Feeling My Way Back to Tea

I want you to experiment with me for a moment. Just breathe. Breathe in the air that currently occupies your space. Breathe in the air that surrounds you, holds you, is your world in this very instance. After you’ve taken your first breath, I want you to now pause and, for the span of a few seconds, I want you to notice the flavor of the air. Is it sweet? Savory? Spicy? Is the flavor dull, sharp, simple or complex? How does the air feel as it goes from your nostrils to mouth to throat to lungs to belly? As you have fully inhaled and held that breath, I want you to now exhale, letting the air leave your chest, through your throat, mouth and nose. How does this feel? How does this taste? What lingers and fades? What remains? What feels as if it will never return to you again?

In the practice of tea, whether it’s 工夫茶 gōngfū chá, 茶の湯 chanoyu, the Korean Way of Tea, or other forms, the taste of tea is an integral part of both the experience, as well as a guide through the process of preparing tea. Over the many years that I’ve practiced the various forms of tea, the taste of tea has been a stalwart companion, pointing the way towards my learning and further delving into attaining deeper understanding of tea, as a plant, an agricultural product, an art, a cultural entity, a historical continuum. The taste of tea has taught me how to better brew a 烏龍茶 wūlóngchá, discern quality of a freshly harvested 작설 jakseol, and tell me if I’ve properly whisked a thick bowl of 濃茶 koicha. Without the taste of tea, I believed I would feel directionless, groping for something to hold onto in the dark. Yet, this is exactly what happened.

During the final days of 2023, amidst the Winter festivities and celebrations leading up to the new calendar year, my daughter and I became sick with the COVID-19 virus. So reduced was I that upon the heralding of 2024, I could barely muster the strength to write down my intentions. Soon thereafter, my wife, too, contracted the virus and, for several days, we all remained home in our shared sickbed (save for our dog, who escaped the sickness yet kept us company throughout the entire ordeal).

After our energy came back and our fevers broke, we returned to our regular routines. However, one aspect of the illness remained for me. For weeks and then past an entire month, I was unable to sense taste. For the first time in my life, for a frighteningly long period of time, I tasted nothing.

The first moments of this were oddly novel, enjoying a sense of emptiness that I’d never felt nor experienced before, ever. I’d prepare a bowl of 抹茶 matcha, one to mark the turning of the year, and taste nothing. I’d close my eyes, thinking that the momentary removal of my visual sense might help me to focus on finding what little flavor could be perceived and, still, nothing arose.

I soon began to marvel in this meditation. A sudden leap into a deep nothingness. A pure and vast abyss to explore. Nothing, so I thought, to attach one’s self to.

Alas, as the mind always does, it found a foothold.

In the emptiness emerged other clingings. The sensorial mind is one that habitually always wants to feel something and, so, it seeks anything to attach itself to, to analyze, to explore and identify. Soon each cup of tea became a means to wander through a new and unknown world, a realm of the senses, albeit one unencumbered by the sense of smell and taste.

The realization that taste, whether it was through aroma or through flavor perceived in the mouth and throat, was my primary way of understanding tea, I began to hone in on the other various avenues that now took center stage.

Surprisingly, touch became first of the senses I explored. During the weeks I could not taste, I recall gravitating towards a particular 宜興 Yíxìng teapot. A small 羅漢 Luóhàn (Arhat) shape teapot made of aged 朱泥 zhūní clay, made in the late 1980s/early 1990s. I had acquired it during my days as a graduate student, when I’d spend weekends escaping my studies to travel to tea houses up and down the coast of California.

In the particular instance when I found this teapot, I was in my old college town of Santa Cruz, visiting my friend April Shen’s antique store. I remember April handing me two, almost identical, teapots. Upon releasing both pots into my hands a loud thunderclap rang through the air and the electricity in her warehouse instantly shut off. Plunged into darkness, I was left to discern the qualities of both teapots without my sense of sight.

I remember how my hands felt each of the tiny vessels, first feeling their respective weight, then the texture of their exteriors, comparing both but treating each as if they were their own worlds. I could sense their volume by the shape of their bellies. I could determine how they would pour by the curve of their spouts. I felt for balance in the hand, how they would feel during use. I remember spinning and lifting the lids off of each to compare how fine the fit and crafting was. Tapping the lid against the body of the pot to determine the clay’s firing and density. Feeling the ridges and “architecture” of each of the pots to determine how structured each pot was, how the water would run off of and collect along these exterior forms, and how this would, in turn, affect the brewing of the tea.

With a sudden whir and clap, the lights turned back on and I remember looking down at each pot in the electric light, seeing them for the first time with my eyes and, yet, already knowing so much about them. I ended up getting both.

Sitting in my studio with the pot in the daylight of late Winter, I could appreciate all of the nuances I’ve come to know about this little 宜興茶壺 Yíxing cháhú (Yíxìng teapot).

As the sound of the kettle softened and water within it came to a boil, I started by warming the pot, observing the steam rise out from its dark concave. I could hear the sound of the water pushing up and around inside it, changing pitch as it slowly climbed up its interior walls.

The sound of the lid lifting off from the center of the three gathered adjoining 品茗杯 pǐn míng bēi (lit. “tea tasting cups”), and the corresponding sound of the lid setting atop the opening of the pot.

The feeling of the warmth radiating from the little teapot and then the warmth of the steam that rose from the cups as I transferred the water from the pot into them.

Emptied now, the pot awaited its next role in this play of objects.

From an antique Japanese 染め付け sometsuke blue-and-white tea jar (originally used for holding 煎茶 sencha leaves), with images of orchids rendered in blue colbalt upon its cool white surface, I drew a measure of tightly curled tea leaves.

Leaves of uniformed marbled colors of dark green, russet and red. Leaves that were harvested last Spring yet leaves I’ve grown accustomed to since I was a young boy.

Traditionally oxidized and roasted 鐵觀音烏龍茶 Tiěguānyīn (lit. “Iron Guānyīn/Avalokiteśvara/Bodhisattva of Mercy”) wūlóngchá from 安溪 Ānxī county, southern 福建 Fújiàn province, China, from the same farmer who’s made this tea now for many decades (if not for half a century).

Unable to enjoy their dry aroma, I was left to admire their visual beauty and to discern their quality on their merits of physical consistency. Lifting the old bamboo tea scoop, I readied the leaves to enter the awaiting teapot.

Using a twig I’d pulled from a fruit tree years ago, I slowly pushed the leaves into the vessel…

…working to ensure that they fell and arranged themselves…

…into a nicely formed heap within the warm clay pot.

Pouring boiling water over the leaves, I took a moment to observe the first brief moments of the steeping process. Oily foam rose and collected along the circumference of the teapot’s open mouth. Steam swirled in tiny cyclones off of the surface of hot liqueur. Tea leaves lifted and tumbled and fell in what looked like a tiny choreographed dance.

Closing the teapot, I sat and waited for the meniscus bubble to travel down the spout of the teapot. I sat and waited for the teapot’s color to deepen, from a bright sanguineous red to a deep lustrous crimson.

As I waited, I cleansed and emptied the warming cups.

As I waited…

…I listened to the quiet hiss of the boiling kettle.

Pouring a tea that I could not taste was a new experience. The color starts off pale and slowly grows deeper.

From one cup to the next and back again, the tea continues to decant, further steeping as long as it remains within the pot.

By the last draught, the tea is fully steeped. The last few drops are purported to be the best, offering the sweetest and most complex flavors.

Alas, I’d taste none of these.

Looking down into the three cups, looking down at the emptied pot (save for the unfurled tea leaves it contained), I recall the sense of anticipation. Having navigated the flavorless abyss for more than a month, I’d succumbed to the possibility that this might have become my new life, as so many have already succumbed to Long COVID. I did not fear this, although I wondered how I would continue to develop my tea practice with what I felt was an insurmountable challenge.

During this time, I constantly reminded myself that the basis of gōngfū chá was to attain skills through challenging oneself, and this instance was no different. A teacher leaf. A teapot. Hot water. Warm cups. Cold air lingering in my studio. These were challenges I’ve faced and overcome before. No taste would also have to be met and new skills to address this would ultimately arise.

I remember lifting the first cup. I studied its deep amber hue, noting that it was not one uniform color but a myriad of different shades and tones. How at its center the color appeared vibrant and clear, and how it shifted along the edges, with hints of green, purple, and gold.

As I lifted the cup closer, I made an attempt to smell the aroma (as I’d done time and time before my sickness had struck). While no scent was detected, I could feel the warmth of the tea radiate and enter my nostrils, reaching into the back of my throat and soft palate.

As I took my first sip, I aerated the liqueur with an audible slurp. The smallest of sip to pull the tea back over my tongue, back to the upper reaches of my soft palate, and back to the entrance of my throat. Here, where typically I would taste tea, I could feel the heat of the liquid. Here, too, what emerged, as if from shadows, were the properties of the first steeping.

