I'm not sure exactly what it is. It might be non-conformative (is that a word? we'll find out) poem, or an ode or something, but I prefer to call it "The Paragraph of Writing That Is About My Blue Chinese Teapot."
And no, I'm not "being racist by referring to it by its heritage." It is a certain style of teapot. Yeesh. I respect all teapots of all cultures. I just want to make that clear.
Anyway, here it is. I'm writing it right now and on pure whim, so do bear with me:
My Blue Chinese Teapot
Sometimes, I am sad. It's been a common occurence as of late.
Last week on a whim, I bought myself a beautiful blue Chinese teapot.
I haven't used it yet.
I just like to look at it.
When I'm particularly sad, it serves as some kind of comfort.
My blue Chinese teapot came in a big, beautiful, ornate Chinese tea set box. The box is gold and black and red and has little characters and flowers and symbols all over it. Sometimes I run my fingers over the characters and pretend I can decipher their meaning.
When I'm particularly sad, I open up this big, beautiful, ornate Chinese tea set box. Inside, nestled in golden satin cushions, lie my blue Chinese tea tray, my blue Chinese teacups, and my blue Chinese teapot.
The lucky things, all cozied and luxurious.
I admire all the pieces, but my favorite is the teapot. It's the only one I lift from the burrow. It's very tiny. It's very cute. It's baby blue with dainty, fragile creeping vines of bright blue curling all around it in erratic but somehow perfect little branches.
It has a tiny polished lid and tiny knobs on the side that you grasp and tilt, ever so slightly, to pour the tea.
Of course, I haven't actually used the blue Chinese tea set yet.
I just like to look at it.
It's somehow comforting to see this little piece of perfect that's all mine, cushioned and pampered in a pretty box that gives an aura of great importance. It's my blue Chinese tea set, and it's special and hidden away for my eyes only.
Perhaps I just like the thought of it. "I have a blue Chinese tea set."
It's very fancy. I feel very fancy knowing it's mine.
Perhaps it's vain and superficial. But can't we all be subjected to a bit of vanity, now and then?
I don't think it's any big crime in moderation.
Especially when you're particularly sad.
Though now that I think about it, the same argument could be used for drugs or alcohol.
So it may be best to disregard my previous sentiments.
I love my blue Chinese tea pot. It's pretty and tiny and important. And it's mine.
And when I'm particularly sad, I need only lift it from it's gold satin cushion and cradle it in my hands, knowing but not truly believing that it's mine to keep.
I can only take a moment, though, and savor it. The novelty of the prize can only last so long, and it's fastly fleeting with every reveal.
You know you've got a special teapot when it can cure your sadness, if even for a slippery moment.
So here's to you, my blue Chinese teapot.
Love,
Susan D. Holmes
P.S. Pray note that the teapot pictured above is not my actual teapot. I cannot reveal the actual teapot, as it is sold exclusively by a small local shop in my town, and doing so would reveal my location and probably my identity. Can't have that, can we?
But really, the one in the picture doesn't even have the little knobs on it. It very clearly has a handle. And it's not even light blue. Be more observant.
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