Iced Tea

A friend mentioned it to me in an email,

Foreign words I rarely use,

Words I rarely hear mentioned,

Still, they sounded good,

Cool,

Refreshing

Iced tea.

I don't drink it much.

I prefer hot tea.

After all, Earl Grey isn't very good chilled.

Still, it sounded good.

After all, it is summer.

I decided I would make some,

Though it is a lot of work

As there aren't any mixes or formulas around the house,

No pre-made gallon jugs,

No glass bottles with popping tops.

Iced tea has to be made from hot tea,

Brewed hot and served cold.

It is a lot of work to go through for a glass of iced tea,

But I was determined to do it.

I filled a pan half full with water from the faucet,

Put more water in the hot pot,

Plugged it in on the kitchen table.

I pulled the giant box of regular tea out of the cupboard,

Grabbed a few bags,

Ripped open the packages,

Tied the strings together,

And waited.

The hot pot became hot.

I poured in the water,

Replaced the lid,

Waited some more.

Eventually, I heard sounds,

Hints that it might be almost ready,

But it wasn't quite ready yet.

I wanted it hotter,

Really boiling,

Thinking it would brew stronger tea.

I waited some more,

Removed the lid again

And decided it was time to add the tea bags.

I dropped them in,

Wrapped the knotted strings around the handle,

Watched the water turn darker

And darker.

I left the pan on the burner on a lower setting (again, hoping the heat would help it brew) and set out to retrieve the pitchers,

Old plastic pitchers I've used for as long as I can remember

For Kool-Aid,

Crystal Light,

And, once before, for iced tea

(The memory of which has kept me from making more - it took forever).

I filled them partway with water and ice,

Hoping to keep the water cool enough to offset the tea,

Which would surely still be warm when I poured it in.

I dropped some ice in the tea, too,

Hoping to cool it down faster.

The ice vanished quickly,

Brown foam appeared around the melting "cubes".

Before long,  all the ice had melted

And the water was dark and still once again.

I moved the pan off the stove,

Hoping to get it as far away from the heat as was convenient.

Then I waited some more.

After a while, I went over to check the tea.

It was still too hot,

So I waited some more,

Then went over to check again.

Finally, it seemed ready.

I moved it close to the pitchers,

Ready to pour . . .

And I made a huge mess.

Note to self:  Next time, use a bigger pan and don't fill it so full.

After I cleaned up the table,

And the pitchers,

And the chair,

And the floor,

I retrieved the old, long-handled wooden spoon and began to stir,

Creating whirlpools in the dark brown water.

When I finished, I poured a tiny bit,

Just to taste.

It was a little weaker than I expected,

But still good.

I thought I did pretty well, considering it was only my second attempt at iced tea.

I slid the lids on the pitchers (before I bumped into one of them and made even more of a mess)

And squeezed them into the empty space I'd created in the refrigerator.

It was a lot of work for a glass of iced tea,

But it was a fun experience,

Full of tiny little gifts

Like foaming ice cubes

And big messes,

Clumps of tea bags

And smooth wooden spoon handles.

Besides, I can probably get more than one glass of iced tea out of two pitchers.

Of course, that's assuming that someone else won't get into them first.

Snapped in Two

I wrote about it months ago,

The broken tree,

The tree that survived the brutal storm,

Cut almost in half,

Light wood showing where bark once was,

Light, splintered wood,

Broken.

Scarred.

Yesterday, the wind blew hard,

Leaves fluttered,

Detached from their trees,

Flying almost completely horizontal,

Caught in the powerful air currents.

Little ones looked out the windows,

In awe of the incredible spectacle.

Suddenly, exclamations came from the other side of the room.

"The wind blew the tree down!"

As they rushed to the basement to tell Dad,

I rushed to the window to look.

They were right.

The wind had blown the tree down.

It was snapped in two

Like a twig.

The trunk of the tree stood in the ground like a pole,

Top edge jagged,

Raw,

Ripped open.

