On tea and mind

When you have a well-built, solid handle, the tea will pour itself.  

That's the assumption, what's served to me on a tray at one particular coffeeshop.  

When you have a house, money, blahblahblah, xyz, the tea will pour itself:  you will be happy with minimal negative repercussions--just tasty tea.  

Ever eaten some tea leaves?  It happens.  Eating tea leaves isn't always pleasant to those who drink tea with expectations of smooth-sailing, warm, comforting liquid--only. 

Tea strainers are paramount--a solid external 3rd party mediator between pot and cup.  The strainer is the final holder of the leaves.

But the handle: look at the handle.  Note it's shape.  How it grasps the pot, it's precious--sturdily, loosely?  Does it swivel?  Is it rickety or poorly crafted with a death grasp on the pot?  Or does it all the pot some wiggle room?  All handles have a different relationship to the pot; just as all of our brains have different relations with our bodies. 

You must craft your life into a solid, working, sustainable, efficient way, just as the handle of a teapot you trust can pour the tea.

The body the pot. 

The handle the mind.

Craft your mind, pave many paths.  

A well crafted handle learns to adapt to the level of water in the teapot. 

When the tea is plentiful, all that's required is a simple lift-tilt jig.  

When the tea's running low--drained of its teaness, it's lovely energy of warmth and flavour... just the oversteeped backwash of exhausted leaves.

Now for the handle--this is where the handle's swift ninjary is put to use:

When freeing the last of its contents, an efficient handle bends in shape--accommodating for the weight and shifting nature of the water. 

It must in order to free the straggling tea contents from their misery.  No where to go but down another drain.  

Knowing its fate, it remains in the pot rather peacefully (it seems from a human perspective).  Simmered at the bottom in a melancholic paralysis.

Abandoned at the bottom of cellophanic jellowater.

Yet much stronger than the tea that had evacuated prior to it.  This is the water that faced the leaves the longest.  And the former lively, now dried leaves, coming to terms with the foreign substance of the hot water that is sucking out its juices.  

There is mutual understanding that leaves and water have to die--each of them. The leaves must be willing to give of their juiciness if it wants to become tea.  And the water must undergo boiling if it wants to face the tea.

The dance between the leaves and water.  Each giving of themselves to try to become some end.

However, 

Tea leaves are already tea.  And water is already tea.  

Bend with the water.

Think like the tea.