As I entered my senior year of college I realized that life was moving faster than before. A change was approaching and preparation was key: I needed a very particular type of attention and discussion, some sort of arena of expression, and I needed it fast. In this state-of-mind, with the world tilting forwards on me, I had a vision of my life as it exists from the bottom of a teacup.
Sliding, with nothing to hold onto, I dropped backwards and was, quite ironically, submerged by this idea of floating on the warmth of brewing conversation. I would invite other women to tea and we would talk about big, deep, impressive things. We would, over tea, change the world and enjoy our position as warm and cozy decision-makers. But how would I introduce my dream of this to the women I knew? Honestly, I have yet to. What came of our meetings was a form of subversive rebellion: we worry about how our brains – which were so thoroughly trained in history, literature, political science, media, and women’s studies - are being used on a daily basis in our cubicles, our absolutely mutual yet still partly concealed concerns over boyfriends, girlfriends, real friends and motherhood keep us awake at night and leave us restless during the day. I have no doubt that tea helps us all recover from hard weekdays. I do doubt that we talk enough, depending on how large the party is and what days we meet.
In August I wondered if I knew anyone who needed ladies tea as much as me. What has changed is that I now know that I am not alone and my world has become about planning when and where I will meet my ladies for tea: Up or Downtown? One girl invited another who invited another and the meetings grew. We don’t trust each other. We harbor our darkness, presenting only the lightest of our humors and the most talkable of our needs - we are often afraid. If someone else feels like this, she should share it soon. And so begins my journal.