For Those Who Have Ears to Hear

My day job took me to DC. I’m on the 12th floor of a hotel, looking out over the city, which had a snowstorm. Overnight, it looked like the little pellets inside a snow globe, and in the lamplight as I watched the snow fly, it was beautiful.

I stood looking out my hotel room window, and thought, “There are two men out there who have done the same, only with acquisition on their minds. They don’t see a strange mix of buildings and beauty; they see something they feel they own.”

Tuesday, the meetings I attended talked about how to talk to the legislators regarding rural health policy (think the sexy topics of Medicare and Medicaid) which we will do today. I am at the National Rural Health Association’s annual Policy Institute, since you ask.

Tuesday, several men in suits told us which words to avoid, which words to focus on. What no one discussed much was, how do you talk to people who work for someone who considers us serfs? Who looks out over the city and doesn’t think, “how can I make this place better,” but “how much can I enrich myself from this place?”

Maybe we didn’t discuss it because there is no way to get into that mindset and come out whole.

There was one interesting group discussion. Someone pointed out that “rural health” can be framed as a national security issue. If we can’t make them feel compassion for the loss of places where women can go to have babies, perhaps we can shock them with the potential loss of their own safety and security? We supply the food, the raw materials that become power (as in electricity, don’t stretch that into a metaphor, k thanks?). We supply the soldiers that fight wars and “keep” peace. Rural is vital to the proper functioning of the United States.

Mmhmm. Today is the day we go talk to the elected men (and some women) in suits, who work for the men in suits looking out their windows at what they believe they own. Those elected ones, they must be in some confusion at the moment. One hopes. It depends on why decided to occupy an office in the capital in first place. Did they believe they could make the world a better place, or that they could better their worlds? That they could do both with integrity and good results?

Moral high ground is slippery, and sometimes it walks through dark valleys. Good luck, elected officials. You’re going to need it.

But so are we, the grass roots non-profits and other care providers who find ourselves suddenly framing arguments without using certain words, and shining bright lights on how lucrative we are to their agenda. We’re being drawn into their kind of fight, and it would be naïve to believe that we can refuse to do that with any good results for the people counting on us to get them care.

I am praying to hold onto some integrity, intelligence, and a sense of humor today. Humility may come in handy, too. When people speak different dialects, you need to speak theirs to get things done. It’s called code switching, changing your accent and vocabulary to make communication more clear. It doesn’t usually have a moral component.

Except this time. Here we go.

Warm, Comforting Ritual

Recently I shifted from coffee to tea. It’s part of a health issue but also, you know, I like tea. Jack and I have shifted three or four times between these two life-giving morning drinks over the course of our marriage.

Part of the health shift includes being a little more deliberate, a little more gentle, with food and time and intentions to adhere to schedules in the first place. Life in the slow lane is a good place to be, and tea is a way of being there in some surprising ways.

When you make coffee, it stays hot awhile and fresh awhile. Now some foodies will tell you that after about 45 minutes it’s not worth drinking, but most of us don’t mind, so long as it’s not scorched. Like gas station coffee that’s sat around all day. Coffee is largely forgiving. Heck, you can even throw in some ice cubes and drink it cold and be a hipster. It’s all good.

But tea, well, there is a ritual aspect to its preparation and a window to its taste. Jack sets up coffee the night before; flick the switch in the morning and it’s ready to roll.

Tea water has to be made in the kettle that morning. As it reaches boil, you pour a little into two vessels: the pot warmed and cleansed, the mug heated. Then you put the bags into the pot: one for each drinker, and one for the pot. Only then can you pour the rest of the hot water in. Put your cozy over the pot. Give it a few minutes. Too soon and you are drinking what my English friend calls pealy-wally rabbit piss tea. Wrong color, not near strong enough.

But if you forget and come back in twenty minutes or so, your tea is bitter, overbrewed, and worse, starting to cool.

I used to count stress days by how many reheating revolutions my coffee took in the microwave. A bad day was 5. Tea doesn’t play this kind of game. Drink it warm, or make it into iced tea, or waste it. Tea does not accept excuses. Once it’s in the pot, the clock starts.

Which is bemusing, because tea demanding this time makes the time protected, precious. This is when you have your devotions, play the morning word games online. Check your overnight phone messages, but don’t ANSWER them. Set up your strategy for the day. Sipping each cup, a little ritual inside a larger one.

Tea makes time by demanding it. Coffee will follow you anywhere, anytime. Tea demands loyalty and mindfulness.

I’m enjoying my morning tea rituals, and I’m learning to pay attention to the window of warm comfort opportunity in the pot. It’s all part of life in the slow-down lane.