Bedtime story of an evening tea ritual practiced mindfully, inspired by the late Thich Nhat Hanh's teachings on presence.

Did you know you can practice mindfulness with a cup of tea? Yes, practice tea meditation or mindfulness with this mindful story. Choose from a collection of teas - genmaicha, spicy chai, and gentle chamomile. Remember grandmother's rose-flavored tea from a Mumbai market shop, and the slow, intentional way she brewed and served it. Each step of making tea becomes a meditation - boiling water, steeping, sipping - being completely present for one simple act.

As we navigate through the simple yet profound actions of preparing tea, we highlight the significance of being fully present in each moment, which encourages a deep sense of mindfulness and serenity. The episode serves as a reminder that in a world often characterized by haste, the act of slowing down and savoring one thing at a time can be profoundly transformative.

This is a peaceful story with mindfulness teachings woven naturally throughout. No drama, no urgency - just the sacred simplicity of drinking tea mindfully with full attention.

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🫶 Suitable for adults and all ages. Family friendly.

Sweet dreams from No Rush Now 🌙

Welcome to no Rush Now. I'm Dee. This is a podcast for Sleep, for rest, for those moments when you need the world to slow down just a little.

Each episode is a gentle story told slowly, with nowhere urgent to go and nothing dramatic to resolve. Just quiet moments from everyday life here in Australia, woven with memories of India.

As we move through each story together, you'll experience effortless mindfulness. If you find yourself noticing your own breath, or feeling your shoulders relax, or drifting into sleep halfway through. Perfect.

This is just a gentle place to land at the end of your day, so find a comfortable position, let yourself settle, and let's wind down together. There's no rush now. Tonight we're making a mindful cup of tea.

We'll choose from different tea varieties, remember where each one came from, and settle into the gentle practice of tea meditation. This story is woven with the mindfulness teachings of Thich Nhat, Hanh, being present with each small action, each breath, each sip.

This is a quiet story with no surprises, just the simple ritual of making tea and the peace that comes from doing one thing completely. Let's begin. It's evening and I feel like having a tea. Something gentle, something to help me settle after a busy day.

I stand in front of my tea cupboard, a small shelf really, where I keep my collection. Not a huge collection, maybe 10 different types, but each one means something. Each one came from somewhere.

I open the cupboard door slowly, mindfully aware of the small creak it makes, aware of my hand on the handle, cool wood under my palm. Such a small action opening a cupboard. But I'm here for it, present with it.

The teas are in various containers, some in their original tins, some I've transferred to glass jars, some in small cloth bags. I look at each one, taking my time, not rushing to choose. There's the Genmaicha, Japanese green tea with roasted rice.

I can see the rice puffs through the clear jar, little golden brown pieces mixed with the green tea leaves. My colleague Sarah gave this to me, or rather, shared it with me. We'd been talking about favorite teas in the break room one day.

Just idle conversation. And her face lit up when she mentioned Genmicha. It's my absolute favorite, she said.

The next week, she brought me a small bag of it from her local Japanese grocer. You have to try it, she insisted. So I did, and she was right. It's good, nutty, toasty and comforting. Next to it, a tin of spicy chai. Proper chai.

Not the sweet, syrupy kind from cafes, but the real thing. Black tea with cardamom, cinnamon, ginger, black pepper and cloves. Strong and warming. The kind that makes your mouth tingle slightly.

The kind that wakes you up even as it comforts you. I bought this from an Indian grocery store. The smell hitting me as soon as I opened the tin. Instant transport, instant memory.

There's an English breakfast blend, Earl Grey with bergamot. A fruity herbal mix someone gave me as a gift. Pyramid shaped tea bags in individual wrappers. Peppermint, bright green leaves in a small bag.

And there, in a simple glass jar, chamomile. Dried chamomile flowers. Pale yellow, white, delicate and whole.

I bought this from a bulk store, scooping it myself into a paper bag, weighing it, bringing it home to transfer to this jar. It's gentle, reliable, the kind of tea that says sleep, rest and let go. I think about what I need tonight.

The ganmai cha is lovely, but too interesting, maybe too much to pay attention to. The chai too spicy, too alert. The black teas too strong for evening. Chamomile. Yes, chamomile feels right.

I take the jar down, unscrewing the lid carefully, and the smell reaches me immediately. Sweet apple, like a little bit like hay. Clean and simple. I breathe it in, just noticing, not analyzing, not thinking. I like this or this smells like.

Just smelling, Being with the smell. Thich Nhat Hanh taught about tea meditation, about being completely present for each step of making tea.

