It's nine-thirty in the morning on a frigid, overcast, late Fall day in Virginia. The foliage is a few weeks beyond their peak turning colors, mostly dropped actually, and so the one evergreen at the end of the yard stands out like a runway model in a nunnery.
 

          I'm in the backyard in a t-shirt, pajama pants, and flip-flops - a measure of how far I've strayed from my cultural roots. If the mantra of compassion, 'Om Mani Padme Hum,' has been on the lips of Tibetans for ten centuries, it's the mantra, "Om Dress Warm, Especially The Lower Body Hum" that's on their mind the moment the weather turns even slightly cold—at least traditionally. When my mother sees older people in America walking around in shorts, her feelings range from "These people are out of their minds" to "What superpowers do they possess?" But sometimes it feels good to feel the cold, bracing as they say, which is why I came outside before going straight into the kitchen to make tea. But ignoring the weather mantra for too long, especially at my age, might be a bit extreme, and come with a price even, because as the Dalai Lama has said on more than one occasion, the entire philosophical underpinnings of Tibetan spiritual culture, and thus culture as a whole, are based on Nagarjuna's Mūlamadhyamakakārikā, or the 'Middle Way'—or to put it even more simply for those of us who dwell on models in nunneries, 'moderation.' It's nine thirty-five, and the novelty of flip flops in 40 degrees Fahrenheit is starting to wear thin. It's time for a hot cup of tea.
 

          As the sliding glass door glided open, I caught a glimpse of myself and the backyard behind me. A few years ago, while reading a newspaper at the table just inside that door, I heard a loud crack. A sparrow had flown straight into the glass door, mistaking the reflection for more of the backyard. I wonder if he saw himself the moment he crashed. Is that a little like what Lamas mean when they say that humans are constantly causing suffering to ourselves by mistaking the fleeting illusory world for reality? Hey man, that's way too heavy for this early in the morning, and before a cup of tea at that. So the bird was lying there on the deck, still as a stone, unconscious or dead I couldn't tell. Even when I poked it a couple of times, it didn't move. I rummaged around in the kitchen for a tool we hardly ever use, a bulb baster, and surprised myself by finding it. Back at the scene of the accident, with the patient still not moving, I squeezed and released the bulb of the baster and watched the water travel up the see through tube end, and then I gently squeezed the bulb to dribble drops into the sparrow's open beak. It's not often that we get to see a sparrow from a few inches away and I was struck by its beauty; the vivid pink inside the beak, the mathematics of its feathering, and the depth of its eyes even though it looked a little glazed. Thinking that perhaps some sound may help bring it around, I started to mentally flip through the songs I knew the lyrics to - very few and even then, only the first few lines, but then thought better of it. I didn't want to find myself singing while someone lay there dead or dying. So I started to recite "Om Mani Padme Hum," the mantra I mentioned earlier. What the hell, if he's already seeing the blinding white light that's described in the Tibetan Book of the Dead, then at least he'd be getting a proper mantric send off. I say 'he' because I'm fairly certain that a female would have the common sense to know that trees, bushes, and the sky don't belong inside a house. So as I was working the baster like a surgeon, and calling out the mantras, I started wandering; if he had died on impact, then his consciousness would be disoriented, probably in a state of shock, and that it would take time for it to fully sink in that he was no longer alive, no longer returning to his nest. And just as I was wondering whether male birds go to a nest with worms for the chicks, or whether they keep a separate nest, perhaps a studio or one bedroom condo nest, and if so, would they be sparse like monk's cell, or like a bachelor pad, complete with a drinks cabinet, when I saw his feet twitch! Not certain if that was him actually coming to, or an electrical twitch, like with the dead frog experiment, I waited a while. Another twitch, a slight beak movement, and then finally, a blink assured me that he was back with us, the living that is. Without any exaggeration or hyperbole, it was one of the happiest moments I've experienced in a long time. And before you start feeling sorry for me and go thinking that my life must be so dreary and bereft of joy that a sparrow not dying could be the cause of happiness, let me ask you: would a person numbed by sorrow and despair see a pine tree in the winter and think, 'model in a nunnery?' Alright then, let's move on. A few more drops of water, a prod here and a prod there, and within a few minutes, he found his legs, did a couple of test take-offs, and then flew off into the trees. Ever since then, I've been meaning to do something to the back windows and door, but haven't come up with anything that wouldn't make the house look like a crime scene with tape all over the glass. Luckily, there hasn't been another kamikaze sparrow since.
 

