Some time ago, my husband and I visited a truly marvelous tea shop in Portland. Far from being a ‘Republic’ of tea, this place is like a pocket dimension of tea, where nothing exists but tea and tea accessories. We had ourselves a lovely spree, on tea, tins for tea, some tea, and a few different kinds of tea. And, we realized, the problem was that we simply didn’t drink enough tea. So we bought paraphenalia to extend our tea-drinking into our places of employment.

And this is the occasion on which I bought the tea ball which now sits before me. It’s a darling thing, shaped rather like a diving bell, and made of chrome-plated brass. Its chain, broken by my clumsiness on its first day of service, is mended with a paperclip, which luckily doesn’t seem to affect the flavor of the tea. It nestles in its own little drip-dish, and is, in general, a very snug, cozy little item.

And, a few days every week, it goes diving. I fill my huge soup mug with water, to a point one finger-joint from the top, and microwave it for four minutes. Then I let it sit and cool for one minute, hopefully to the proper temperature for green tea (165° – 175° Fahrenheit), while I carefully spoon an estimated teaspoon of tea, green with bits of fruit and rose, into the bottom of my diving bell. The tea sticks, crackling, to the plastic spoon. I fix the top on my diving bell, and secure the chain to the handle of my Case Western Reserve University mug. The timer goes off, and I messily pour most of the hot water from the soup mug into the CWRU mug, and let the rest of the steaming water gurgle down the drain. I set the timer for two minutes, and let the diving bell do its work. Unlike those things which, in the water, undergo ‘a sea change into something rich and strange’, the diving bell, unchanged by the currents of water flowing around it and teasing open the dry green leaves within, works a change on its sea. And when it is done, water streaming from the rising bell, scent tickling my nose, I dissolve a sugar cube, fascinated by the play of translucency and density in my cup, and close my eyes to have that long-awaited sip.

Tea isn’t just a beverage. It’s a cliché by now, but it is true—tea is a ritual. It calms and centers, connects you to traditions and places far from here. The taste that was born on the hillsides of India or China has curled and lain in wait, and emerges sweet and new in this brief moment of repose. Tea is patience, cure, and meditation. Tea is a brief smell and sip of heaven.