Surprised by Delight
Ralph Waldo Emerson once wrote, “Some people will tell you there is a great deal of poetry and fine sentiment in a chest of tea.” I am one of those people. My soul sighs when the temperature is just right; hot enough to warm my insides without giving my mouth third-degree burns. Like a painter before her palette, I get butterflies when I strike the perfect milk-to-tea ratio, yielding a brown butter hue. Sugar and honey are childish; the equivalent of adding orange juice to red wine. Early morning rain, jazz, and a quirky yet functional mug; these are the only additions that can add to the magic of the first sip.
The art of tea making is a quiet act of self-love, and I approach the process with precision. My temperature-controlled kettle heats the water to a boil after which I allow the leaves to steep for 2-3 minutes. I count 2 Mississipis as I pour in the milk (3% when I’m feeling especially indulgent, though oat milk will often suffice). Despite my diligent adherence to this ritual, it is only on rare occasions that my tea is truly delightful. Even when I do everything just right, I often end up with a mediocre cup of tea. I have no control over the replication of this simple pleasure. While this is frustrating, it is essential.
My passion for tea may seem a bit extreme, but it has taught me about the nature of delight. The mornings I wake up most determined to make the perfect cup of tea are often the most disappointing. The harder I chase delight, the more it seems to evade me. But on those mornings when I approach my tea ritual with a bit more ease—boiling, steeping, and mixing with less rigidity, it’s then that I’m unexpectedly met with pleasure in my cup. Delight, I’ve learned, often arrives when striving stops.
To be delighted is to be surprised by pleasure. The music of a child’s laughter, the thoughtfulness of a handwritten card, the beauty of a rainbow—each is inherently pleasurable, but they become true delights when they arrive unexpectedly. While expectations can inspire motivation and discipline, they can also cause us to cling too tightly to a narrow, idealized vision of reality. I’ve come to realize that my ideas of how life should look often fall short of what is truly fulfilling. Delight thrives beyond our expectations and efforts. It refuses to be locked within the confines of our limited imaginations. You can choose either to be delighted or to be in control. I believe delight is always the better choice.
Delight also requires us to release control because it is inherently relational. It cannot exist in isolation. I know how to treat myself well. I buy myself nice things, take myself out on dates and am an expert in the art of self-care. But I have never created the experience of delight on my own; it has always come to me by way of someone or something else. My favourite definition of delight is, “the power of affording pleasure”. Delight is most powerful when it is given out of generosity and received in humility. It is a gift that helps us see goodness in the world while calling us to cultivate goodness within ourselves.
I recently saw an Instagram reel of an older gentleman expressing his gratitude for the “heavenly choreography” that brought him and his wife together. From the depth of his words and the conviction in his voice, it is clear that the man deeply delights in his wife. And isn’t that what delight truly is? Heavenly choreography; God conspiring behind the scenes to surprise us with joy. The ultimate power of affording pleasure rests with Him. He gives breath to the child that laughs in glee, and calls the sun to rise after a storm to cast a rainbow across the sky. He surprises me with a perfect cup of tea when I need it most.