In place of the complex swirl of flavors that a traditionally oxidized and roasted Tiěguānyīn displays, I could feel the tea produce sensations across the interior of my mouth and throat. Where there would normally be an initial sweetness balanced with a mild bitterness, followed by a cascading array of floral notes ranging from marigold to honeysuckle to rose, there were textures, shifting rapidly from slick and viscous to sticky like butterscotch, astringent like pomelo rind, and dry like the tannic sensation of eating walnut skin. The palate awoke despite being unable to taste and the mouth and cheeks reciprocated with salivation. The finish was met with slight tightening of the sides of the cheeks and back of the throat, followed by a long and lingering softness, both dry and moistening, building from the first small sip to the second and finally to the completion of the first cup. As I breathed out from my throat and into my mouth, these sensations echoed and remained.

I sat for a moment in wonderment. The words that my many mentors, teachers and trainers from my past seemed to well-up inside of me. These words, classic descriptors from Chinese tea culture used to give a linguistic framework for understanding tea’s complex vocabulary of flavors and sensations, suddenly started to come back to me.

收斂性 Shōuliǎn xìng may be used to describe the astringent quality of tea when it feels akin to biting into a rind of a fruit or akin to the astringent tannins found in higher oxidized tea. Though sometimes associated with rougher teas, if the tea is well-crafted, this quality can be balanced and interplay with the sweeter flavors of the tea. Traditionally oxidized and roasted Tiěguānyīn contains a subtle tannic quality, an enjoyable boldness that waivers on bitterness. While I could not taste this, the drying, tingling, and slightly puckering sensations caused by the tannins present in the tea were very present.

生津 Shēngjīn (lit. “life haven”) refers to the aspect of tea that can quench one’s thirst through the moistening of the mouth and generation of saliva (sometimes less poetically referred to a 口水 kǒu shuǐ, “mouth water”). The sensation is pleasant, revitalizing, and nourishing. Even after the first cup’s sensations lingered in my mouth minutes after I had completed it, I could still sense this aspect of its quality. My body, despite my lingering symptoms, felt nourished, relaxed and revitalized by the tea.

回甘 Huí Gàn (lit. “return sweet”) is the first of the long lasting sensations a tea can leave in the body. It is the convergence of bitter and sweet, producing a long and complex lingering finish which is the hallmark of a high quality tea (especially oolong tea). As I finished each sip of tea from the first cup, I could feel the confluence of the drying astringency with the silkiness of the sweet meeting in the back of my throat and returning to coat my mouth. This felt as if the tea was opening to new complexity, the beginning of its expansion across my senses despite not being able to taste the tea itself.

喉韻 Hóu Yùn (lit. “throat rhyme”) is expressed when a tea has been fully consumed and leaves a pleasant, resonating sensation in the throat. The “rhyming” comes with the subtle harmonizing of the sensations in the mouth and soft palate with that of the throat. Tea connoisseurs often consider that the taste of the tea is often at its richest and most complex when reflected in the Hóu Yùn. However, as I perceived it without my abilities to taste the tea, I could still feel the slick, smooth, rich textures, and complex, long and lingering sensations it left in my throat.

體感 Tǐ Gǎn (“body sensation”/“physical perception”) started to arrive after the second cup, and only in a slightly perceptible way. Tǐ Gǎn refers to the physical experience that tea brings once it has fully entered the body, changing the way the body feels and how the tea is perceived as it moves through the body. The warming qualities of the tea liqueur can be felt as it makes its way down the throat and to the stomach. There is a slight increase in the body’s vital energy as it begins to metabolize the tea. This coincides with a cooling effect as the sweet and bitter flavors subside and refresh the mouth, throat and body.

All the flavors described in tea are caused by a kaleidoscope of different naturally occurring chemical compounds, each of which also have their own attributed sensations. Catechins, a type of tea polyphenol, causes slight pleasant grassy bitterness in tea, but also can produce a slight astringent sensation. Caffeine, which contributes to bitterness, is also drying. Caffeine is also one of the primary compounds found in tea that wakes up the body and mind. Tannins contribute to a bitter and astringent taste in tea also helps to give the tea its body and complex texture, ranging from a slight drying sensation, to sharper, more interesting tones that linger and fade. L-theanine, an amino acid which contributes to a balanced sweetness in tea, can also be perceived in the freshness of the tea and the clean texture on the palate and throat. It, like caffeine, is responsible for the slight “pick-me-up” tea produces, but also promotes a sense of bodily relaxation. Finally, carbohydrates such as fructose, sucrose, and glucose, all of which are produced by photosynthesis, contribute to the complex sweetness of tea, as well as the long returning sweetness, fading soft textures, and refreshing energy evinced in Huí Gàn, Hóu Yùn and Tǐ Gǎn.

Finishing the last of the three cups, I endeavored onward to brew the tea again.

The leaves, almost fully open from the first long steeping were covered once again in the boiling water from my kettle.

Closing the pot once more, I used the pause as an opportunity to continue to feel the tea and its energy course through my body.

Late Winter in Upstate New York is marked by intermittent days of ice and snow. One day the mountains will look dark and bleak, the next they are set alight in a dusting of fresh snow.

Outside in my garden, snow had been piling up, creating a soft, cold world…

…where shadows cast long and blue…

…where footfalls of wild animals traced…

…where the old life of last year stood rigid and bare…

…where the sun pushed through treetops and gently sloughed off the snow by midday.

In my momentary existence of my tastelessness, I reveled in the not knowing and feeling my way back to tea. As the snow covered and concealed forms all around, so, too, did my lingering symptoms. Sipping tea as if it were medicine both for the mind and body kept me sane in a sense as I tumbled through this novel if not terrifying experience. A challenge to meet and make friends with and learn what all I could from the interaction. In conversation with my sickness and my body, the tea was telling me more than I could have ever imagined.

A second steeping and I could feel my cares drift away.

A third, and my body began to feel lighter.

A fourth and fifth…

…and the tea’s color lightened.

Six, seven, eight more steepings…

…and the tea and I kept pace.

Nine and ten and I began sitting up, rambling around my studio, searching for books on my shelf, my body electrified with the energy of the tea.

Eleven and twelve and I began to spin in a light hearted joy, finding pause in my attempt to decipher the calligraphy carved onto an old bamboo tea scoop.

茶醉 Chá Zuì (lit. “tea drunk”) soon gripped me, a culmination of all of tea’s remarkable sensations into a giddy, relaxed, and settled feeling. For those who ascribe to it, the 茶氣 Chá Qì (the tea’s frequency, energy, life force, literally “breath”) was surging through me, as palpable as the myriad of sensations that continued to play across my nostrils, tongue, cheeks, soft palate, throat, stomach, chest, forehead, body, and mind.

While I tasted no tea that day, as I cleaned my old 朱泥茶船 zhūní cháchuán (lit. “cinnabar mud/clay” “tea boat”), I remember looking down into its empty concave form. Slick with the cool water now evaporating from its soft skin, I could see the many layers of tea oil that had settled into it, giving it a fine patina of time and experience. Used for decades now, the brick-red of the clay shone like a jewel, even if it were just an old dish. The secondary nature I’d always ascribed to the piece seemed more artificial on this day. What I’d seen as a vessel that collected the off-pour, the overflow, the space around the teapot, now seemed more primary in its purpose. The cháchuán lifts the teapot off from the table, providing it a place to be used, clear from anything but itself and the tea it contains.

Here, too, I began to think of how the senses often take varying levels of prioritization when one 品茶 pǐnchá, the term classically used when tasting tea. However, the character 品 pǐn is comprised of three mouth (口 kǒu) radicals. In a more expansive translation of pǐn, “taste”/“tasting” can be read as “to grade” or “to judge/discern quality or character”. The three mouth radicals, too, may be linked to the multiple ways one consumes tea, not just to taste with the mouth but to see with the eyes, feel with the body and perceive with the mind. In this understanding, to taste tea is to taste it with all the senses. To see it, to savor it, to feel it beyond the flavor alone.

In the months that followed my recovery, I slowly but eventually did regain my abilities to taste tea. However, I still find myself seeking for those moments fleeting after I’ve sipped a cup, after I’ve finished a brew, when the feeling of tea is all that remains, perhaps as a reminder of this brief time in my life when it was all I had.

In Observance of Decay

It’s November. Look around. What do you see? A world spinning, almost as if out of control. Firm forms feel frayed at their edges. Weathered and tattered against the cold. The old balance tilts and we are left wondering if it will ever be restored. Should it?

The march from Autumn to Winter can feel endless, but, assuredly, it begins as the first leaf changes color, as the first swift cold wind pushes its way beneath your coat, as the soil in the garden cools, as the first sign of decay becomes unavoidable. Decay comes in many forms, startling and sad. In the world of tea, one can’t help but to anticipate its arrival for once it is here, we cannot help but to welcome its presence into the tearoom.

In early Winter, this comes with the transition from the portable 風炉 furo (lit. “wind furnace”) to the 炉 ro (sunken hearth), bringing the heat of the hearth closer to the guests, a welcomed sight as the days and weeks grow ever-colder. Yet, even before this, for a brief moment, the stability of the tea space is shaken. The furo does not immediately disappear, but, instead, shifts to the center of the host’s mat (点前座 temaeza), and the 水指 mizusashi (fresh water jar) is placed further away from the guest. This arrangement (中置 nakaoki, lit. “center placement”) typically only occurs in October (although I tend to practice this throughout Winter), and, like an Autumn leaf which clings to the branch of a weathered tree, this captures the essence of the tenuous nature of the world before it, too, plunges headlong into a new form.

