Now that I write the title, “An Interruption,” I see there’s something wrong with it. The “interruption” would better, perhaps, be the status quo.

Yesterday, we had quite a dramatic thunder storm. It rolled through the heatwave we’ve been under, and brought huge drops of rain down for all the plants, creatures, mushrooms…

In the midst of it, the power went out, and — for a moment — the relentlessness of daily life paused. Mid-way through my morning espresso routine, I went to the window, experienced the world around me for a moment, and realized that — if the power remained out — I could make tea instead.

It was wonderful to be absorbed in nature, or, maybe more accurately, to be conscious of being absorbed in nature. We’re always absorbed in nature, but we barricade ourselves against it — against nature, itself, but also against the knowledge of that absorption.

An incredibly rich petrichor — true, earth petrichor, rather than the also wonderful, but perhaps less primal smell of the pavement — washed through the house like the smell of 普洱 aging: warm, wet, complexly resinous; at once so fresh, and so ancient… My very brain felt alive.

* * *

Later that day, C. & I went out on the balcony and I did make tea, properly, heating the water over charcoal. We drank S.’s 紅水. I’ve still been experiencing a lot of anxiety around tea, but I think I’m starting to identify some of the internal pressures that produce it.

Having been well and truly interrupted earlier by the storm, I was able to soften more of my resistance, relax into the process, and allow things to take their own slow course. I must have brewed nine or ten beautiful rounds from that pot of leaves, and at the end of it, felt at such peace with the world. It was wonderful.