Making tea this morning, I ponder the word steeped, its meaning and its sound, how the double vowel elongates the word, how saying it out loud mimics its effect. “S-t-e-e-p” — as in a hard climb or a long soak. 

What a lovely word, steeped. It speaks of richness and tang and satisfaction. It speaks of judgment. Coffee is brewed, tea is steeped. There’s a world of difference in these processes. In one it’s clear and proscribed; in the other, it’s open-ended and subject to taste. With steeping, time is part of the equation.

This morning, I feel steeped in place, which does not mean I’m gazing at a fetching vista but that I feel totally saturated with the place I am. It’s not a bad place, not at all. In fact, it’s a wonderful place, this house, so full of love and memories.

But it is, after all, only one place. And there are so many other places out there.