The observance of decay is core to the practice of tea. Indeed, it is the celebrated quality that defines 侘び寂び wabi-sabi, and that guides the aesthetic of 茶の湯 chanoyu towards the austere and rustic, the simple and imperfect, the modest and asymmetrical. The lack of balance that is everywhere in the world, which at times can create the sensation of a wild, tumbling free fall, is what drives chanoyu from moment to moment. Not static, but dynamic, by early Winter, this crashing is captured perfectly by the gentle sound of a sudden but brief rain (時雨 shigure), of the soft rustle of red 紅葉 momiji leaves that fall and curl against the cold earth, of the silence that arises when the first snowflakes dance across the grey November sky.

In my tea space, now weathered by the years, decay seems to become more apparent each time I open its door.

I can tell how often I have enjoyed its company by the steady growth of cobwebs that have been forming against its lone window, a gift from a spider I’ve befriended since late Summer. Her web, a silken shelter, kept warm by the thin walls of my makeshift tea hut, appears to me as a readymade art piece, which I choose to celebrate as much as the scroll or flower I set in my 床の間 tokonoma.

She, like the moss that grows on the roof and vine that creeps between the crack in the door, reminds me that even with decay there is vibrancy and life.

As I let my kettle boil and allow the temperature of the small room to rise, I arrange teawares beside it and enjoy the sound of the wind outside. The darkness of the tea space is broken by light reflecting off of lacquer and catching against the interior of a black teabowl.

The black lacquered 棗 natsume holds within it enough tea to entertain a party of guests, but today I practice alone. The image which adorns its shining surface of a gathered bundle of wood, an axe, and a gourd fashioned into a drinking vessel, all rendered in gold and silver dust by artist 田中平安 Tanaka Heian, feels in accordance with the world around it.

It represents a meager collection of what’s left over by the remainder of the year. Leaves cast about, brilliant in their sheen, but no longer secured atop their trees, are left to wither and rot. The axe, often emblematic of virility in the context of traditional Japanese symbolism, feels more utilitarian against the heaped and tied-up twigs.

A quick look out the window of my teahouse reveals a similar image as I have recently begun the closing of my garden for the Winter, all it’s missing is the 瓢箪 hyōtan gourd and its magical powers.

The teabowl, a 黒楽茶碗 kuro-raku chawan by famed ceramicist 佐々木松楽 Sasaki Shōraku III, feels cavernous in the dark space.

Unable to see to its bottom, it calls to mind the concept of 幽玄 yūgen, which evokes the feeling of the unknown within a dark and mysterious world. Into the concave I first pour hot water to cleanse and warm the bowl.

Then three scoops of tea.

A half ladle of hot water from the kettle…

…and then the tea and water concoction is whisked into a bright foam.

As I sit and peer down into the bowl, as I listen to the wind and sound of the steaming kettle…

…the din caught within this little world of tea feels as thin as the walls around me.

It’s hard to sit for tea when the world is seemingly spiraling out of control. Losing one’s center can feel uncomfortable. The sure thing one might have clung to, now gone, can feel destabilizing. Fear, sadness, and, at times, terror can arise.

But with decay comes the removal of superfluous forms. Trees without their leaves reveal the branches beneath, cold and bare.

The structures, once obscured, now can be examined for what they are.

Sometimes the mightiest of trees can appear spindly, more vulnerable once they have been stripped of their verdant garb. Huts, too, once decay sets in, let slip their secrets, weak points in walls, gaps where gusts of wind pour through, cracks in their foundation.

In observance of decay, I look to myself, to my hands, to the skin that wraps around these bones. How they hold each object for tea.

How they’ve practiced for almost twenty years to learn how to move and place the various wares in accordance to an oral tradition that stretches back for centuries.

I wonder how the movements they make have been maintained over time, and how the muscles in my body now know where to place each object.

I question if their eventual decay over time will mean the deterioration of my practice, as the body weakens and memory diminishes.

As I close the lid of the steaming kettle and of the cold water jar, I close my tea practice session with a final 拝見 haiken.

As I look upon the natsume once more, I see my hands, my body, my face reflected in the slick surface of its black lacquer.

In its mirror-like finish I can see myself.

I notice how my skin has changed with time, how my beard has grown.

I see someone who at this time last year was not yet a father and now sees himself as one.

I see the past and the present collide.

In my study of tea, I study myself. As I study myself, I see that which I’ve known as myself change and dissolve over time.

As that self changes, transforms, decays, it is eventually forgotten, actualized by the myriad of things that surround me in this chaotic world.

Body and mind, like leaves on a tree, drop away.

No trace of the old self, of the body, the mind, the tea, the lacquer container, the tree, the leaves, the world we knew remain.

Once fully decayed, everything gone, what continues on?

Tea for Health

As late July’s heat hangs and the humidity rises, bodies grow heavy and slump in the ever-present languor of the day. My tea practice, too, finds the warmth unbearable save for the earliest of morning and the final darkness of the day. Here I find a momentary respite and relief from the heat of Summer’s end and the approach of an eventual Autumn’s arrival.

Traditionally this was a time of year to avoid strenuous work lest one’s constitution weaken and succumb to illness. In the cultures of East Asia, where tea practice first took root and evolved, folk traditions abound which met the need to abate the potential spread of plague. One such practice, which continues today in the Gion district of Kyōto, is 祇園祭 Gion Matsuri.

Originating as a 御霊会 goryō-e, purification rituals to appease evil gods and the spirits of the dead following a plague epidemic that ravaged Kyōto in 869, it has since evolved into a complex series of ceremonies and events that span the whole of July, many of which still maintain their original purpose of promoting health and protecting the local population from sickness during the high heat of Summer.

Just as the year makes its way towards the first days of Major Heat (大暑 Taisho in Japanese), things couldn’t get worse in my household. Having just recently celebrated her fourth month, my daughter received a series of inoculations and, subsequently, came down with a fever. Stressed to see her in such a state, my wife and I found ourselves barely sleeping for three days straight, seeing to the needs and recovery of our young daughter. Our minds in a constant daze, we’d often imagine of ways to comfort her.

On the third night her fever began to break but I still could not sleep. As my wife and child rested, I stepped out into the early twilight to prepare to practice tea. The garden still asleep, I make my way across the span that separates my home and hut in which I have been making tea in now for three years.

I light incense in the dark empty space of the tea room. In the alcove I set a single flower, a purple 木槿 mukuge (Rose of Sharon), its buds still unopened. I carry water, kettle, and other assorted wares with me into the wooden shed, leaving the door ajar as if to invite the growing light of early morning to join me.

At this early hour the world is quiet. The sounds of human activity remain mostly dormant. No low hum of engines, no high peal of aircraft, no chatter of neighbors, nor the throb of a lawn mower in the distance to busy my mind. Just the sound of the kettle and the water within it coming to a boil. Just the song of morning birds. Of crows in the pine trees waking. Of deer gently crushing grass beneath their hooves. Of the tree branch lightly tapping the moss-covered roof of my makeshift tea hut.

In the pristine world of the morning I begin to cleanse the objects to make tea.

Lacquer catches the light as does inlaid abalone on a tea container covered with seven precious objects.

A wide antique teabowl, moistened 茶巾 chakin, weathered whisk.

Objects first set side-by-side, then one in front of the next.

The lacquer is wiped and so, too, is the 茶杓 chashaku.

The old teabowl is emptied of its objects before hot water from the kettle is poured within it.

Uncovered, the center reveals a circle where once in the kiln another bowl would have rested. Now, in my mind, I think of an 円相 ensō. A circle painted with a single stroke, its sured path reflecting the perfect peace of mind.

The circle, too, carries an additional meaning during Summer, calling to mind 茅の輪 chinowa, temporary circular portals of cogon grass through which people pass during Summer purification rites, to help protect them from sickness and evil.

The whisk is wetted and flexed in the hot water.

The bowl is emptied and wiped clean. I breathe and pause for a moment to think about those who still sleep inside my home. My daughter who has been fighting a fever. My wife, who has been unwavering in helping her through her momentary suffering.

As I lift the chashaku and then lacquered 棗 natsume, I expand the circle wider. I think about my parents and their health. To my sister and brother-in-law and their newborn child. To my wife’s mother. To her late father. To my wider family and dear friends. To those who have passed through my lives. To those I’ve never met. To my teacher.

Three scoops of tea. Cool water from the 水指 mizusashi mixed with the hot water of the kettle.

The cup of the 柄杓 hishaku bows and pours half of its contents into the open 茶碗 chawan.

Tea powder and water blend and the concoction is whisked into a velvety foam.

Once prepared, I reset my stance and offer the bowl to the space of the guest.

I stand and place myself where the guest would sit.

I enjoy, first a sweet.

Then the bowl of fresh 薄茶 usucha.

Once drunk, I let myself sit for a while to meditate.

Tea was once and still is seen as a medicine. Its bitterness a quality first favored by the peoples who first cultivated the plant more than six thousand years ago in a region that now straddles the borders of Laos, Myanmar, northern Thailand, southeastern Tibet, Yúnnán and Sìchuān, probably first as a food source and then as a sort of panacea to ward off a multitude of ailments.

While it has become a trend for modern audiences to paint the practice of tea as an exercise in mindfulness, with the rather whimsical (if not overly exotifying) marketing casting it as some form of mystical art in the same way zen or yoga or the other myriad of Eastern-born cultural traditions have been exploited and re-imagined for capital gain, tea, and the various practices that it can engender, can support a healthy life.

