The Teapots upon the Hutch

…and with the forties came the more reflective years.  Oh, dear, maybe it was just the maturity of thought and years of life – yes, right – but it was feeling just like so many years, so many events, and friends, past and present, so much to think about.  And as she sat and drank her cup of tea and watched the golden late afternoon light play upon the leaves of the Sycamore outside her apartment window, she felt a gratefulness, for this time – oh, the quiet time with her cup of tea, yes – but just even more for this quiet time of life, when the rush and excitement and immediacy of youth gives way to a more reflective, even gentle, even gracious, state of awareness and wonder – an awareness of past and the previous issues – friends, lovers and hopes – and the sad, yet peaceful realization now that those things that once were issues or important, or objects of passion, dread and delight – were now – seen in the light of years of life – were now not as intense or painful or ecstatic, but nurtured and kept alive by memory and a loving scrutiny that blessed, instead of blamed, that understood instead of nurturing bitterness, that loved and wished well instead of cursed.  And the wonder – well, that was over the changes of heart that just a few years made – though in truth, it only felt as a few, because the years have flown swiftly, made fast by multiple succession of events, muted dreams, realities of pain, joy and just the stuff of life.

            She sipped her tea, a comforting communion with her heritage, and her eye wandered to her rustic hutch and her collection of teapots all glorious and proud upon the shelves.  They were a delight to the eye and each beautiful within itself.  And yet the exterior beauty was the more shallow of the beauties, for each was made even more beautiful with the memories and the meaning each one held.  For one – the ivory teapot with the ivy vines was given by a dear, dear friend – “It’s a springtime theme,” she had said with eyes that knew of eternity, “so you will remember me when I’m gone.”  The white one of the blue peacocks – a purchase from a small English seaside shop while on holiday.  And the round one with the cupid with the bow, well – it was always placed center – for its giver, now a memory – a laugh in public, an occasional tear in private – seemed always somehow center in her heart, after all these years, all these years.

            And she smiled a smile that bridged years, that seemed to span even eons, of time, events, and loves, and she considered and wondered at her blessings.  And she resolved to make her next brew of tea in another teapot, one from the hutch, to sip more deeply and carefully all the life – her life – that each contained.