There are few circumstances in life for which tea feels inappropriate.

Wake up — tea.
An old friend at the door — tea.
A sadness without quite the right words — tea.
Four o’clock and dinner still some distance away — tea.
Bed, a dog curled close, the day finally loosening its grip — tea.

For something so simple, tea has acquired remarkable ceremony.

There is something almost alchemical about the sound of a string instrument.

The violin emerged in northern Italy in the sixteenth century, refined by generations of makers who learned that the smallest adjustments—to the curve of the body, the density of spruce, the grain of maple, the tension of a string—could alter the character of its voice.

Marcus Aurelius, perspective, and the quiet discipline of paying attention.