Away from the panoptic gaze of social media and its pervasive voyeuristic demands to capture and ostensibly share everything, away from the crowds that flock to public tea events and performative demonstrations, away from the pay-to-learn pathways that might lead the unknowing astray, and away from the targeted advertising of tea as a lifestyle, there is a humble and down-to-earth practice of tea that is healthy.

As I continue to deepen my tea practice, my desire to write and photograph and share tea in virtual manner is fading. The weight of life and supporting those in my life has grown and, with it, its importance. Tea, and my daily practice of tea, has also grown, equally, if not more so, than ever before. And, yet, the weight of it has lightened.

Like a great bundle of extraneous “stuff” I’ve carried for years, I feel the congestion of my old practice lifting and dropping off my shoulders. The worries and desires melt away. The wanting to make big waves subsiding and calming in favor to small ripples. What I crave now, more than ever, is the intimacy of sharing tea with myself and the moment, or, at most, between one or two other friends. My wife. My child. My teacher. An honored guest. An old friend.

I share these little glimpses into my practice because I know there are some who use them as a meditation and, as someone who appreciates tea writings, I, too, hope my readers find some value in what I write. However, to read about tea and then to actually sit for tea are two very different things.

I practice for a multitude of reasons. For enjoyment, for relaxation, for focus, for a form of deeper understanding that comes when I can just sit and make a bowl of tea. There are many movements that come before I sit. Many actions that come together before I can make a bowl of 抹茶 matcha. I must be limber and fit to sit in 正座 seiza for several hours at a time. I must be mentally and physically alert to prepare tea at any hour. I must be flexible enough sit and be fully present in times that are agreeable and disagreeable. I must be resilient to do this not just once but for many years. For a lifetime.

All of this helps. It is a sort of medicine I make for myself and, perhaps, for others too. This is, as I see it, tea for health.

With wares cleaned again, I pause once more. In shadows cast by growing morning light, objects and their shapes become more pronounced. In these shadows and with the sun’s glow that joins me, I decide to make a final 拝見 haiken.

Light glints and bends off of the rounded shape of the lacquered natsume. The various images of the 七寶 shichihō, which often make their first appearance during New Years, have been chosen again, this time as a symbolic safeguard against illness. Seven treasures, each with their own purported powers, have been dutifully applied in gold lacquer 蒔絵 maki-e by master artisan 市中 五稜 Ichinaka Goryō, with a noted exception of the 隠れ笠, kakuregasa (“hat of invisibility”), which he rendered with a thin veneer of iridescent abalone shell.

Next, I reach behind me and grasp the handle of the chashaku. From left to right hand the object passes until it, too, is placed atop the wooden 香盆 kōbon.

Finally, both object placed side-by-side, I sit and appreciate the qualities of both wares.

The the early morning light, the objects appear softer, lighter.

Undulations of the chashaku scoop and the minute remains of tea dust that still cling to its tip appear in a dreamlike state.

The glow of the abalone catching reflections of daylight.

In selecting these objects I make a nod to the time of year and the significance the growing heat can have on one’s health. With talismanic imagery such as the shichihō, the mukuge, the chinowa, I acknowledge and hope to assuage the anxiety I have as a parent trying to keep my child healthy.

This practice I’ve conducted over what is now twenty years, has evolved. The challenge that comes from making tea, in the growing heat of Summer and in the growing heat of this little world, I find myself returning back to this practice now more than ever.

When a child is sick, when the world is ailed, there exists for a moment a sense of hopelessness. The mind stirs and cannot rest. Where one once found comfort, either in sleep or joyful activity, now feels unbearable. All one can do is to sit and meditate. In the meditation that is tea practice, I find I can engage with these emotions, with the difficulties of these situations.

Rather than be a distraction or anecdote to the stress of the modern and wounded world, tea is a mirror, a microscope to the microcosm that is the self.

To bring awareness that one is sitting amidst the world of agreeable and disagreeable situations, here is where one will acquire the strength to endure.

As light filters through the open door, as the heat of the day rises, I look to the alcove to see that the purple mukuge flower has opened.

Interdependence Day

July fourth came and while much of the country remained asleep, I wake and began preparing for tea practice an hour before the sunrise. Slinking from my bed so as not to wake my wife and baby daughter, I make my way downstairs. A candle is lit, a stick of burning incense is placed into a tripod censer, a container of fresh-ground 抹茶 matcha is put aside to acclimate to the heat of the day, and a kettle is set to boil. In the twilight of the morning I gather and prepare both implements and mind for お稽古 okeiko (tea lesson) with my tea teacher, the first since my daughter was born.

The previous day my teacher had asked me to prepare to practice tea not in my indoor studio as we had done every time before but, instead, outside in my garden shed. With Summer Solstice (夏至 Geshi/Xiàzhì in the old lunisolar calendar), the heat of the day is too strong to want to make tea during normal active hours. Instead, tea gatherings (and practice) is best conducted during early morning and in the evening when the air is coolest. 朝茶 Asacha (lit. “Morning tea”) is preferred, as the light of the morning is gentle and one’s consciousness is given the opportunity to wake with the world around it.

Collecting my wares, I trek across the grassy divide that separates my house from my garden shed. Between, I pass flowers and plants as they slowly begin to wake, still covered in sparkling dew and collected rainwater from a midnight shower. A caterpillar still sleeps along the length of a bright green branch.

A stalk of blooming yarrow growing beside my vegetables catches my attention and I lean down to pick it, setting it into an old cut bamboo 花入 hanaire I’ve brought with me for today’s practice.

A fresh leaf of wild grape is cut from the vine to be used as a lid to a glass 水指 mizusashi.

Once settled in my makeshift 茶室 chashitsu, I pour water into my iron and bronze 風炉釜 furogama and wait until it comes to a rolling boil. The gentle sound of rain begins to beat against the roof of the shed, coming and going like a cool breath.

I sit and wait for my teacher to call. We’ve been meeting virtually for years now since he lives in Paris and I, now, in New York. The digital divide seems vast yet, when I see him on the other side of the computer screen, the distance does not seem so far. We greet one another with a bow and I offer to walk him through my garden path that leads from my house through a patch of trees and eventually to my makeshift tea hut. The stones that lead the way are wet and becoming more and more overgrown with time. Leaving the doors open, the growing light of the morning pours into the small shed as I begin okeiko.

The mizusashi with a leaf for a lid is brought out and placed beside the kettle. This morning I’ve chosen to practice 葉蓋点前 Habuta temae. While I usually reserve this for 七夕 Tanabata, it feels right to do this today, as the freshness of the leaf lid seems in line with the refreshing feeling of the Asacha gathering.

Next, an offering of sweets, fresh-picked mulberries, is made to my teacher. This is fitting as one of the star-crossed lovers of Tanabata, 織姫 Orihime (lit. “Weaving Princess”), is also sometimes referred to as the 梶葉姫 Kajinoba-hime (“Paper Mulberry Princess”), a link to the 和紙 washi paper made from the paper mulberry upon which wishes are written upon.

Finally, the other tea objects are brought out and arranged before me in order to prepare a bowl of matcha.

A red lacquered 茶桶棗 satsū natsume (lit. “tea bucket” natsume). A wide Vietnamese celadon teabowl from the Lý and Trần period (1009-1400). A old 茶杓 chashaku. A 茶筅 chasen made of dappled bamboo.

A 柄杓 hishaku and a ceramic 蓋置 futaoki.

The gentle hum of the boiling water continues to rise as I cleanse each object, first with the silken 袱紗 fukusa and then the hot water from the kettle.

My teacher offers guidance here and there, correcting my posture, the way I hold an object, the way the 茶巾 chakin first cleanses the corner of the 敷板 shiki-ita and then the shoulder of the bronze 風炉 furo before first placing it down on the shiki-ita, then, eventually, atop the lid of the chagama. All the while, I try to maintain my focus and even breath so as not to stop the constant flow of movements that go into preparing a bowl of tea.

This, since I first met my teacher over fifteen year ago, has been the steady basis of my practice. Layers of guidance, corrections, movements, memories.

Objects cleansed, I offer my teacher the mulberries as a tea sweet and begin to prepare a bowl of tea.

The lid of the natsume is removed.

Three scoops of matcha are carefully placed in the center of the old 茶碗 chawan.

Excess tea powder is gently tapped off of the curved tip of the chashaku.

For a moment I stare down into the concave created in the heap of tea powder held inside the lacquer tea container.

The leaf that covers the mizusashi is lifted carefully and tilted over 建水 kensui. A large drop of water rolls down its surface, letting out a satisfying resonating tone as it falls into the wastewater bowl.

Instantly, I feel refreshed.

Cold water is lifted from the mizusashi and blended with the hot water of the kettle. Cooled to the appropriate temperature, I pour half-a-dipper’s worth of water into the teabowl and whisk the tea into a soft delicate foam.

The gentle sounds of rain and birdsong blend as I bow and offer my teacher a bowl of tea. He then offers to me the bowl I’ve made for him as he has done time and time before.

I bow and enjoy the mulberries and bowl of tea from the position of the guest. For a moment I imagine he and I are sitting together in my makeshift tea hut. The space between us feeling not so far.

