Morning Rituals: Tea, Poetry, and Daydreams
Let me set the stage: A single, modest room in Beijing, flanked by well-worn shelves that sag just slightly under the weight of too many books. I suspect if Marie Kondo ever visited, she’d faint—none of my books “spark joy” because they are, in fact, hoarded treasures I can’t let go of. My mornings begin here, not with the dopamine hit of a phone scroll or an obligatory TikTok dance attempt (though I have toyed with the idea), but with a quieter kind of ritual. One kettle, two scoops of Tieguanyin tea leaves, and the snap of hot water.
If that sounds romantic, let me guiltlessly burst the bubble: I’m usually in mismatched pajamas and a blanket poncho, hair resembling Medusa on a bad day. The tea, however, is always ceremonial. It’s not just a morning pick-me-up; it’s a chance to slow down and think. On particularly existential mornings, I’ll even read a few lines from Li Bai’s poetry, imagining what he would make of today’s dating dilemmas. (Would he swipe right? I digress.)
What I’ve found is that cultivating a sense of mindfulness in the morning sets you up to navigate relationships better—romantic or otherwise. When you give yourself the time to sip, to think, to breathe, it’s easier to go into the day ready to listen, support, and connect. Plus, “I drink loose-leaf tea” makes you sound just the right amount of pretentious on first dates—trust me on this.
Takeaway: Begin your day with something that anchors you. It doesn’t have to be poetry (though I'd argue it helps)—find that one consistent, grounding habit, even if it’s just perfecting your coffee pour-over technique.
The Afternoon Dance: Work, Play, and Strategies for Love
By the time lunch rolls around, I’m fully immersed in words, whether it’s editing articles or untangling some subplot in a novel I’m working on. But let me be honest: inspiration doesn’t always cooperate. Here’s a little confession—when it doesn’t, I turn to people-watching.
Living in Beijing has its joys, one of which is the art of subtle eavesdropping in bustling cafes. I once overheard a couple planning a vacation while simultaneously bickering about who picks worse Netflix shows. It was—how do I put this—poetry in motion. Real relationships are as flawed as they are beautiful, and observing others is a reminder of that balance between messy and magical.
Around 3 PM, my stomach usually demands something more aspirational than green tea. I rotate between classic Chinese snacks (spicy bean curd sticks, anyone?) and Western indulgences—yes, I have a secret stash of Tim Tams I smuggled in from a Shanghai trip. This mid-afternoon lull also tends to be when I accidentally spiral into self-reflection about my own relationship hang-ups. For instance, when I replay my last semi-breakup (we’ll call him “The Guy Who Loved Trivia Too Much”), I like to ask myself what worked, what didn’t, and how I can be a better partner next time. It’s not obsessive—it’s self-improvement with snacks.
Takeaway: Midday is your chance to recalibrate. Use moments of quiet to reflect on past relationships or interactions—but try to keep it productive, not self-critical. Bonus tip: A well-timed Tim Tam slam can fix nearly anything.
Evening Escapes: Walking Through My Narrative
I’ve learned something about Beijing after dark: every street seems to tell a different story, but only if you pay attention. When my workday winds down, I love stepping out for a long, meandering walk—not specifically to reach a destination, but to let my thoughts roam.
Walking, for me, is part exercise, part therapy. I will pace through alleyways wondering why relationships now come packaged with text message subtext analysis. (Was “lol” too cold? Did “haha” overcompensate? Should I have sent an emoji instead of typing “see you soon”?) Walking is also when I plan my writing—how to add just enough spice to an article to make readers giggle while learning something meaningful.
And here’s where it comes full circle: storytelling mirrors dating in many ways. Both are about being honest, adding just the right amount of intrigue, and choosing your words carefully without straying from your authentic self. While pounding the Beijing pavement, this realization always strikes me: we reveal ourselves to others in layers, the way a city reveals itself block by block.
Takeaway: Find an evening activity that gives you clarity. It doesn’t have to be walking, but it should create space to process your thoughts. Bonus points if it helps you stop overthinking someone’s punctuation choices.
The Quiet Nightcap: Chaos and Calm
Here’s where I admit I’m part traditionalist, part chaos agent. My evenings end in one of two ways: I either curl up with a beautiful, timeworn book—think something by Du Fu—or I binge something profoundly nonsensical like “Love Island.” It’s the duality of Yuan Li: appreciating romance in its most poetic form while still living for something like “Watch him flirt with three women in a swimming pool.” Both have their merits, and both say a lot about how I approach love: with equal parts yearning and a sense of humor.
Before bed, I try to journal. Nothing groundbreaking—a thought here, a gratitude there, sometimes just a grumble about whoever left their laundry in the communal machine. Journaling is more than keeping track of the day; it’s about gathering pieces of yourself, reflecting on how you’re growing or where you stumbled. I particularly love writing down snippets of people’s conversations that stuck with me—those tiny, fleeting human moments remind me how much beauty there is in the messiness of connection.
Takeaway: Take a moment at the end of each day to gather your thoughts, whether it’s journaling, reading, or indulging in some fluffy reality TV. Romance isn’t built in a day, and neither is self-awareness.
Final Thoughts: Flirt with Life, Daily
If you were to zoom out on my day, it might seem quaint: a mix of creative work, minor existential crises, and one too many cups of tea. Yet it’s the rhythm of these moments that keep me grounded—each habit is a small way of anchoring myself in the present while staying open to connection.
Real relationships, like real routines, don’t require grand gestures. They live in the small, daily things: thoughtful tea-making, an unexpected text, or a shared laugh over bad reality TV. My advice? Romance your day-to-day life first. Everything else—flirting, dating, marriage, or one unforgettable night in Beijing—will follow.
