Tea Without Tea

October came and now closes. Early Autumn, with its cool breeze, cricket songs, and spangled leaves fades into the chill and rain an approaching Winter. In these days, I, along with the local songbirds and squirrels, wait for the first frost. I wonder when the portable brazier will be exchanged for the sunken 炉 ro.

In this time I’ve not been making tea. Instead, my life has been in the grip of a constant state of movement. Moving from my apartment in New York City to a home tucked along the Hudson and folded into the mountains of upstate. Moving into boxes and out of boxes. Moving old objects into new spaces. Moving one life along another twist in the thread.

This movement, while exciting, has kept me away from the much needed moments of stillness. Far from the quiet I have known when I was sitting in my now old tearoom. Quiet replaced with the hammering and drilling, the sawing and stomping that comes with building a new space to live and practice in.

Kept from my regular practice of tea, the “tea mind” finds itself engaging with different processes and different objects. Even with no tea to steep in a pot or whisk in a bowl, the tea mind still continues to address the world in accordance to the context of tea. Instead of sitting down for tea, I find myself retreating up to the mountains. Here, the forms are different but the meditation remains the same.

Twisted tea leaves which I place within a pot are replaced by the golden leaves of Fall which are scattered upon the forest floor.

The appreciation of a thick, unctuous glaze that wraps around a 茶碗 chawan is exchanged with a pause to enjoy a moss-covered rock along a path’s edge.

The sound of the kettle familiar to me in my tearoom is echoed in the soft sound produced by a waterfall that cuts its way down the mountainside.

I breathe deep, measured breaths as I climb throughout the yet explored terrain of my new environment. I recall the countless wanderings of my youth, when weekends were spent hiking the hills and mountains of California. The mind remembers this, the muscle memory, the cadence of actions and inactions.

Deeper still, the mind recalls the flavors of the forest in Fall, yet, now, these too are different. The trees and shrubs, rocks and soil have subtly changed. The practiced tea mind, the one that has focused itself for many years on the flavors of tea, is now attuned to appreciate these new tastes too.

The concepts familiar with the tea mind are transformed and repurposed as well. The “one moment, one meeting” of 一期一会 ichi-go ichi-e returns, not now for a guest coming to my tearoom or a piece of teaware to be shared, but for a brightly-colored maple tree, which today bursts with golden leaves, tomorrow to change to orange and later brown.

The notion of 侘び寂び wabi-sabi, which is normally epitomized by the rustic beauty found in a weather-worn object or a piece of ceramic transformed by the furnace, is pushed closer to its source, to nature itself. It is found at the ebb of a river’s bank, where a thin line of leaves swept up upon the rocks, to where one recognizes the impermanence of every mind-formed state.

It is found in the silver-grey clouds that glide over the mountains, dark and mysterious as is encompassed in the concept of 幽玄 yūgen.

While these concepts come to mind, in a tea practice without tea, do they still maintain their significance? Can the tea mind exist without tea? Is there tea without tea? As I find my current life packed-away in piles of boxes, in the dust that clings to me here and there, I ponder this.

As I look out the window of my new tea hut in the making, I wonder if this has always been for naught. Is this practice defined by the objects it contains or is it defined by nothing at all? Is the boundary that separates form and formlessness firm or permeable?

Is the cloud, the sky, the lake, the earth separate or intertwined? As I continue my current life without tea, is this, too, a life with tea?

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Filed under Ceramics, Matcha, Meditation, Tea, Travel

Upon Which the Winds Will Carry

In the hurried moments between months, time and opportunities for tea can slip by as quickly as an early Autumn’s breeze that pushes through the tops of trees. As August passes into September, the winds increase their vigor. In some parts of the world, this brings cool air, calming the residual heat of lingering late Summer. In other parts, winds whip and whirl and wind-up cinders and smoke, causing great conflagrations that climb up mountains and rip through forests.

Within my new abode in the mountains of upstate New York, I escape the clamor of the city. On cooler days, I find myself wandering through my garden or walking by the river’s edge. At dawn, morning glories climb and uncurl in bursts of purple and pink.

Tall grasses bow slightly to the weight of morning’s accumulated dew. Sparrows and crickets chirp and sing.

As the sun climbs upward, the haze across the broad river’s expanse rises, revealing the opposite shore like a phantom ship. Darting here and there, the last of the dragonflies lollop and land on the smooth rocks and on cattail shoots.

Tucked in my traveling tea chest, I’ve brought a container for tea, a teabowl, a wooden rest, whisk and scoop. In my new home, I set up a temporary space for tea, marked out by an old plank of wood and assorted wares. In time, this will transform into something more formal. For now, the limited assemblage of teaware, a portable 風炉釜 furo-gama and 水指 mizusashi is all that is needed to practice 点前 temae.

With water boiling in the iron kettle, I enter the temporary space with a small, wide-bodied 大海茶入 daikai chaire. As I set it before the mizusashi, I glance at the knot tied in the long cord of the 仕服 shifuku, the 長緒 nagao. For this brief moment of early Autumn, the cord is tied in the shape of a dragonfly. The knot twists and curls, letting the imagination play with the implied shape. Making the mind think of a river’s edge.

Stepping out again, I return with a formal 天目茶碗 tenmoku chawan atop a wooden 天目台 tenmoku-dai. Setting down the teabowl and accompanying equipage, I let my eyes wander through the iridescent undulations of thick glaze that are the hallmark of a 海鼠釉天目茶碗 namako-yū tenmoku chawan (“sea cucumber-glaze” tenmoku teabowl).