Finishing my first sip of tea, my teacher asks me how is the flavor. The tea is fresh, having been ground and gifted by a dear friend in New York City’s East Village. The flavor surrounds me in a sweet air.

I finish the tea with two more sips and my teacher then asks me to then smell the interior of the bowl. The aroma of matcha still remains, almost stronger now than it was when the bowl was full.

The warmth of the tea still radiates through the ceramic, although cooling as I hold the empty chawan. A refreshing feeling as the morning’s heat rises.

I return now to the place of the host to clean each tea object. Cool water to cleanse the wetted implements. Soft silk to purify the dry wares.

The whisk is set with its thin tines pointing upwards to help them dry faster in Summer’s heat.

The bowl set beside the natsume once more.

The light of the morning shines and bends through the glass mizusashi.

The kettle is closed and objects set aside.

I perform a final 拝見 haiken with the guidance of my teacher.

Selected tea wares are examined and their usage and reason for selection explained.

The chashaku is covered in tiny spots to reflect a wish for Summer rain.

The red lacquered natsume to reflect a link between tea and Buddhism and earlier Korean and Chinese forms.

The Vietnamese tea bowl, with its foliate design on its outer surface, represents a lotus flower, which bloom in July.

Why now? Why today? Why bring these objects together under such circumstances? And why all this for the enjoyment and contemplation of both host and guest? These are the unspoken questions of a tea gathering.

It is the Fourth of July, and yet I feel no desire to be patriotic. Why celebrate the birth of a country that was founded on the premise of the preservation of slavery, on the inequality of different races, on the genocide of the native peoples? Why celebrate when this nation still denies equality to all, still denies the atrocities it has committed, still wages wars, still destroys the environment at a horrendous rate?

Rather, the fourth, for me, is a questioning of the nature and danger of independence.

The perilous quality of pure individualism and the alienation that can come from seeing oneself as being truly independent.

Instead, I offer tea today to my teacher, who joins me virtually from France, as he’s done so for well over a decade now, as a meditation on the notion of interdependence.

As an acknowledgement and celebration of the reality that we are all connected. To be humbled by this quality, that we are neither wholly independent nor fully dependent in our lifetimes. To recognize the importance that we ultimately must rely on everything and everyone around us to exist, all the while, realizing that there is still the possibility for each of us to be our own selves.

To make a bowl of matcha in a manner that evolved from practices handed-down and influenced by Chinese and Korean forms in Japan from a millennia ago until today.

To offer it in a centuries-old Vietnamese celadon chawan to my tea teacher who lives in France over a virtually assisted medium. To sit in the Hudson Valley, in a small makeshift tea hut fashioned from plywood sourced from the timber from forests of Canada. To whisked tea freshly ground by friends who live in New York City.

Nothing in this interconnected web of events, objects, and beings is independent. No existence is more valid than the other. Nothing is alone or alien. Nothing arose by itself, but through the influence and confluence of other external forces do they come into being. They are all interdependent. Linked, like two star-crossed lovers who meet if only for once a year across the Milky Way, through space and time.

Dreams

March arrived and with it came the birth of our daughter. A full moon, a cold night, rain that turned to snow as we left for home from the birthing center where she was born. Upon our arrival, the dog greeted us with joyful anticipation which quickly turned to confusion which turned to trepidation as if to announce to us the obvious, that life would never be the same.

It wasn’t long after returning home that the magnitude of this change hit me, as if for the first time, all at once. Teary-eyed as if caught between sadness and shock, I looked to my wife who was more resolved. For her, the change had been more gradual, the reality of our child and the role of being a parent being more present for her during those thirty-eight-and-a-half weeks of her pregnancy.

As for me, nothing seemed to have prepared me for the coming of a child into this world. Not my wife’s pregnancy. Not the countless articles we read nor the endless teachings we received. Not the Summer that turned to Fall, that turned to Winter, that hinted at Spring. All this time and due diligence seemed only to have gotten me so far.

The true learning, I’ve found since then, comes only in the free fall. In the crisis of life. In the crying, the feeding, the sleepless nights that turn to tired days. In the passing of our child from the hands of my wife to mine and back again. From the consoling of our newborn when she weeps, to the support of my wife when she says I’m a good father and the reassurance I give her that she is a dedicated mother. Our new roles embodied and realized as we step into our new practice, each day, each instance, one after the next.

In the momentous change that has since come to my little life, it seems ridiculous to think beyond the immediate. Long has been the time that’s lapsed from when I first was able to find time to write. Less time, for sure, has passed since I have been able to sit and make some tea, first for myself and, then, eventually for my brother-in-law, who traveled with my sister across the continent to visit our new and scrambled family. For him, a bowl of 抹茶 matcha was all I could muster, a gift for him as he awaits the birth of a son, as if to tell him that everything will be alright, but not without its challenges.

In these briefest of moments where I am able to collect myself, feel my way through the process of making tea, I wish for a sense of clarity and calm, only to realize that in this practice, one that exists in and outside of child-rearing, the flavor of fatherhood cannot be escaped, dulled or numbed.

Instead, I find myself dreaming. Dreaming due to lack of sleep. Dreaming of time that’s since passed and no longer exists. Dreaming of words I could potentially commit to a page, of bowls and cups of tea I could make a share with friends far-flung, of my many unfinished projects that wait for me and may never see their end.

My makeshift tea hut, which still contains the many dreams of becoming one day a full-fledged 茶室 chashitsu, looks at me from across the garden as if with the same longing eyes as my dog, wishing for more time to be spent with it, not sure where or if that time will ever come.

Without consistent sleep and my once-regular practice of tea, I live my life as if I were in a dream. In these restless nights, I see darkness turn to day. The ink black sky, with its faint kaleidoscope of stars, slowly warms to a gentle indigo just before the Sun breaks over the horizon.

Light filters through the branches of the trees which, in Winter were bare, now, in Spring, are full and flap with foliage and bear within them the voices of songbirds and night owls.

One such morning, as the light of dawn grows, and my wife and daughter sleep, I sit in a tenuous silence and decide to make tea. Dreamy celadon accompanies me for an existence now that feels like a dream, one seemingly born from a dream that then folds into a dream, just one I’ve only just begun to recognize is not fully my own.

Poet 莊子 Zhuāngzǐ’s butterfly’s dream seems a fitting companion to this new life. A question of whether I or the butterfly are the holder of the real state of being. Am I the dreamer or the dream? Is my life wholly my own or is it now just a space within which my newborn daughter can exist, explore, and play?

In the dream state of morning’s twilight, before the plaintive cries of my daughter arrive, before I must return to my partner’s side, I wait for water to boil. Unwrapping a small pressed cake of 冰島古樹普洱茶 Bīngdǎo gǔ shù pǔ’ěr chá, I notice that leaves which were once a silvery white have tempered and aged, turning orange and brown with time.

Breaking off a small portion to place in an awaiting scoop of bamboo, I am reminded of the old tradition in southern China where, upon the birth of a daughter, cakes of tea were set aside and left to age. These 茶餅 chá bǐng would then become part of her dowery, a show of value gained over the years, a reminder of the weather and harvest of the year she was born into this world.

An empty vessel, first dry, is wet and warmed, and left waiting for leaves of tea to be placed within it. The rounded volume of the tiny teapot evokes the potential for creativity all the more this morning. Time taken to sit between the waking hours of my wife and daughter to enjoy a moment of tea, coupled with the realization that their rest is just as much a meditation.

Water pours forth from the kettle and sends the flattened leaves tumbling within the tiny world of the teapot’s interior space. Earthen hues of speckled clay offset by earthen hues of tea leaves aged.

For a moment, I watch the steam swirl, the curled leaves unfurl, and let my mind wander to and from dreams.

Dreams of what’s to come.

Dreams that drift and pass like clouds.

Dreams that arrive during sleepless nights.

Waking dreams.

Exhausted dreams.

Personal dreams.

Collaborative dreams.

Dreams of wanting and of goals desired.

Dreams of letting go of dreams.

Dreams of a child transforming over time.

Dreams of dreams that have yet to form.

Dreams that have not yet been dreamed.

Morning’s light rises and settles, warming surfaces both wooden and clay. Cracks in the ceramic’s glaze become clear.

Colors in the tea deepens with each subsequent steeping. Shadows darken as the daylight grows. Bird’s songs amplify and then fade against the din of the brightening day. The first rustlings of my daughter come as she wakes from her dreams. My wife’s voice calls as she beckons me.

The kettle cools and the teaware is left to dry.

First of Spring

First of Spring

It’s already here

Already in the warmth of the wind

In the song of the breeze

In the rays of sunlight

In the leaves on the trees

Earth still cold

And rain still stays

Winter remains

But for how many more days?

****

Writing as we quietly step into a new season. Spring’s energy is palpable, yet Winter feels as if it is still holding tight. Sharing with you a moment as I sit at my work desk, drinking tea, and wondering what this new period in my life will bring.

The tea I drink is a fine 鴨屎香 Yā Shǐ Xiāng (lit. “Duck Shit Fragrance”) 鳳凰山單樅烏龍茶 Fènghuáng shān dān cōng wūlóngchá (Phoenix Mountain single bush/grove oolong tea) that I had sourced from a tea farmer in Chaozhou, originally with the intention of selling it as a tea purveyor.

