Every evening in fall and winter, I brew a cup of tea. I'm a simple creature — and one of habit, I suppose, so even the flavor remains consistent. It's mint. Always mint. If I'm tired, mint refreshes. If stress lingers after a long day, mint soothes and settles.
I've never felt worse after drinking a cup of tea.
I'm not sure when I started this ritual. The practice drops off each spring and isn't even a blip on my radar during summer, but once the sun begins to set earlier, once leaves are tinged orange, and once the edges of each day carry briskness in the air, it's time.
Dishes from dinner are put away and the kitchen is cleaned. I change from my work clothes into comfortable sweats. The shades are drawn, lamps turned on, and perhaps a good book is in hand. Beside me, simple and stable, is a cup of mint tea.
Tonight, in fact, as I contemplated whether I'd grade a few more assignments or call it a night (I called it a night), I wrapped my hands around the mug, warm from the seaming liquid inside, and felt at ease. It might merely be a cup of tea, but it feels like something more. It's a happy little ritual, one that closes a day with a small familiar gift.
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