Magic. Elegance. Tea.
Three things for which I have always harbored a deep admiration, if not a fascination.
There are no greater joys in life than those that can be found in the littlest of details; in the smallest of pleasures made known only to those who walk with eagerness to encounter the ethereal. We need not live in a Monet painting to be inspired – though the natural world is certainly an ideal environment for hungry souls, and should I suddenly find myself in the position of the woman with the pink parasol in The Cliff Walk at Pourville, I should not complain – yet it is sometimes necessary to be the architects of our own senses of whimsy when the world seems particularly flat and broken. We at times must seek magic, pursue elegance, and drink tea.
As I write this post, I am asking myself how I plan to properly explain what I feel to be the connection between small joys, magic, Monet, elegance, nature, tea, and a life of unequivocal radiance. This is an excellent question, and one on which I hope to elaborate in due course. I first however, feel I must issue something of an apology; for I am afraid I will never live a life, much less write a post, that does not in some way connect back to magic, elegance, and tea. The three are indubitably united and interconnected in manners stronger than can be fathomed by the imagination – another powerful force from which I hope to never escape – and as such these words on this screen will certainly not be the last you hear of the elements magic, elegance, and tea.
When we were children, my mother made a special tea that is still considered legendary among my friends. On special occasions, or on rainy days when we were stuck inside and needed something exciting to keep us going, she would lay out little tables and cover them with white tablecloths, rinse out the china pots and teacups – which we never used but for this sole purpose -, and make her special drink of milk, cinnamon, vanilla, and sugar. The recipe is deceptively simple. Many have tried, but none have succeeded in making milk tea so perfectly as did my mother. She never measured the ingredients, yet it was always heavenly – delectable to young girls, never too sweet, rich enough to feel luxurious and yet not so much so that the tea party became an excuse to guzzle sugary milk; on the contrary, so divine was the tea it inspired the most graceful of hostesses to emerge from the souls of three young children.
In the event living friends could not be made available for afternoon tea, my sisters and I dressed our American Girl dolls in their most charming finery, clipped back our unruly curls with pink barrettes and a collection of hairbows (gifts from a stubborn grandmother who refused to accept only one of her five granddaughters actively enjoyed the donning of an enormous monogrammed bow on the daily. Privately, I greatly enjoyed a subtle bow, or better yet a satin ribbon, a fact to which I rarely admitted on account that when I was young it was most fashionable among my peers to reject hair frivolity and sport a pair of athletic shorts and call oneself a “tomboy”, a trend which I dutifully followed), and seated ourselves on our well-worn green couch cushions to drink our tea and eat baby carrots and somewhat-thinly sliced cucumbers.
This was the magic of my childhood.
I have always loved visits to art museums, have always been enraptured by ballet and orchestra. I could spend hours upon hours in antique stores and perusing pictures of exquisite gowns constructed by the geniuses who draw at stools in ateliers. My appreciation for the classical picture of elegance is one founded on an adoration of detail, artistry, history, and storytelling, and the way these elements are combined in something beautiful for the onlooker to behold.
However, the most powerful magic in my life comes not from gazing at a Degas or dreaming about decorative brass doorknobs, but in sipping milk tea and eating carrots with my mother and dolls. The elegance in which I am dogged pursuit is of no monetary worth, but can only be described as a desire to live a life full of wonder and grace and lightness. Tea is where these two components of life intersect.
Magic exists in the moments we create for ourselves. It abounds in the fleeting moments where we are surrounded by what and who we love and are emphatically engaged in following our passions and living into our dreams. In these instances, when our reality converges with the world in which we long to live, that which we long to see, magic is born. It takes root in the smallest of details and flows outward. Likewise, that which is elegant is as such because elegance is an exhibition of the finest attention to detail, of the way simplicity and art coincide in a manner that inspires and uplifts. Elegance is the embodiment of our dreams being realised in reality, and it is from this phenomenon that magic is created and by which it is fed.
Tea, on the other hand, is an art that both requires and produces all of the aforementioned principles. It is in itself often associated with a sense of grace and charm – tea evokes images of good manners, lovely dresses and dainty hats, silver trays bursting with French patisseries, hand-painted china and richly colored warm beverages – but it is not these material goods that make tea an elegant affair. Indeed, the drinking of tea is regarded as a refined pastime because of what it represents, and the way it makes us feel. Steeping, pouring, sipping tea are small actions that inspire reflection and the coming together of a community, while bringing comfort and joy. Whether drunk alone or with company, there is something enigmatic about a delicious sip of Earl Grey from one’s favorite yellow cat mug on a rainy evening, or a spot of English Breakfast served in thin white china on a bright spring afternoon. The drinking of tea begs us to slow down, to appreciate the practice and honor each moment. In doing so, we create for ourselves a world of magic in which gentility and elegance reign supreme.
The milk teas from years ago included every aspect of an adult tea, heightened by the acute senses of wonder and imagination found only in children. They were not extraordinary events, but they were special. They were magical, they were elegant. I no longer drink milk tea, but I still search for the extraordinary, and I find it in many different places. Ballerinas. The tuning of the orchestra. Individual rays of sunlight streaming through clouds. White dresses. Shutters on multi-paned windows. The sea in a storm. The dust illuminated by the lights on a stage. Tragic heros. Willow trees. Fireflies. Candlelight. Creaky stairs. Old doorknobs. Excalibur. Small chocolates. Exquisite dollhouses. Bursting window boxes in springtime. Art museums. Painted china. White linens. Long walks outside. Mason jars. Pastel pastries. Serving spoons. Falling asleep to the sound of rain. The color navy. The whistling of a kettle in the moments before preparing a pot of tea.
Magic is not the result of things working perfectly, but it is what makes life worth living. Elegance is not measured by unattainable wealth, but it does remind us that beauty exists in a fragmented world. Tea is not just for old women in frumpled cardigans of a sickly lavender shade, but is a memorable occasion for children and an avenue of connection for adults.
We foster our own senses of magic, we create lovely things for ourselves. We drink tea in the process. What more could we ask for in life?
Love,
Lettie Anne
Photo from Starbucks on Pinterest.