Giving up on the idea that I would build a business making money off of tea, I find myself drinking my aging product, the flavor of which is sweet, gentle, kind.

With each scoop of tea leaves,…

…each pause for the kettle to boil,…

…each draught of hot water poured,…

…each pot I brew,…

…each cup I fill,…

…each time I drink,…

…I’m reminded of this dream I had. Slacking my thirst on it. Savoring how it changes with age. Realizing that I’ve given up on selling tea so I can share it freely to anyone who may want to enjoy it alongside me. Without a sense of repayment needed. With no expectations between host and guest. A practice of learning, of acting, and then letting go.

As cold still clings to the earth, its grip softens with time. Warmth returns slowly but assuredly. A new season emerges and new experiences abound. What is there to be found in the moment as Winter turns to Spring? What is there to learn from this change?

To Practice in the Cold

Ever since I’ve moved up the Hudson, away from the big city, into the hills and rivers, lakes and mountains of rural New York, I’ve made it a point to seek out the coldest day of the year. Even as the obvious effects of climate change make snow more and more a rarity in this region, there still are days where flurries occur and the feeling of being completely covered in ice and cold still remain. In these changing times, I chase these days with great vigor.

Having grown up on the West Coast of the United States, snow has always held a curious place in my heart. Now living in a region where snow is generally seen as a nuisance, something to clear off the driveway or dig one’s way through, I feel like the odd-man-out as I gleefully await a snowy day, gladly taking on any snow-bound task, but only after I take a moment to appreciate its flawless, sparkling, undulating qualities.

Along with all the joy that it brings me, I also greet snow with a quality of solemnity. Its arrival marks a turning point in the year, a deepening of the cold of Winter. Especially now that the lunisolar new year has passed, the Northern Hemisphere remains gripped the coldest period of Winter. 大寒 Daikan (Dàhán in Mandarin). “Major Cold”. It is during this time, especially, that I await the coldest day, when the wind picks up, and dark clouds obscure the warming rays of the Sun.

This year, the coldest day comes during a busy work week. Tied to my computer and tending to emails, I catch a glimpse of the first falling snowflakes out the window that opens onto my now barren garden. I begin to feel the pull towards the world outside.

Gathering up a small selection of wares, I prepare for my trek into the cold. Even if it is just a walk across my garden, I treat it as if it were a journey into the mountains. From pouring water into thermoses and wrapping up my iron 茶釜 chagama, to sifting and scooping of 抹茶 matcha powder into a small 茶入 chaire, each step in preparation for making a bowl of tea readies my body and mind to brace against the cold it was about to encounter.

Finally, with all items wrapped-up and bundled into several sacks, I make my way across the increasingly snow-covered scenery.

Patches of grass peek out from underneath a freshly-fallen drift.

Flowers capped in snowflakes bloom once again.

Spiny thistles and dried-out burdock soften with the snow.

Pine branches glisten green against the contrast of crystalline ice upon their needles.

Footprints follow me in the snow.

Finally crossing the threshold of my makeshift tea hut, I enter into a new world.

Dark, save for a single window that looks out onto a cluster of pine trees, I light a single candle set in my makeshift 床の間 tokonoma, using the flame to burn the tip of an incense stick.

I unwrap the kettle and fill it with fresh water, setting it into the 置き炉 okiro (which I’ve fashioned from an old apple crate) to begin its slow rise to boil. For now until I finish, the heat from this improvised hearth will be the only source of warmth while I practice.

In the time it takes for the water to boil I arrange the small space for tea. I place a small sprig of greenery in the alcove. Cool fresh water is poured into the 水指 mizusashi. I set a small woven box beside me containing the tea implements and wait, using the time to meditate in the cold.

The aroma of incense in the tea room grows and then fades. The din of the wind blowing outside against the wooden walls of the hut grows and then melds into the sound of kettle as the water begins to boil. Soon a column of steam begins to rise and I ready myself to make tea.

I lift the lid from the woven box beside me to reveal objects needed for tea. A chaire enrobed in a silken 仕服 shifuku nestled in a 鬼萩茶碗 Oni Hagi chawan. As I begin my tea practice in the deep cold, the sight of the bundled wares conveys to me a sense of warmth.

I remove and place the chaire before the mizusashi. In my mind, I imagine what one would see if they were to enter the tea room as a guest does before the host. In this moment’s practice, I will be both.

I remove the white tea bowl with its unctuous glaze and arrange the implements for tea within and upon its smooth and crackled surface.

This I set beside the tiny chaire and ready myself to prepare a bowl of tea.

In the moments before tea is made, the hiss of the kettle becomes ever present, hanging in the air alongside the heat that radiates from its iron skin. Despite the relative stillness the tea room presents, the sound of the boiling water infers an palpable quality of movement and vitality. Even if I can feel the deep motionless torpor of Winter’s frozen world outside, I delight in the song the kettle sings, pairing sweetly to the rush of wind through the pines. For the moment , this seems enough to keep feelings of cold at bay.

In this practice, motion becomes a bulwark against the cold. The action, more than the act, of making tea, becomes the focus. Setting down the bamboo ladle beside the okiro feels heavy.

Moving the teabowl and chaire into place is a challenge.

Untying the 緒 o (the braided silk cord that secures the shifuku pouch) requires the utmost concentration.

As the shifuku is peeled away, revealing the shape of the chaire within, a greater sense of ease arises.

Setting the silken pouch beside the mizusashi reveals the woven motif within the sky blue and silver brocade. Peonies, a flower often reserved for early Summer, make an appearance again in January during the depths of Winter. 寒牡丹 kan-botan, or Winter Peony, blossom come mid-Winter, their delicate ruffled blooms protected from the snow and cold by tiny huts made of woven straw. Seeing them now, brought into my tea practice at this time, helps me to push forth against the frigid conditions.

Objects are cleansed one after the other. The chaire and scoop with the purple silk of the 袱紗 fukusa.

The whisk and the bowl with hot water drawn from the boiling kettle. The sweet scent of wet bamboo arises as the thin tines of the 茶筅 chasen are wetted.

As the cup of the 柄杓 hishaku is set atop the open mouth of the iron cauldron.

Hands are drawn together in a momentary clasp as I pause before I set forth to prepare a bowl of tea. The cool residue of water from the 茶巾 chakin slowly drying from my fingertips.

The sound of water rushing and turning in the hollow of the kettle remains constant. The gentle aroma of incense and the crisp fragrance of fresh snow.

The tiny bone lid of the chaire is removed and set beside the teabowl.

Scoops of tea are measured and placed against the white glaze of the chawan.

The chaire is turned over to pour the remaining green tea powder out from its interior into a scattered pile.

Hot water is drawn again from the boiling chagama and a small amount of it is poured upon the heap of matcha powder. The bright green darkens as the tea saturates and blends with the water.

Lifting the chasen, I begin the methodically knead the tea into a thick paste, releasing the intoxicating aroma of fresh ground tea into the cold air of the tea room.

Steam from the kettle and steam from the chawan rise and coil in large swirls along with the steam from my breath. More hot water is added and the thick tea paste become looser, more pliable, more consistent for consumption.

Breath and movement match and a beautiful bowl of 濃茶 koicha emerges.

As I do whenever I make tea alone in my makeshift tea hut, I serve the bowl of matcha as if I were offering it to a guest sitting beside me. Body turned, I lift upwards and sit down in the position of the guest.

From here, the perspective changes. The light feels softer. The shadows longer.

Staring down into the chawan, the koicha appears almost black, set in stark contrast against the thick white glaze of the Oni Hagi teabowl.

I lift the bowl and offer a moment’s pause to give gratitude to my practice, to my teacher, and to the cold that has accompanied me throughout my time making tea. I turn the bowl and take the first sip and the warm tea awakens my frozen body. Two more sips and the remaining tea clings to the inner edges of the white chawan.

For a while I hold the bowl in my hand. The vessel is a relatively recent acquisition, a piece made by the contemporary Japanese ceramicist 山根清玩 Yamane Seigan. As with all Oni Hagi wares, the glaze is wild and uneven. Thick in some places and absent in others, revealing a dark iron-rich underbody that looks like frozen earth revealed beneath a layer of fresh snow.

Over time and with regular use, this iron color will push and seep through the many cracks and fissures present in the glaze, making the overall appearance more crazed and crackled. For now, however, the bowl appears bright, clear, just beginning its journey that may last for many lifetimes.

I return myself and teabowl back to the position of the host. With ample koicha residue still clinging to the sides of the teabowl, I opt to make a very casual bowl of 薄茶 usucha with the remaining dregs. In the spirit of 勿体ない mottainai, I choose not to waste the precious tea, giving it new life and enjoying it in a different way.

In mid-Winter practice, I remind myself to use up all we can. Even leftovers can become nourishment.

Teabowl cleaned, I set it aside and use a separate 替茶碗 kae-chawan to clean the chasen.

The 茶杓 chashaku, fashioned from a piece of red cedar, is cleansed with the fukusa.

The residual tea dust is tapped-off into the 建水 kensui.

Objects are rearranged and set to rest. Cool water is poured into the boiling kettle and the long hiss of the rolling water stops.

The cover is drawn over the iron cauldron.

The ladle and lid rest put away.

