Happy Independence Day! We’re well and truly entrenched in July now, and I find myself in the middle of my fifth year of living in Switzerland. And even though it seems that America might be a dumpster fire behind a seedy downtown hotel that never changes it sheets, that hasn’t diminished the pride and gratitude I feel as an American. And it’s with the classic American spirit of hope depsite the odds, that I’m making rather exciting plans for the second half of this year.
I am such a perfectionist, and such a do-er (my sisters would call me an overachiever) that I forget to let myself and my work just be. I convince myself I am not doing enough, or I am not doing well enough. The merry-go-round in my brain just can’t let it rest. I’m either a terrible writer or I’m not giving my best. That kind of self-condemnation is destructive. And paralyzing.
What lands do separate –
Nay, what words, indeed!
For I know not that which
Can bridge the distance ‘tween.
My mother taught me about tea when I was young. How chamomile soothes. How herbals heal. How black tea warms a body up from the weary bones to the stretched-out skin. The first time I drank a mug of tea, if I remember correctly, I was ten, in the fifth grade. It was perhaps 11 o’clock in the evening, or maybe later. I would stay up late reading most nights,