An Afternoon Tea Party

My daughter sells wonderful loose-leaf tea from a company called Lets Do Tea. Wednesday afternoon I hosted a tea party for ladies from my church. We sat on the deck with china teacups and plates of cucumber sandwiches and lime curd tarts and tasted different flavors of tea.

“Am I supposed to just swish it in my mouth and spit it out like wine?” Joyce asked. I assured her she wouldn’t get drunk if she swallowed.

We started off with an iced herbal blend called Passion Flair. Then we sampled the hot chocolate almond tea, and a mixture of green tea and blossoms called Treasures of the Inca. We finished off with After Seven, my favorite rooibos with hints of chocolate and mint.

Some of the women had brought a teacup from home to share what was special about it. Joyce had a Royal Albert cup from her first trip out of the country—to Canada. Jen had one that reminded her of when she used to live in California. My mother-in-law told how all the cups from her wedding china had broken over the fifty years of her marriage. She recently found replacements on the internet and was thrilled to be able to use them again.

My mug came from the Borders in Indianapolis where my critique group used to meet. I bought it then because the sides look like a bookcase filled with good books, a teapot, and even a cat sitting on one shelf. But now it serves to remind me of that group. There was a special chemistry that stimulated all of us to better writing. A couple group members were fellow-believers, committed to Jesus Christ. Others thought the Bible was nothing more than a collection of fairy tales. Together they held me accountable and demanded that I show faith in action and not rely on religious clichés or preachy explanations.

At the time I thought this was what all critique groups were like. I have discovered since that isn’t necessarily so. Sometimes one member dominates and is threatened by other talented writers. Sometimes the members have differing goals, or are more interested in talking about writing than in doing it. Or maybe the chemistry just isn’t there.

My Indy group has scattered. We all look fondly back on those Sunday evenings in the Borders coffee shop. I now travel to Maplewood Library in Saint Paul once a month to meet with a group of ladies who write for children and young adults. The relationships are growing, and they have already made helpful suggestions on the sequel to Glastonbury Tor. I may have to buy a Maplewood Library Tea Mug for my collection and invite them all for a tea party.