The top part of the tree had fallen hard

In a rather inconvenient location,

Across the end of the driveway,

Completely blocking entry

Or exit.

When the storm passed, I went out,

Camera in hand,

Trying once again to capture the brokenness,

Learning once again to call the brokenness "beautiful",

Rushing to capture the beauty before it was too late.

Soon, it really was too late.

He had to go move it,

Had to clear the driveway,

But it was too heavy for him to drag out of the way.

He got a saw and began to cut.

The beautifully broken was sawed apart

Until little remained.

Now it's almost completely gone,

Now there is emptiness where a beautiful, broken tree once stood.

I am reminded of what I said before,

That we, too, are broken,

That we often try to hide it,

Though broken truly is beautiful.

I am also reminded that there often comes a point when the brokenness can no longer be hidden,

When, like it or not, everything comes to the surface,

When we are snapped in two.

At that point, the choice comes to either run away from the truth

Or to embrace it,

To admit the brokenness,

And learn to call it "beautiful".

I am reminded of the fact that life is short,

Fleeting,

Something to be embraced before it,

Too,

Vanishes.

Sometimes, it is easy to embrace life.

Other times, life is another thing that we have to struggle to see as beautiful.

Still, it is most certainly precious,

Not something to be wasted.

The tree's roots are still there,

Buried deep in the ground.

The stump still remains,

A tribute to what once was.

I still have my pictures,

Showing the tree when it was alive,

Broken,

Beautiful.

I will never forget that tree

And all it reminded me of,

Continues to remind me of.

When I think of it, I will always remember

How

Broken

Is

Beautiful.

Pieced Together

I saw it when we were out,

Thought it was beautiful,

Realistic pictures cut into small, oddly-shaped pieces,

Attached to soft cork,

Meant to be put together in a three-dimensional pyramid.

I'd never done a 3-D one before.

I thought I'd give it a try.

It was so beautiful.

Soon the pieces were spread out all over the table

And the cutting board that was on top of it.

Four triangles slowly began to form

From the base up.

Some bits and pieces fit together

And were placed in their approximate locations

Until other bits and pieces connected them to the base.

In a couple of hours, the triangles were mostly together,

But there were still pieces missing,

Some triangles missing more than others.

Soon, though, pieces that had been tried again and again finally found homes,

Empty spaces were filled,

Triangles were made whole.

Beautiful fish swam under a night sky.

Planets hung overhead in clear view.

A boat cut through the water,

Sailing in front of the moon.

An entire galaxy was visible,

Although the shark didn't seem to notice.

The next problem was putting it all together,

Getting four flat, flimsy sides to become a pyramid.

The problem was, those sides just did not want to stay together.

I finally - barely - got three sides to stand up.

The lens offered an incredible view into the cork cavern,

An almost-made pyramid,

Squiggly lines where the pieces met,

Lines where pieces were beginning to fall away from the rest,

Evidence of compromised structural integrity.

In spite of its fragility,

I did manage to (sort of) put the last side on.

It wasn't completely together,

Seams were already being ripped apart.

Still, it truly was beautiful.

I was glad the camera was nearby to capture my attempt at piecing together this incredible scene.

I doubted I would ever attempt it again.

At least, not for awhile.

Someday soon that puzzle will be put back in its box,

Broken again,

Hundreds of tiny, broken pieces,

But some other day,

Someone might come along,

Open the box,

Dump out the pieces

And put them back together again.

Sometimes people are like this, too.

Sometimes I am like this,

Broken,

Waiting for someone,

For SomeOne

To put the pieces back together,

To make me into something beautiful,

Something whole

Because I can't do it myself.

I finished the puzzle last week.

It's still sitting on the table,

Not yet put away,

But not three-dimensional anymore, either.

The triangles are pieced together in four-sixths of a hexagon.

I think it looks beautiful that way, too.

After all, there are many different kinds of beauty.