A Cup of Tea

Knowing myself through my mother.

Image designed by author.

Home is an elusive concept for me. I am 43, and for most of my life, I have lived as a traveler, away from family. A purpose-driven nomad for so long that I sometimes open my eyes in the morning, not knowing what part of the world I am in.

I feel my mother’s story isn’t that different.

She’s never settled in one place. Her father died when she was nine, and she helped raise her four siblings until she got married at 16 and started her own family — a lifelong journey raising five children. I always saw her as the matriarch who worried, strategized, and executed.

I mirror some of her traits. Now, as I practice slowing down and being more present, I am beginning to feel and understand why my mother does something seemingly insignificant with passion: making tea. As much as it contradicts her way of life: strife, struggles, and concerns, it also settles her, grounds her.

I have seen her make tea when she faces a daunting challenge, wants to celebrate, or just relax. About 15 years ago, it was figuring out how to find money to send her children to college. Last night, it was just a way to relax as she folded laundry after putting her grandson to bed.

Boiling water on the stove, adding milk, stirring the ground tea leaves, brown sugar, and…