I’m not a tea drinker.
Which makes what happened in Israel a little ridiculous: Every night for a week, I made myself a cup of tea before bed.
The days were packed. But each evening, I’d return to my hotel room, put on the kettle, and sit quietly on the couch with a cup of tea.
For a few minutes, there was nowhere to be. And after a full day of rushing, that started to matter.
The box felt beautiful before I even opened it. You could actually see the herbs and flowers inside. Somehow, those few minutes became something I looked forward to.
When it was time to leave, I packed several boxes into my suitcase.
Which is ridiculous, because I’m still not a tea drinker.
I wasn’t trying to bring home the tea.
I was trying to bring home that feeling.
