by steeping the tea  in a bowl over which I hung my head, draped in a towel, breathing in the vapors. I certainly didn’t drink it.
So looking for a little stimulation in the contents of my pantry (I already ate all the Pringles) I found tea.  Lovely names.  English Breakfast (I thought that was kippers.)  Who was Earl Grey? (Charles Grey, 2nd Earl Grey, British Prime Minister in the 1830s—ok, you didn’t really need to know that.)  Orange Blossom White Tea.  Ginger Pear. Bentley’s Peach Tea.  (I know you are thinking “she sure had a lot of tea-drinking friends.  Why did they even like her?  Missionaries?”)
Tea is lovely.  Elevenses means English Breakfast.  Afternoons I share with the Earl (wish I had a scone and some clotted cream).  “Quitting time” (step away from the laptop) is brightened by a fruity cup full of flavor and aroma.  As we all adjust our pace to the new reality, our identities will be subtly altered, our self-definitions changed at bit.
My name is Dagmar.  I drink tea.
These images of another kind of comforting drink, erk sous , made from licorice, showcase the sellers in Egypt (photographer, Amr Mounib), and in  pre-war Syria  (photographer, Molly McCartney). Many such vendors, also dispensing karkade, made from hibiscus flowers, and other teas, roamed the streets in happier times. Art Heals.