Passion Fruit

I love my doctor; I truly do.  But I question his sanity:  He recently counseled me to give up stress and coffee at the same time.  How could this be?  He might as well have suggested that I foreswear chocolate.  The paradigm of three, revisited:  If I’m to stay calm, I need caffeine.  It’s as simple  as that.  He smiles and shakes his head.

I’ve never been the fruity tea type.  Give me a cup of Picard’s brew — Earl Grey, hot, plain.  But along with the acid in coffee, the caffeine bugs what ails me; and so I’ve started trolling the tea aisle for something tasty.

I actually had to look no further than my pantry, where I glommed onto a tin of Passion Fruit tea, which I might have mentioned in a previous post.  It came from a friend of my son. Dark, rich, and deep, this tea warms my soul.  Its tones range from tangy to floral.  I pull its fragrance into me as I drink.  I find myself wondering if passion fruit is habit-forming.  I don’t really care; it’s soothing and satisfying.

It’s been a challenging week for me.  I’ve faced some burdens that have boiled beneath the surface of my psyche rather over-long.  I’ve not yet laid open the windows nor allowed the wind to billow through the curtains.  But I’ve cracked the door, and I stand against it with my Irish button nose pressed to the slim opening, breathing the air, closing my eyes, trying to find the scent of spring.  Behind the door, against which I remain pressed, lingering, poised to fling open the portal, I hold a steaming cup of Passion Fruit tea.

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