Inviting 2025 in for a Cup of Tea

As a new year arrives, I often hear folks refer to their mindsets through a lens of metaphorical violence. Folks describe their approaches as they

Hit the ground running; Take it by the horns; Punch their way through; Conquer the year; Attack their goals; Crush the competition; Break down the doors; Take no prisoners.

Given all the struggles facing the world, however, I wonder whether we might consider a different approach. Something more peaceful, more quiet, more reflective. What if, instead of fighting against the arrival of 2025, we instead sat down with the year 2025 quietly...invited it in for a cup of tea. What if we listened?

Eight years ago, my eighth-grade students and I shared an extraordinary moment that still resonates deeply with me as we step into 2025. That day, we found ourselves seated in Frank Kwei's serene tea pavilion. Frank, with his practiced movements and calm demeanor, invited us into a space of reflection and ritual—a space that, in hindsight, offered lessons far beyond the scope of the classroom.

Frank began by pouring steaming water over a red-brown teapot, its surface glistening as the water cascaded down. One student, her curiosity piqued, asked, “Doesn’t that water burn your fingers?”

“I suppose it does,” Frank replied with a gentle smile. He continued his ritual, carefully pouring water over a basket of jasmine pearls. As the water touched each pearl, they unfurled, revealing vibrant green leaves stretching upward as if coming to life.

“Why do you do it?” she pressed.

“It is ritual,” he said, his words deliberate and calm. “A part of the craft. My job is to help people slow down, and each of the rituals in my preparation of this tea helps me to slow down, too.”

In that moment, my students, who were just a day away from presenting their research at our annual World Congress Symposium, forgot their anxieties. These were students tackling weighty topics like global hunger, illiteracy, and environmental degradation—issues that demanded their intellect and their empathy. Yet here, in the presence of Frank and his tea, they slowed down, captivated by the simplicity of the ritual.

Frank shared more wisdom as he prepared the tea. “When someone prepares you tea, you do not have to enjoy it. But you do have to respect it. Thousands of years have gone into its creation. The soil, the science, the cultivation, the mastery, the wisdom.”

My students sipped. They struggled to articulate the flavors, their whispers filling the quiet space:

“Burnt toast.” “Seaweed.” “Nutty steam.”

“Those are tannins,” Frank explained. “Now let it touch all the parts of your tongue. What are the flavors doing to each other?”

They respected the tea. They respected the moment.

Frank showed them a simple teapot made of ceramic. “This is a bowl and a lid,” he said. They nodded. It was.

“People have been making tea with a bowl and lid for thousands of years. Could they develop a more modern way to make tea?” he asked.

“Yes,” the students answered confidently.

“But if something is beautiful, efficient, simple, and it has worked for 4,000 years, leave it alone.”

As we left the pavilion that day, the students were quiet, introspective. The next day, they would present their findings and solutions, teaching me about their generation’s determination to address unfinished business: world hunger, malaria, climate change, and more. They carried the weight of knowing they would inherit a world filled with complex challenges, yet they also carried hope—the kind of hope born from slowing down and recognizing the beauty and efficiency of simplicity.

Now, as these students enter their early twenties, I find myself reflecting not just on that day but on the countless moments like it that have shaped my understanding of what it takes to nurture a school community. That quiet walk from the tea pavilion, the lessons steeped in ritual and respect, taught me something essential about leadership. To guide others, you must create spaces where they can slow down, reflect, and connect. In these moments, possibilities emerge.

As 2025 begins, I carry this memory as both a reminder and a compass. Rituals, however simple, anchor us. They teach us to embrace the duality of evolution and constancy. Problems will always arise, and solutions may sometimes seem elusive, but within the ritual of slowing down, we find clarity. We find hope.

Life, like tea, can hurt. But it is our rituals—the craft of being human—that heal us and propel us forward.