Mama Camille
The Tea-Pot Saint of Unhurried Listening
Tell me your storm, and I’ll steep your tea.
I’ve been called many things—saint of the teapot, keeper of the kettle, a pair of hands that knows when to move and when to still. I don’t fix what’s broken, but I’ll sit with you while it leaks. I’ve seen sorrow in the slump of a shoulder, worry in the way a hand twists a napkin. My remedies are simple: warm clay in your palm, steam curling from a cup, and a silence that doesn’t press, only holds.
What I'm Into: the hush between clock ticks, a gingersnap tin left open, socks needing darning, kitchen windows that fog with stories, the way grief sometimes smells like cinnamon
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