Dear journal,
Tonight, I sit with a cup of Taylor's Imperial Gunpowder Leaf Tea in my hands. The tightly rolled leaves have unfurled in the hot water, releasing their bold, smoky aroma. Each sip carries a hint of earthiness, robust yet calming. There's something grounding about it, as if the leaves themselves whisper of ancient roots and time-tested traditions.
As much as I love coffee — the jolt, the ritual, the warmth of a morning cup — if I had to choose one beverage to carry me through the rest of my life, I’d choose tea without hesitation. Coffee, for all its virtues, is a familiar landscape. Tea, on the other hand, feels like an endless journey — a winding road with unexpected turns and quiet discoveries. Each variety, from the delicate florals of jasmine to the malty strength of Assam, offers something new. Tea can be bracing or gentle, ceremonial or casual, meditative or invigorating.
Tonight’s cup reminds me that tea asks something of its drinker — patience. The wait as the leaves steep, the pause before the first sip, the time spent savoring rather than gulping. It’s a beverage that encourages stillness, a mindful retreat from the noise.
I often think about the way tea spans cultures — British breakfast rituals, Chinese tea ceremonies, Moroccan mint tea shared in friendship — yet at its core, it's the same humble leaf, steeped in water. That simplicity is part of its magic.
Tonight, as the warmth of this Imperial Gunpowder lingers, I find myself grateful for tea’s quiet presence in my life. No matter where I am — at my desk, on my porch with a pipe, or tucked beneath a blanket — tea offers me a moment to breathe. A reminder to slow down, to pay attention, to be present.
In that sense, tea isn’t just a drink — it’s an invitation. An invitation I gladly accept on a night like tonight.
Always,
Dave