Not making tea while thinking about something else. Not making tea while planning or worrying or remembering. Just making tea. Tea making as tea making. Nothing more, nothing less.

I decide to try this, to be present completely for each small action.

I fill the kettle with water, cold from the tap, feeling the weight of the kettle change as it fills, hearing the water splashing, that hollow sound becoming fuller as the level rises. I don't overfill it, just enough for one cup. Being mindful even of this, not wasting, not more than needed.

I place the kettle on its base, press the button, hear the click. The light comes on, red glowing. The kettle begins its work. I can hear it already, that quiet rumble that will build to a boil. I don't walk away.

I don't check my phone. I don't think about what to do next.

I keep my attention in the here and now, standing here, waiting with the kettle, being fully present with this moment of waiting. I watch the steam start to gather inside. Small wisps at first, then more. The sound builds, the rumble becomes stronger.

I can feel the warmth radiating from it just slightly. My Face near enough to sense it, but not so close to be uncomfortable. While I wait, I think about my grandmother. She loved tea.

Morning tea, afternoon tea, evening tea. She had a whole ritual around it. Not ceremonial exactly, just intentional. Slow present.

When I was young, maybe eight or nine, she took me to a tea shop in the Mumbai markets. Not a regular shop, a specialist one. The kind where tea leaves were stored in huge sacks, opened at the top so you could see and smell each variety.

The shop was small, narrow, packed floor to ceiling with these sacks and tins and boxes. All black tea. Different varieties, different blends, different flavors, but all black tea. That's what Indians drank in those days.

Green tea, white tea, herbal teas. Those came later. Back then, it was black tea. Strong, fragrant and real.

I remember the smell, the overwhelming, layered smell of all those black teas together. Plain Assam and Darjeeling and Nilgiri Masala chai blends with spices. Floral ones with jasmine or rose.

All of it mixing in the air, creating something unique to that space. My grandmother knew what she wanted. She always bought the same kind. A rose flavored black tea.

The shopkeeper would scoop it from a large sack, the tea leaves tumbling into the scale, mixing with dried rose petals, pale pink against the dark brown black leaves. He would weigh it, adjust by adding a pinch or removing a few leaves, getting it exactly right.

Then he'd pour it into a paper bag, fold the top, hand it to my grandmother with both hands. A small gesture of respect. On the walk home through the crowded market streets, my grandmother would hold that bag carefully.

Good tea deserves respect, she told me once. Not in a precious way, just acknowledging this is something valuable, something to be cared for.

Back at her house, she would make it the traditional way, the proper Indian way. Not in a teapot, but on the stove, in a small pot. She would pour water into the pot, place it on the flame and wait for it to come to a rolling boil.

A proper boil. Bubbles rising and breaking, the water moving. Then she'd add the tea leaves, the rose flavoured ones, and let them boil together.

The water would darken immediately, turning that deep amber brown. The smell. Oh, the smell. Tea and roses and steam, filling the whole kitchen. She'd let it boil for a minute, maybe two.

The leaves dancing in the rolling water, releasing everything they had. Then she'd add milk. Just a splash, watching it swirl and mix. And a little sugar. Not much, just enough.

She'd let it boil again, just briefly, watching it carefully so it wouldn't boil over. That moment when the tea threatens to Rise up and spill.

She'd lift the pot off the flame just in time, then put it back, letting it almost rise again. This dance, this attention. Finally, she'd strain it into small cups with handles. The tea was strong, fragrant, sweet.

The rose flavor delicate, but present perfect. We would sit in her courtyard, me on the small stool, her in her chair, holding these cups of tea.

The courtyard was open to the sky, a small square of blue above us, surrounded by the walls of the building. Crows would often visit, hopping along the courtyard wall, calling out with their harsh voices.

My grandmother would sometimes leave a little food for them, pieces of chupati and rice. Feeding crows is feeding our ancestors, she told me once. It's what people believed, what she believed.

The crows as messengers, as connections to those who came before. She would sip her tea slowly, mindfully, though she never used that word.

She would hold the cup, breathe in the steam, sip, breathe deeply and sip again. Sometimes we talk.

Sometimes we'd just sit watching the crows, listening to the sounds of the building around us, the neighbors voices, the distant traffic. The tea was the thing. The tea and the courtyard and the quiet companionship. The tea was enough.

Those simple memories are some of my best from childhood. School holidays, visiting her, the heat of Mumbai, the noise outside and inside.