          Coffee and English-style tea with milk is what we drink mainly these days as far as hot beverages go. Tibetan tea requires pot brewing, multiple ingredients, not to mention churning, and leaves quite a bit of cleaning up afterwards, which is why we normally don't have it on a daily basis. Which is also why when we do get it on occasion, such as at Tibetan New Year or at gatherings, it's a special treat. Speaking of treats, one of my earliest memories is of when I was around two or three in Lhasa, before the Dalai Lama had left the city and the fall of the Tibetan government to the Chinese army. Incidentally there's a singularly poetic and poignant term in Tibetan to describe the occupation of Tibet, 'Dhue Lo-ba,' - The fall of time, or, the end of times. So anyway, the memory is of me walking along a second floor veranda from the part of the house where we stayed to the apartment at the other end where my uncle and his family lived to be given sweet tea. Our kitchen only made Tibetan tea, and evidently, as I had become a sweet tea addict, I couldn't resist the fragant scent of sweet tea wafting across to our side of the house every morning. Come to think of it now, they must have been making the tea Indian style, by boiling the mixture of tea, milk and sugar, to have given off that distinct fragrance.
 

          We started buying a British tea brand called PG Tips several years ago because quite frankly American teas like Lipton and Tetley, which are primarily used for making iced tea as indicated by the packaging graphics, are not strong enough or sufficiently flavorful. And then a couple of years ago, a friend in the UK, Helen, talked us into switching to Yorkshire Tea, which has since become our brand of choice. We get it on Amazon. Where else? In the kitchen, I see that the filter water jug is full and think, "thank god!" Wait a minute, what god could I possibly be thanking? Because while we Tibetans entertain an endless number of deities that symbolize different aspects and levels of the mind, we don't do god, as in god god. I'm sure that we're viewed as heathens by those who do the god god, even as some of us in turn might see them as being a wee bit deluded. Wink emoji here. Either way, pouring water into a filter jug and waiting for it to fill, drop by drop, is a waste of precious sentient life, god or no god. I pick up the see-through jug and bring it over to the electric kettle, the water in the jug moving in the opposite direction like a kitchen recreation of Hokusai's "Great Wave of Kanagawa." That would be "Kanagawaee Bulab Chenmo" in Tibetan, - the two 'ee' sound making the place name a possessive, 'Bulab' meaning wave, and 'Chenmo,' great. The glass kettle has a button at the top that opens the lid and keeps it open. Good product design. I pour in about a quarter full, enough for a mug of tea and a little extra to warm up the mug with a rinse. It's perhaps a meaningless act towards saving the planet, but I try not to boil more water than needed. Funny, but writing 'quarter full' just reminded me of a cousin of mine who becomes visibly uncomfortable when his car's gas tank reaches three quarters full. He would start looking around for a gas station so that he could top up the tank and relax again - as you can imagine, he knew every gas station around where he lived and worked. On the other hand there are some people I know, one of whom is upstairs right now, who when the needle touches empty, delights in saying, "Oh there's another twenty miles at least," and would even drive past a gas station or two. As an adherent of Mūlamadhyamakakārikā at least, if not a serious practitioner, I find both of these two fuel tank behaviours irritating.
 

          There's a small lever at the base of the kettle to turn it on that I'm always a little annoyed to press because when you do, a blue light comes on, making the glass kettle look like an underwater disco floor when the bubbles start swirling - not a club vibe, not a dance hall ambience, but the innocent neon excitement of an 80's disco. Honestly, we weren't aware of this feature when we bought the kettle, again on Amazon, and were then too lazy to repack it and go through the return protocols. There's no doubt in my mind that 'consumer lethargy' is part and parcel of Jeff Bezos' business plan. So there I am, taking down a mug from the cabinet and a teabag from the tea jar. For some reason, neither Tencho la, my wife, or 'eating partner' as one of the many Tibetan terms for spouse has it, nor I, have a favorite mug that we're wedded to. No "Best Dad," "#1Mom," "Wait! I'm refueling my soul," not even a "Free Tibet" mug. Instead, we have about nine mugs of the same make and shape but in all different colors, and we use whichever one comes to hand or strikes our fancy at the moment. I've noticed that we seem to intuitively pick lighter tone colors in the mornings and warmer months, and darker value hues in the afternoons and the cooler months. I chose the one described by the maker as, "verdant green," to go with the newly visible evergreen outside, the model in the nunnery.
 

