Hello dear Tea House friends, Today I’d like to offer a small piece of creative play — gentle, optional, and slow. The Softening Scan If you feel like it, set aside a few quiet minutes. You don’t need to finish anything. You can stop at any point. Start by bringing your attention to your body.Begin at the top of your head and slowly move downward. When you notice an area of holding or tension, pause there.Let it soften just a little — no fixing, no forcing. Then write one image or phrase for what that softening feels like. For example: - Jaw unclenching → a door opening - Belly releasing → a long sigh - Feet grounding → roots drinking You can keep moving through the body, collecting these small sensory translations —or stop after one or two. There’s no need to make a poem. But sometimes, one appears. The invitation is simple: write while sensing, letting images arise from the feeling itself, not from thinking about it afterward. If you try it and feel like sharing, you’re welcome to post: - one line - one image - or just a word And if you don’t, that’s perfectly fine too. Some creative play is meant only to be felt. Cheering you on

Hello dear Tea House friends, I’ve been thinking about work that never really finishes. I came across the story of Shigeru Ban, who once paused his career because building only for the privileged no longer felt true. He began rebuilding homes and gathering spaces after disasters — often with simple, temporary materials. What stayed with me wasn’t the architecture. It was the nature of the work. Work that repeats. That restores. That doesn’t end with a clear result. It made me think about my own life — and maybe yours too. There are things we return to again and again: care, listening, creating, tending, holding space. They don’t look like progress. But they are what keeps things alive. 🤍 What is one piece of your never-finished work that matters to you right now? It could be something small. Something quiet. Something only you notice. If you feel like sharing, one word or one sentence is enough. And if not, that’s okay too. Some work is meant to be returned to —layer by layer. Cheering you on, Beáta

This week’s theme is stepping closer — not to a goal, not to an answer, but to what’s already here. Winter can make everything feel distant. So instead of trying to change the season, we can gently reduce the distance. The Ritual: 1. Choose one thing nearby. Something ordinary: a mug, a notebook, a piece of fabric, a plant, a corner of a painting, light on the wall. 2. Step closer, literally. Move your body closer to it. Not to analyse, just to see more. 3. Stay with one detail. A line. A texture. A colour. A small imperfection. 4. One quiet sentence (optional) If you feel like writing, complete one line in your journal: “Up close, I notice…” ☕ If you’d like to share You’re welcome to reply with: - one word - one sentence - or a photo of the detail you noticed Presence counts even when it’s invisible. Come back to this ritual whenever you need a softer landing. Have a great week! ❤️

Lately, I’ve been listening for my breath. Not to change it. Not to fix it. Just to notice when it’s here. Some days it’s shallow and quick, as if it’s already bracing. Other times the exhale lengthens on its own, and something inside softens without effort. I know how calming breath can be and I also know how easily we forget it when we need it most. So this week, I’m not practicing “better breathing.” I’m just returning to the sound of it. If you feel like it, here’s a gentle ritual you can try in your journal: A Breath Map: Let your pen move outward with the inhale. Let it drift back inward with the exhale. No plan, no beauty required, just a trace of what’s felt. You can give it a simple name when you’re done: “The breath that stayed.” Or simply the time. And if you’d like to create together, I’m hosting a Dream Board session here in the Tea House on Wednesday at 11:00 AM—slow, intuitive, and no goals. You’re welcome to join live or watch the replay later. I’m glad you’re here. Take a breath that feels kind.

Paper holds weight. It remembers touch, rhythm, pauses. If you feel called, you might explore this theme gently in one of these ways: - Write a few lines by hand and notice the new pace your thoughts take when they have to travel through your fingers first. - Listen to the soft sounds of writing: the scratch of the pen, the slide of your hand, the faint rustle of the page. Let them become a kind of quiet music. - Pay attention to texture and scent: the tooth of the paper, the warmth of a mug near your notebook, even the faint smell of ink or pencil or your tea. - Collect one small fragment from your day : a tea tag, a leaf from your walk, and let it live on the page beside your words as a tiny altar to this particular moment. You’re welcome to keep this entirely private or, if it feels right, to share a word, an image, or a glimpse of your page here. There’s no right way to do this. Just an invitation to slow down and notice what arrives. Make a tea. Take your time. 🌱 If you’d like to go a little deeper, this week’s Journaling Muse letter explores the same theme through a longer reflection and creative invitations. You can read it here: 👉 journal.beatabosze.com