In that courtyard, this quiet space, this tea ritual, the crows hopping along the wall, this slow, unintentional practice of being present. The kettle clicks off, startling me slightly. Back to now. Back to my kitchen. Back to this moment.

I pour the boiled water into my cup, watching the chamomile flowers swirl and dance, some floating, some sinking. The water turns pale yellow. Almost immediately, the steam rises, carrying that apple sweet smell. I don't add anything. No honey, no sugar, no milk.

Just tea. Just chamomile and water. Simple. Complete. I carry the cup carefully to the table, feeling the warmth through the ceramic, and sit down.

The chair is familiar, the table solid under my elbows. The room quiet except for the distant sound of traffic outside. I wrap both hands around the cup.

Not because I'm cold, but because this is how you hold tea. With both hands, with attention, with respect. Thich Nhat Hanh said, when you hold your tea, really hold your tea, be completely there for your tea.

Not holding tea while thinking about work, not holding tea while planning tomorrow. Just tea. You and the tea together, complete. So I try this. I hold my cup. I feel the warmth radiating into my palms.

I notice the weight of it, not heavy, but substantial, real and present. I bring the cup close to my face and breathe in. The steam warms My nose, my cheeks. I smell the chamomile, Sweet and calming.

I breathe in slowly, just noticing the smell. How it fills my lungs, how it seems to soften something inside me. I breathe out. The steam swirls slightly from my breath. Everything connected.

My breath affecting the tea. The tea affecting my breath. I take my first sip, small and careful, as it's still hot. The tea touches my lips, first warm, then my tongue.

I let it sit in my mouth for a moment, just being with the taste. Gentle, slightly sweet and clean. Then I swallow, feeling the warmth travel down. The warmth spreading through my chest.

I place the cup back on the table. I don't rush to the next sip. I just sit, breathing, being the tea in front of me. Me in front of the tea. Nothing else. Needed another sip. This time.

I notice the texture. Smooth, silky, almost. I notice the temperature. Cooler now, more comfortable.

I notice my body relaxing, shoulders dropping, jaw unclenching, breath deepening. There is nowhere else I need to be. Nothing else I need to do. This is enough. This moment, this tea, this sitting.

I think about how we rush through so much. Eating while working, walking while thinking, showering while planning the day. Rarely just doing one thing. Rarely being present for the simple acts.

But here now, I'm just drinking tea. And it feels radical, almost revolutionary. To do one thing, to be completely present for one thing. Another sip.

The cup is half empty now, or half full. Both true. Both fine. I can feel the chamomile working. That gentle sedative quality. Not strong, not sudden, just softening.

Like someone turning down the volume on the day, dimming the brightness, creating space for rest. My grandmother would understand this. She practiced this without calling it practice. She lived this without making it a philosophy.

She just drank tea slowly, completely present. I wish I could share this cup with her. Sit in her courtyard one more time. Hold those small handleless cups.

Sip her rose flavored tea, made the traditional way, boiled on the stove, fragrant and strong. Watch the crows hop along the wall, be together in that quiet space. But I can do this. I can drink my tea mindfully.

I can be present for these small moments. I can honor her practice by practicing myself. The tea is cooler now. I can take bigger sips. I do. But not too quickly. Still present, still noticing.

Still here. The chamomile flowers have settled at the bottom of the cup. Spent. Their work done. They gave what they had to give. The water. Received it.

I'm receiving it now. A chain of giving and receiving. Tea to water. Water to me. Me to this moment. I finish the last sip the cup empty.

I hold it a moment longer, still warm, the residual heat a gift. Then I place it down gently, hearing the small sound it makes against the table. Complete.

I sit for a moment longer, not rushing to stand, not jumping to the next thing, just sitting, breathing, being in the aftermath of tea. My body feels different now, softer, heavier in a good way, ready for rest.

The chamomile has done its work, but more than that, the mindfulness has done its work. The presence of the attention, the complete being here now of making and drinking tea. This is what Thich Nhat Hanh meant.

This is what my grandmother practiced. This simple act made sacred by attention, made complete by presence, made enough by being fully here.

I stand slowly, taking the cup to the sink, rinsing it, watching the water wash away the last traces of tea. I place it on the drying rack, clean. Ready for tomorrow. Tomorrow's tea, tomorrow's practice, tomorrow's moment of presence. But that's tomorrow.

Now is now. And now I'm ready. Ready for sleep, ready for rest, ready to let the day go and welcome the night. The tea ritual is complete. The meditation is done.

The practice has held me, and I am peaceful, present here. There's no rush. There's no rush at all.