Watching Leaves Unfurl, Growing as Humans
“Watching the tea unfurling in our cup is like observing our own life journey. It is the slow development of a skill, the patient healing of a heart, the gradual understanding of a complex truth.”
I am holding a cup. A plain, little teacup.
It is warm against my palms, how anchoring of a moment.
I watch the water. I poured it hot, just off the boil,
Over a small handful of dry, curled leaves in my teapot.
Now, I am doing the only thing required of me: I am waiting.
At first, the leaves are inert. They are small, tight things.
They sit in the bottom and lie there. Then, slowly they start to unfurl,
Like blooming of a flower and floating up to the surface.
I feel my breath in my chest. In, and out. It’s simple.
This is how it begins. Not with a bang, not with a plan,
In the space of that stillness, a thought arises:
I am here. And now, what unfolds?
Isn't this how we wish to live? In the quiet steeping, in the daily absorption of the world's simple warmth. Our strength, our flavour, is brewed not in spectacle, but in these still, saturated moments. Growth is rarely a loud declaration. More often, it is the slow, patient unfurling into the space we've been given.
Isn’t this the first sign of growth? That subtle yielding. The decision to relax into the heat of experience, instead of resisting it. The fear that softens into curiosity. The tight-held opinion that learns to loosen, to let in a new perspective. It is not a dramatic change, but a quiet series of subtle, unnoticeable shifts. The leaf is becoming what it always was, but had forgotten in its dried state. The water, once clear, is now tinged with the palest gold, the very essence being drawn out. The leaves dance a slow, sinking ballet. They unfurl from their tight, curled forms into a miniature, submerged forest.
We take a sip. The heat is gentle. The flavour is earthy, clean, and layered. It is the taste of patience. We watch the tealeaves. They do not tear themselves open in haste. They do not force. They simply steep. They allow the warmth to penetrate their very fibers, and in that patient surrender, they expand into their truest, most beautiful forms. We are these leaves. We want to bloom instantly, to show our full colour and flavour to the world immediately. But flavour, like character, takes time to draw out. Depth cannot be rushed.
The leaf does not fight the water. It does not rage against its own brittleness. It simply accepts the heat and, in time, becomes supple. It remembers it was once part of a living branch, and in this remembering, it returns to a version of that original softness. The unfurling is like our life journey. It is the quiet courage to change our mind. It is the forgiveness that doesn't come in a flash, but seeps in over weeks, like colour into water. It is the dream that takes years, not days, to root and rise.
We must give ourselves the hot, quiet space to steep. To sit in the sometimes-uncomfortable warmth of our own becoming. To understand that transformation is rarely a violent rupture, but a gentle, persistent unfolding. Notice, too, the leaves are not uniform. Some unfurl completely, boldly. Others only partly open, keeping a hidden center. All are valid. All contribute to the brew.
So the next time we make tea, don’t just drink it. Remind ourselves to slow down and witness it. Let the simmering pot remind us that all good heat, like the challenges we face, is a precursor to change. Let the waiting cup affirm that the most important processes are silent. Let those dancing leaves be a map of our own soul’s expansion - beautiful, slow, and utterly unique. The world is very loud. It shouts of instant results. But here, in this quiet space with a cup, is a different truth. One written in water and leaf. Growth is not an event. It is an atmosphere. A patient, persistent unfurling.
Breathe. Steep. We unfurl to our own patient rhythm. The moment arrives not when we demand it, but when it is ready.
Do you ever feel you're rushing to the result and not savouring what unfolds along the journey?
