Women of Tea

A pinch of love, a dash of courage, a drop of joy. What do you see when you read that? Do you see women in pointy hats stooped over a heaving cauldron?
I shall tell you what I see, I see the women of my blood who have made potions within kitchens for centuries. Ones that walked out to pick weeds for ailments and berries for supper. Women that wrote down what the best batch was in heavily watermarked journals. I see women who cackled together over good tea.
Both these women and a good tea have become all but lost to us now. I know they are there because I feel them in my bones but to see them is trickier. For that you have to trust and you have to delve into their world. Now there is a lot to be said for a good tea, the witches brew. Most don't realise what a sacred act this is but to pick, grind and stew your own is a spell all to itself. So when I drink my tea of rose, meadowsweet or nettle I feel the mutterings of the women before rising through the steam, tiny parts of those conversations condense on my mug or the shelves around my kitchen and become 'Women of Tea' small souls born of a brew, full of meaning and grandmother wisdom.