For the first time since I first set out to prepare a bowl of tea the space within the wooden hut is silent. The sound of wind rushing outside is audible again. The song of the pine trees moving in the breeze. Crows cawing to one another in the distance. The creaking of branches against the side of the small structure.

In this world of shifting sounds I pull forth an old wooden incense tray upon which I will place tea objects onto for closer inspection. I first cleanse the old 香盆 kōbon with my folded fukusa.

Next, the chaire is cleansed.

The lid is removed and the mouth of the tiny tea container is wiped clean of tea powder. The chashaku is set in the center of the tray and the shifuku beside it.

As I had done before with the bowl of koicha, I offer the 拝見 haiken to myself as a guest. Shifting positions once again, I feel the cold creep back into my bones.

Sitting down before the collected wares, I let my eyes travel across the wooden tray, admiring, once again, the objects I had used in making a bowl of tea.

These implements, like a hiking staff…

…a container to preserve precious goods…

…and a satchel to keep my worldly belongings safe as I travel through this wintery world, remind me that all objects of use have their own innate beauty.

Whether rough and rustic, weathered by time and use, or refined and splendid, kept clean by care, the tools of one’s practice reflect a sense of purpose.

In the many years I’ve used these objects (and the many more years they’ve been used before they came to me), they’ve acquired a patina of time. Perhaps the blue and silver silk of the shifuku’s brocade had never before crossed a snow-covered garden. Perhaps never did these objects sit in the deep cold of a mid-Winter’s practice. Perhaps never were they used as implements in a tea person’s 寒稽古 Kangeiko.

The practice of Kangeiko, often reserved for the martial arts or ascetic forms of Shintō and Buddhism, is used as a test of one’s endurance in extreme cold. Through this, it is thought one’s skills can improve and one’s mind can achieve a level of discipline not found in more comfortable conditions.

As I close this tea session, packing away the wares to cross the snow-covered garden again, I reflect upon both what I’ve learned and felt along the way. In the time that passed, actions felt more urgent, their consequences more profound. The heat of the kettle became more important. The transferral of that heat to the water, to the tea, to myself more critical. In the cold, the mind and spirit can waiver. It is here that one’s practice is forced to its limits.

Emerging from the thin-walled hut out into the now snow-covered world, I feel refreshed, stronger, my mind acutely aware and attuned to the harsh cold. Whatever warmth was contained in the tea space was used up entirely. Nothing left over. All for the nourishment of my practice.

Whatever thoughts that had bothered me, piles of work and worry that had once cluttered my mind, has been dug through, cleared off. I walk back to the warmth of the world I left behind, tracing footprints in the snow.

Preparing for the New Year

It’s been a while since I last sat down to commit my thoughts to writing. Days turned to weeks, weeks to months. Soon enough, late Autumn turned to early Winter, and now it’s the midpoint through 小寒 Shōkan, “Minor Cold” in the old lunisolar calendar. 2023 has begun, but the new year has yet to come and the first murmurs of Spring won’t arrive until a month from now.

In this pause, much has happened. To call it a pause is perhaps to diminish the past months in a way that could allow for it to be easily forgotten. Perhaps, when reading this entry, the gap may allude to a time period of no importance. Alas, even in the silence of a meditation or the quiet before daybreak, there is much activity in the mind and in the world around us. A world of preparation, preparation for a new year and for a new life.

For these past months, my partner and I have been preparing for our first born child to enter the world. As her partner, this has placed me in the support role, tending to her comfort and needs. As parents to be, this has also meant preparing our house for the arrival of our baby, making sure that our daughter-to-be will feel safe, supported, and empowered within her new environment. The creation of “home” feels palpable as it comes into realization.

As a tea person, I can’t help but to draw parallels between this preparation and the measures taken to ensure that a good 茶事 chaji (tea gathering) will occur. The inviting of the guests, the preparation of the 茶道具 chadōgu (wares, lit. “implements for the Way of tea”), the cleaning and setting of the tearoom, and sweeping and arranging of the 露地 roji (the tea garden, lit. “dewy path”). A myriad of tasks must occur before one brings one’s guest into their inner tea space, a setting where both host and guest will have the opportunity to commune and make a lasting and profound connection to one another and to the moment they both share through the making of a bowl of tea.

Similarly, as the new year soon arrives on the traditional lunisolar calendar, preparations must occur as well. In the coming weeks, I hope to host an informal 初釜 hatsugama at my home with a small number of close friends as my guests. Much as I do with the constant thoughts of my not-yet-born daughter and the current needs of my partner, I find myself wondering about what my invited guests may need, how can I ensure their comfort, and what must I do to make sure that they have a meaningful experience.

While all of this is a lot to take in, the garden outside remains in total hibernation. The leaves of my poor tea plants either shine like sparkling emerald-hued lacquer or have shrunk in the bitter cold of the season. Their current state is a reminder for me to remain focused on the present moment. Spring will come, but one must remain aware that we are still living through Winter. It is time to conserve one’s energy.

Noting the cold in my tea studio space, I draw my linen curtains closed. The light of the room changes and warms as the low sunlight of the morning filters through the soft undulations of fabric. I pour cool water into my 鉄瓶 tetsubin and wait until it warms and boils.

A low hiss rises and turns into a single note. To this pleasant tune, I begin to collect teawares and pile fresh-ground 抹茶 matcha into a carved lacquer tea container. While I’ve been better these days with practicing more formal tea preparation, I retreat to a more casual form and opt to make tea in the more relaxed 盆点前 bon temae style.

With items placed upon a circular tray and set down onto the large plank of wood I use as my tea table, I begin to feel more grounded. What I’ve found over the years of practice is that tea affords me a moment to let my mind focus on the task at hand. To set aside my phone, my computer, my digital fetters. To acknowledge my worries and whatever they’ll do as I just sit and make a bowl of tea, either for a friend or loved one or, as I am doing at this instance, for myself.

The movements are simple, straightforward. Objects are set down, at first one next to the other, …

…and then one in front of the next.

The 棗 natsume is cleansed with the folded 袱紗 fukusa, …

…then the 茶杓 chashaku.

The bowl and whisk are wetted and warmed, made pliable by the heat of the water, and readied for their role in making matcha.

In these motions, there is no ceremony, as there is no ceremony in life. There’s just movement, intention, mindful action interspersed with thoughtful pauses. The more one does this over time, perhaps the more fluid and direct the cadence will become. Perhaps not. Regardless, what may look like ritual, rite, ceremony or service is just a means of doing. Preparing a bowl of tea is like this. Preparing for life is like this too.

With bowl warmed and implements cleansed, I lift the chashaku and set the lid of the carved lacquer natsume beside the empty 井戸茶碗 Ido chawan.

The first scoop of matcha is placed into the center of the teabowl, followed by a second and then a third.

As I inscribe a mark into the mound of green tea powder, I note the aroma of fresh tea lifting upwards and wafting towards me.

In breath is followed by out breath, and I tap the residual matcha off the tip of the chashaku against the inner side of the chawan.

As I place the natsume back down upon the tray and the chashaku atop it, I pause for a moment to appreciate the way light and remaining tea dust collects on the rounded edge of tea scoop tip. Like an echo of action or trace of a moment, the matcha powder clings, outlining the form of the 露 tsuyu of the chashaku. A gilded edge to this page in time.

The 茶筅 chasen is placed inside the chawan atop the mound of tea. Water is poured from the tetsubin through the thin tines of the whisk, mixing with the matcha powder, and hanging from the bamboo blades like dew does on grass.

As I center myself and whisk the tea, I remind myself that the tines of this chasen are growing older and weaker with each use. Some of the tips have lost their shape, others have broken over time. Too aggressively whisking the tea might result in more broken tips. Lifting the whisk further out of the bowl and avoiding scratching the well of the chawan can ensure the chasen’s longevity. A lighter touch. A softer grasp. Smoother breathing. Focus.

Finally, whisked and whipped into a foam, I lift the chasen upward and out of the teabowl. Before me sits a single bowl of tea, prepared for myself.

Dim light accentuates the softly rising mound of 薄茶 usucha bubbles that drift atop the surface of the liquid. I catch myself holding my breath, in anticipation for what’s to come. A hatsugama. A new year. My partner’s pregnancy. The birth of our daughter. A new life.

As I bring the bowl to me, lifting it in thanks for this moment of solitude and silence, I’m reminded of Rikyū’s solitary 正月 shōgatsu tea gathering.

It was on the New Year’s morning of 1582 that he made himself a single bowl of “大フク/ofuku” (which can be understood as either 大福茶 obukucha, lit. “great fortune tea”, or 御仏供茶 ōbukucha, lit. “tea offered to the Buddha”). Finding myself on the precipice of so much, anticipating so much, I begin to recognize why Rikyū chose to enjoy a bowl of tea before embarking on a new year in life.

Much like whisking a bowl of tea, you can’t grip life too firmly, nor can you work yourself too hard. Much like the whisk itself, the body and mind breaks under pressure and that which you set out to make will come out rushed and sloppy. What is called for is a lighter grip, a softer touch, smoother breath. A relaxed approach to an otherwise rigorous practice. Solitude. Silence.

