Two Cups of Tea at Hope’s Cafe
While we lived in Montana we joined a writer’s group just forming. We chose to name ourselves The Sheep Dip Scribes after a former name the town had. There is still a road there by that name.
When we moved back to Tennessee it became harder to stay connected as the two hour time difference ran into other things we are committed to at that time. But I still pay attention to the prompts they send out. My goal to write more now that I am not pastoring full time has been thwarted by a very erratic, inconsistent, frequently in abstentia muse! But this week I determined to respond to the prompt about the seasons. After sitting outside a while, I came in, opened my computer and my errant, scalawag muse appeared. And thus, inspired, the following arose:
Growing up in northern Oklahoma where winters could be harsh, summers brutally hot and wind seemingly incessant, tornadoes a frequent menace, moving to Tennessee was a welcome relief. Here I discovered mild seasons, the occasional snow, summer’s heat mostly displayed in July, rare wind or tornado concerns. Some of that has been altered by climate change yet one thing remains consistent: the transition from summer to fall.
When we lived on the farm that transition was especially evident. There is a gradual mellowing. Spring comes forth triumphant but the aging summer slows as autumn approaches; the insects’ hum becomes a sleepy lullaby, the trees begin to prepare to shed their leaves, the fields once full, now fallow.
I always loved this autumn evolution but I feel it more keenly now as I slow with advancing age, my life reflecting this same changing of the seasons. Threaded through that sleepy lullaby are whispers. I recognize they portend more change to come, potential loss. I am impacted as I grieve the death of a dear friend and witness friends now dealing with ailing spouses suffering terminal illnesses.
I want to embrace this transition as another piece of the whole life experience. But I feel some resistance. I wonder if the trees hang on to their leaves until they absolutely have to give them up or the birds migrating south wish for a bit more time before they make their arduous journey.
Kathleen Emerson Stulce 9/19/2026
One of the things I love about writing is you never know where it will take you.
Once again I turn to the wisdom of others who know something of muses:
A muse can be a mirror: a reflection of the artist’s desires, anxieties, dreams and needs.
There are, it seems, two muses: The Muse of Inspiration, who gives us inarticulate visions and desires, and the Muse of Realization, who returns again and again to say, ‘It is yet more difficult than you thought.’ It may be that when we no longer know what to do, we have come to our real work and when we no longer know which way to go, we have begun our real journey.
I am my own muse. I am the subject I know best. The subject I want to better.
The invitation is open to share two cups of tea anytime at Hope’s Café or anywhere you share companionship and conversation.
May we be bearers of hope, the “wait staff” at Hope’s Café, for each other and all those we encounter. Shalom, Kate
P.S. The movie Jay Kelly starring George Clooney reflects something that my little essay expressed if you are so inclined to watch it.
