Even though time and space don’t matter in this world, the Fool ran into the Page of Cups somewhere and sometime. The Page was standing in a garden and walking among the fully bloomed flowers that were everywhere. He was a dashing fellow, in a jacket with a chalice symbol sewed onto it, and he carried a wine goblet.
He saw the Fool standing before him and studied him for a moment and then the Page doffed his hat with a deep bow, his nose almost scraping the ground.
How do you do? the Page asked.
The Fool gave a polite nod and twitched up his lip in a smile. He was not used to such a polite creature.
I am fine, the Fool said, and you?
I am grand, my friend, as I have waited a long time for some company, the Page said. Let’s have some tea, then.
The page swooped over to a table with two chairs and a china tea set. Steam was wafting out of the spout of the teapot, and the Fool could smell ceylon.
The Fool noticed flower petals were floating down from the sky. Cherry blossoms. He could smell the fragrances of spring. He felt hope. The Page fussed over the tea accoutrements.
Tea is about ritual, the Page said. Everything must be done so. Any deviance will change the taste of the tea dramatically. This is why we do it this way: to taste home.
The Page clucked his tongue while humming a song that was too complicated for the Fool to recognize. He had closed his eyes in meditation, but he opened them right at the same time he stopped singing and clucking.
Tea is done! he exclaimed.
He poured two cups.
I, of course, will be the Mother, the Page said, pouring a dash of milk in each cup and stirring. His hands moved like dancers across a stage, dropping a sugar cube into each cup and then stirring some more. He tasted his spoon, seemingly satisfied, since he then slid one of the cups over to the Fool.
The Fool picked up the cup and took a sip. It was perfect. He felt his shoulders melt in relaxation. Coziness all over. The world seemed right. He flashed on thousands of ideas that he wanted to write down. He was full of creativity.
The Page sat with his legs over the arm of the chair, sipping his tea and staring out into space.
I have the simplest tastes, the Page said, after a sip of tea, and as he kicked his feet he added, I am always satisfied with the best.
The day went on, and as they enjoyed tea, sandwiches, and scones, the Page spouted poetry and waxed philosophically. The Fool became lost in the Page’s meandering monologues. Sometimes the Page would ask a question, but didn’t wait for the Fool to answer before he went on.
While the Fool didn’t understand the Page’s words, he still seemed to be opening up to countless possibilities, and was feeling inspired to learn more and create. He saw things he wanted to paint, he heard birds he wanted to write poetry about, and he wanted to make tea of his own for a friend someday.
After a few hours went by – or maybe a few decades – the Page got up, said he needed to go, and walked off. The Fool stood up and continued his journey. He walked away whistling a tune and looking at the beauty that surrounded him.