By Michael Moran
The dried leaves of loose leaf Assam scatter on the countertop, but I scoop them up and funnel them into the tea bag to make my morning tea. I’ll go for a run in the rain soon and let myself be steeped in both rain and sweat. I have my own steam to let off.
But for now, I trace the cracks of this kintsugi mug, whose pieces have been put back together with gold dusted lacquer. Once broken, now mended; a reminder of how we do this to ourselves; resisting, as much as we can before our mug is finally a pile of shards again. I want to allow, like the tree who never asks the birds to stay or go. I want to be something large under the sky, so I will run through the gale alone, breathing hard, hoping to be opened up.
The ritual of my tea: the steaming water, the same mug, the unfurling and infusing, the losing of itself; and if I listen very closely to the cup, I can hear the monsoon, the humid soak of the rain on a million freely swaying leaves under the lid of the clay pot sky.
About the Author
Michael Moran is a writer at Pine Coffee & Cactus, his blog about discovering the world and himself through his adventures outside. He's also an ultrarunner and special education teacher living in Natick, Massachusetts. He studied English Literature at UMass Amherst and has a master's in education. He coaches track and field and cross country for middle schoolers and co-founded the Natick Runners, his local running club. He loves to travel and spends his time with family and friends in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, the Rockies of Colorado, and the desert trails of Arizona. You'll often find him at the top of a mountain trail with a burrito in hand and a trucker hat on his head.