The silence I’ve kept these past few months has for a while now hung over me. Sometimes I worry if I am incapable of writing again, or afraid that, by writing, I am just doing so in a performative way. Is a blog entry a product of something more ominous, a dire symptom to a world that measures our existence with social media posts, likes, impressions, and clicks on a page?

In my silence, I sometimes check to see who has been reading my blog. Years ago, hundreds, sometimes thousands of people would read an article a day. Now, maybe one or two. Recently, some days would pass and no one would read my blog. I must admit, I feel a sense of accomplishment knowing this.

But action and inaction, silence and speech, are both two sides of the same coin. Both are a form of doing. Increasingly, my silence has begun to feel like this: something that I have become busy doing.

As I sit and finish drinking my tea, staring down at the foamy dregs that cling to the inside concave of the grey chawan, I realize that it’s my practice to make tea as a means to mark moments in my life. Whether this is a conscious decision or not, the subtle changes in seasons or the more tremendous changes in my life have all been accompanied by an offering of tea.

Perhaps I make tea to stop what I’m doing, to sit and still the mind. But it is foolish to think that this act can stop time or stop the myriad of sensations my mind and body feels. They keep going. Coming as they do and passing onward. With no beginning and no end.

Where is my mind and my heart at this moment as I prepare for the new year?

Footsteps in the snow might mark where we’ve been.

Past writings and old photographs.

Tea clinging to a scoop, moisture caught in a cloth, heat still captured in the ceramic walls of a chawan, in the iron skin of the tetsubin.

But the mind sometimes also imagines a path out ahead. A direction where the next step goes, where the hand is set to grasp the next object, a space to place one thing into or onto the next.

Even when we are silent, there comes a moment before our silence is broken, when our mind forms words, when we anticipate action, when we commit to speech.

It is hard not to get caught in anticipation for what lies ahead of me this year. Trepidation and excitement. Ponderous moments of wondering. My heart and mind at times overflowing with joy, with a complex array of emotions.

Soft light filtering through fabric, through faceted glass, through windows, through treetops, through clouds. Each day growing lighter as Spring approaches. New life promises to push through the cold earth. Even now, before Winter’s coldest days have yet to come, as the last of the springwater still holds its warmth, but for how much longer?

****

For those who would like to learn more about Rikyū‘s 1582 solitary shōgatsu, I recommend the 2019 translation and article by Adam Sōmu Wojciński, linked here.

https://s68d646eb7163e1a8.jimcontent.com/download/version/1579353605/module/11985784312/name/Rikyu%27s%20Lunar%20New%20Year%20Chanoyu%20-%20Nampō%20Roku.pdf

Up the Hill I Go

Up the hill I go,

What mysteries will I find?

Through forest path and bend in road,

The world I’ll leave behind.

A shimmering brook and water’s ebb,

Flow as I take each stride.

The creek’s force stills and causes pause,

To watch sunlight caught inside.

It glows golden like tea I brew,

By thinning waterfall’s catch.

The water roars less and less each year,

Reduced by late Summer’s dry patch.

What will we do when the water’s gone?

Where will the forest go?

In my mind will it reside?

Where will the trees,

the moss,

the lichen grow?

And what of the mysteries that I once found there,

With forest floors dry and bare?

No owls, no raven, no millipede, no salamander’s lair.

Just the hill set against a vast blue sky,

Amidst the hot, dry air.

It makes me sad to sit and think,

Brewing tea just to drink,

What of these memories will I share?

Of the fondness and despair.

Both occur in the wretches of my mind,

Some thoughts familiar,

Some unkind.

When footsteps on paths crossed are covered over,

By dry leaves, by old soil, by new clover.

Then what there will be found?

Nothing, nothing, nothing will abound.

Yet from nothing always arises something new.

Not in my lifetime but perhaps for you.

The next after me who will come,

A hill, a forest, a waterfall, and then some.

A whole world to explore and all their own,

Where the owls, the raven, the millipede, the salamander call their home.

Not in my lifetime but maybe in yours,

Up the hill you’ll go,

Through the forest floors.

And what mysteries you’ll find,

In the forests, those hills, your mind?

Summer Rain and a Bowl of Tea

Early August and Summer’s heat peaks. Out in the garden, daylight glows radiant orange, beaming off of the flat broad maple leaves, through skin of squash flowers, through vines that crawl over the wire trellis down onto sunburst tomatoes.

In the high heat of late Summer, 大署 Taisho (Dàshǔ in Mandarin, lit. “Major Heat”), the intense warmth of the day is inescapable. Tea practice, if in the environs of my makeshift tea hut, is limited to the very early mornings or late evenings when the air is cooler and the light is low. Otherwise, I sit by the glass doors of my studio, looking out on the garden, waiting for the inevitable rainstorm to grace me with a momentary respite from the heat.

Summer rain in the Hudson Valley is frequent, so much so that I’ve begun to sense it. Bright sunlight gives way to dark clouds and warm breezes kick up, pushing the canopies of trees in great green tumbles and swirls. Within minutes, a storm can swell and, for a moment, abate the heat of the day.

As I walk and wander through the garden, enjoying vignettes of flowers and foliage, daylight dims and the first drops of rain begin to scatter.

Quickly, I pluck small, ripe fruit from beneath jagged leaves and bring them with me back into my studio space before the downpour begins to swiftly overtake me.

In my studio, the air is sweet with lingering incense. The temperature cool. The smooth surface of the wooden floorboards invite me to sit upon them and set before me an arrangement of objects for tea.

It is an informal affair. The sound of water boiling echoes the sound of rain. The shuffle of my bare feet across the floor and the quiet landing of a lacquer tray upon a flat plank of wood. Tea and teabowl. A clean cloth and utensils of bamboo. A deep breath and I let thoughts and feelings fall away.

The neatly rounded edges of a small 平棗 hira-natsume feel slick in the hand. If left to wander, the plain curving pattern of time-polished wood grain would have me imagine the cool climes of an 縁側 engawa, the kind of enclosed porch I wish my own home had on days like today.

The cream color of the old bowl is welcomed and relaxed.

The soft crazing of the antique glaze feels at ease alongside Summer’s heat and the sudden showers.

I cleanse each object.

I cleanse the bowl.

Hot water from the kettle feels refreshing and cool as it sparkles translucent, catching sunlight as it filters through the rain clouds, through the glass doors of my studio,

…through the thin cut bamboo tines of the wetted 茶筅 chasen.

Even when wiped clean does the old bowl exude freshness. Even as it sits within the wide expanse of the shallow vessel does the white linen 茶巾 chakin feel inviting like a crisp breeze.

Tea is drawn from the wooden caddy and placed down in the center of the bowl where a circle of glaze sits, surrounded by exposed clay where once the bowl had been stacked with others upon it in the kilns of Vietnam perhaps as long ago as the 14th or 15th century.

The bright green mound of freshly sifted tea glows against the soft earthen colors of the old bowl. Three scoops. A sigil is carved.

The 茶杓 chashaku is lightly tapped against the inner edge of the bowl.

Shadows collect in the cool concave.

On the hottest of Summer’s days, I relish when I am given the chance to make a bowl of tea, when I can softly set the whisk’s tines upon the heap of powdered matcha, and delight as I pour water from my kettle down through their spindling structure.

Small beads of water cling to these thin cut tines, resembling drops of dew, glittering jewels. So refreshed I feel upon seeing these that I, perhaps just for a moment, forget the heat of the day and the worries of life. I sometimes struggle not to daydream, caught in the vision of being contained with such a dewdrop.

Hand to chasen, I center myself and whisk the tea. Soon, 抹茶 matcha powder, water, bowl, motion, and breath combine, giving rise to a fine light foam. The shallow bowl cools the tea and, as I lift the whisk, a slight dome rises upwards from the center of the 茶碗 chawan.

Light dims as thunder peals and the sound of rain surrounds me. I pluck a fruit that I’d picked from my garden and remove it from its lantern skin. Tart and sweet akin to the pressed sugar sweets I once savored in tea gatherings long ago.

I pause for a moment and let the flavor of the fruit fade. I observe the time it takes for the sensation to pass. For the light to shift.

For bubbles to burst within the foam that floats upon the tea. I note time in the space it occupied, in the shape of the tea bowl, the cracks in its glaze, the unevenness of its edges.

I breathe and lift the chawan, holding it wide in the palms of my hands. The heat of the tea radiates through the clay and glaze and out onto my skin, and, although warm, the effect it has on my mind is cooling.

I watch as the matcha’s foam crawls down the inner walls of the shallow bowl. Down the cream colored slope of the surface. Down until the ring of exposed clay emerges. Down until the tea reaches my lips.

Three sips is all it takes and then it’s gone, save for a bit of residue that has collected against bubbles and bursts in the glaze.

As the storm outside settles, I cleanse the bowl and objects once more. The bowl is wiped clean and the chasen is set upright as one does in my school during the hottest days of Summer. The scoop is set beside it.

The natsume is moved once more.

Bowl and objects are placed once again atop the lacquered tray. At rest.

Summer rain and a bowl of tea. Shadows collect in concave shallows. Cool comfort and moistened surfaces. The lingering flavor of tea, of fruit from the garden, of fragrance of long faded incense. As Summer’s heat peaks, rain clouds come and cause reason for pause. As they part and the heat rises again, what did we glean from this momentary respite? Was it enough to cool the mind? Is this the first sign of Autumn?