After driving into Great Barrington and happening upon a magical brush with wildlife, I returned to Stockbridge and wound up at the Red Lion Hotel. While perusing the gift shop I asked if there was a place to get a cup of tea and the woman said they would be happy to set me up with one just down the hall. Passing red velvet curtains and antique furniture, I inquired about tea at the host stand and the gentleman offered to bring one to me. I chose a peppermint herbal variety then tried out several seats in the cozy lobby area. The places nearest the fire were already taken, and a cat occupied the table nearest the host stand. I moved about twice before settling near the window at the Lincoln Table, where Dickens, Thackeray and Lincoln once reportedly sat.
Unhurried and unrushed, a relatively unknown state to me up until now, I sunk into my coat on a leather upholstered chair. The fire crackled a short distance away, even if the door to the outside was between us. Sometimes the coziest situation is only attained when in proximity and juxtaposed against a frigid space.
The cup of tea arrived, with instructions by the host that peppermint tea usually steeps for seven to ten minutes. (Tea steeping time is a serious business. Over or under too many seconds may result in weak or, worse, bitter results.) He apologized for not asking if I wanted the cup to go and I explained I was taking my time. A Sunday afternoon ensconced in the fireside lobby of a historic hotel, sipping on tea and soaking in the weight of centuries – it was a reprieve from worry and sorrow.
Taking more cues from ‘The Miracle of Mindfulness’ I felt the cup of tea in my hand. I listened for the musical clink as I set it back upon its saucer. I savored the delicate mint flavor and its accompanying aroma. The fragrant remnants of a slice of lemon lingered on my fingers. Outside the picaresque falling of a thin veil of snow lent its New England charm and enchantment to the moment. There was still beauty in solitude, and in the slow taking of a Sunday cup of tea. I read a bit of my book as more hotel guests arrived and departed, enjoying the minor thrill of the proximity to travel and movement and the possibility of vacations going on around me.
Next to and behind the library was a reading garden. It was one of those secret little nooks that looked to have a surprisingly large collection of plants as judged by the name plates which remained. Most of it was hidden by the snow and the crumpled branches and leaves of the previous season, but even in slumbering gardens one can sense promise and potential. There were winter treats as well, such as in the papery bark of a birch that unfurled like unruly Christmas wrapping paper, or the berries set in the fall, some of which still retained their form and steel navy color.
My Sunday tea time in Stockbridge had come to a close. It was just far enough to give me some distance and perspective – somewhere between Albany and Boston, which is precisely where my head had been, back where it used to be. In the end, I returned home, to my heart. It never left in the first place.