          The bubbles start rising and the kettle is full on Studio 54 - "Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive, stayin' alive." Pouring the tea water is a martial art of sorts. It takes skill, timing, and, most importantly, an understanding of the opponent: the teabag. Yes you can get through life just pouring the water mindlessly and haphazardly, but can you really call that living? OK, maybe I'm going a little overboard. But then again, maybe not. The ideal pour should comprise a strong direct hit on the teabag at the start, sort of like a body blow that drops the opponent's defense Mike Tyson style, then a lighter flow that continues to pummel the bag so that it releases the maximum amount of caffeine, tannins, amino acids, and whatever else that contribute to its flavor. Whenever I think about the mechanics of tea brewing, I think about Helen—yes, the same one—who once said, when asked how long a teabag needs to steep, "They don't really steep these days, do they? They sort of..." and then made a convulsive mouth gesture, suggesting that teas these days are cultivated to divulge their flavor almost instantly, thus not requiring the much-hallowed process of proper steeping. By the way, Helen is the wife of a dear childhood friend, just in case some of you may be thinking, "Who's this Helen across the pond then?"

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          Liking my tea to be full-flavored, with every ounce of tannin at the forefront, and not buying into Helen's instant steep theory whole hog, I let it sit for a minute or two, and then squeeze the bag with tongs, or against the wall of the cup with a spoon. Which reminds me, I was binge-watching a British police procedural show during Covid, and there was a brief scene that captured the intimate and quirky nature of people's tea making habits: a female detective says that she's going to get a cup of tea and would anyone else like one. A fellow detective says, "Yeah, I would—let the bag sit for a bit and give it a little squeeze if you would," breaking the fourth wall with a quick wink at the camera - a perfectly pitched bit of cheek and tea culture if you ask me.
 

          In the minute or two that the tea is steeping, I've got the milk going in the microwave. With trial and error, I've worked out that for the three-quarters-filled milk jug that we have, sixty seconds takes it to the verge of boiling precisely. I'm certain there'll be a price to pay for this convenience one day, but that's too much of a rabbit hole to go down this morning. I remember when I was a child in India how milk had to be boiled and how it required vigilance and or quick reflexes to avert a messy boil over. We once found a product that made a wonderful side gift: a small glass disc with an indent in the middle that, when put in the pan, stopped milk from boiling over. A simple but brilliant use of science and lateral thinking to solve a very real problem that millions of people face several times a day, every day. Not to mention the time saved not having to watch the pot. I try not to have wasted time or motion when doing even the simplest chores, so without timing it or consciously moving to achieve it, I like it when the microwave bleeps done just as I'm pulling the teabag out of the cup. That means that even as the tea is still in motion, unsettled, the milk is going in and blending. Too much milk can mask the flavor of the tea, and too little makes for an astringent-tasting cup lacking the creamy finish. I think I have it just right this time and take a quick look around to make sure that I didn't leave any tea stains. This need for extra vigilance towards stains is something that we brought on ourselves - the new countertop that we put in a few months ago is a white quartz with interesting grey streaks running through it, but as we soon found out, the light color makes every bit of dirt, stain, and wine drop stand out like ketchup on a white shirt. We got rid of the old marbleized orangey brown top because it looked like a 1985 House and Garden kitchen, but we realize now how well it camouflaged marks and stains. But as Kamala Harris said, we're not going back!
 

          November around here is still pleasant enough to sit outside and get some fresh air, so I put on a fleece top and take my tea to the backyard. I know that I've said it before but that pine tree at the end of our yard that sat hidden all summer long by the more lush foliage of the surrounding trees, now looks like a voguing model, some branches outstretched, some bent at 90 degrees. If you're old enough to remember Madonna's song 'Vogue', did you know that the same guy who directed the music video has also more recently directed "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo" and "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button?" I really must stop connecting non-existing points and temper my mind's wandering.
 

          I take a sip of tea, look up at the pine tree and think, "Would models doing a shoot in a nunnery eat in the dining hall, or will there be a catering truck outside with healthy low carb food and good espresso."

 

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