With 建水 kensui, 蓋置 futaoki and 柄杓 hishaku brought into the tea space, I close the door and ready myself for tea. The morning sounds of the mountains differ from the city I’ve left. The cacophony of cars and busses, trains and trucks are gone. In their place is the prolonged hum of Autumn’s insects. Crickets, katydids, cicadas, bees and wasps buzz and blare a low, collective chorus. Like me, they wake with early morning’s light.

I set the teabowl between the 茶釜 chagama and mizusashi. Before this, I place the chaire.

With both hands, I reach down and begin to untie the long cord. A gentle pull and a hooked finger and the dragonfly is gone.

I place the enrobed tea container in my left hand and loop the excess cord onto my left little finger. With the outer edge of right hand, I peel back the sleeves of the brocaded shifuku that encase the chaire. I remove the broad-bodied tea container and arrange the shifuku and cord in the manner befitting this distinctive form.

With the chaire now freed from its pouch, I purify it with the silk 袱紗 fukusa. The wide, flat lid is cleansed, then the outer edges before the daikai chaire is placed back before the mizusashi. The vast ocean of the daikai chaire’s lid in contrast to the dark brown and blue of the 瀬戸焼 Seto-yaki ceramic body becomes a brief point of contemplation.

The ocean, the source of much of Autumn’s wind, is warming as this world has been in these past decades. What will be borne upon its churning waves? What future does this great expanse contain?

I continue and refold the fukusa to next cleanse the carved wood 茶杓 chashaku. Pressed deep into the purple silken folds, the teascoop is then placed atop the lid of the chaire.

I remove the 茶筅 chasen and 茶巾 chakin from inside the teabowl. Water is drawn from the boiling kettle and poured into the center of the chawan. I lift the chasen and press its thinly cut tines into the hot water. They bend and flex and expand.

As I lift the whisk from the bowl, tiny droplets cling to the bamboo blades, reminiscent of dew upon tall grass.

The tenmoku-dai is cleansed with the fukusa. The water is poured from the teabowl into the kensui. The teabowl is placed back atop the wooden stand.

The objects sit together for a moment, waiting in their cleansed state. The void of the empty teabowl. The unseen mass of tea sitting inside the chaire. The open kettle with steam rising from the boiling water it holds. The mizusashi with its lacquered lid covering the cool liquid within its ceramic wall.

The interplay of volumes and voids, motion and stillness. The sound of the hissing kettle and the humming insects. The quiet of incense and objects at rest. In a moment, all this will be disturbed to make a bowl of tea. To make the seasons change. To have the wind rise. Disturbed by a breath. By a desire. By the turning of the earth on its axis.

I lift the chashaku with my right hand and with my left I bring the chaire before me. I remove its lid and scoop three mounds of 抹茶 matcha from the ceramic tea container.

I place the chashaku along the flange of the wooden tenmoku-dai. The handle of the teascoop peers out from one end below the tenmoku chawan.

Its carved tip emerges from another end.

I tilt the chaire and roll it in my hand, letting tea powder incrementally drop out from its wide mouth into the center of the teabowl.

The cascade of tea piles irregularly, making small impact craters and clouds of fine tea dust. I return the lid to the chaire and place it back beside the chasen. I lift the teascoop and carve a sigil in the center of the bright green mound of matcha before placing it back atop the lid of the daikai chaire.

I remove the lid from the mizusashi and pull boiling water from the chagama, pouring a small portion of it into the tenmoku chawan. The water and tea powder bleed and mix together, congealing into a thick, liquid mass.

I press the tines of the chasen into this concoction and begin to knead it into a consistent form. Back and forth I slowly pull and mix the tea.

It clings like lacquer against the blades of the bamboo whisk. Additional water is added and the tea becomes thinner, more pliable, flattening into a dark mirror, against which the reflections of the makeshift tearoom can be seen.

I slowly lift the chasen vertically from the center of the teabowl, encouraging any remaining drops of 濃茶 koicha to run down back into the deep chawan.

I return the whisk back, upright, next to the chaire, the tip of each tine covered in a thin coat of tea.

The bowl of matcha now sits, full, still.

The light of the day grows as the scent of incense fades and the rich aroma of koicha rises. The breeze of the morning wafts through the crack in the window. The sound of bees, of crickets, of cicadas billowing and crescendoing.

The bowl is lifted, not directly but indirectly through the aid of the tenmoku-dai. I shift myself and teabowl and set the bowl before the longer edge of the wooden board. The uneven surface of the thick tea shimmers like old glass in the low light. The traces of where the dark green liquid crawled against the inner edges of the teabowl become more apparent.

The rim of the teabowl, edged in silver, appears as one continuous halo along a tide pool. Where once my mind was at a river’s edge, it now drifts to a coastal shore. Where once my heart was nestled in the mountains and rivers of my new and current home, I am momentarily returned to the craggy ocean cliffs and coastlines of my childhood home. A wind has carried me there. Not cool breezes but the hot torrents that make fires swift and that now engulf the forests of my youth. What these wooded spaces taught me as a child now speak to me again as an adult.

Nothing is permanent. A wind will blow and dissipate. A forest will grow and burn and disappear. Childhood, too, will wax and wane and from it an adult life is born. What moments come and go over a lifetime. What a treasure it is to hold this in your hands as one bowl of tea.

I lift the bowl, turn it a quarter turn, and sip from the silvered edge. The slightly sweet metallic taste mixing with the bitterness of thick tea. The slow movement of the liquid up and down the inner edge of the teabowl. Down the depression that runs along the inner rim. Tea collects and languidly returns back to the center.

I set the bowl back down and ponder on this momentum. The slow movement and quick movement of time. My eyes shift to look out onto the garden. A dragonfly settles on a blade of tall grass and darts away.

My eyes move back to the tea space. The shifuku pouch. The chashaku tip covered in tea dust. The thick coat of koicha clinging to the upright chasen. The sound of boiling water. The residual tea collected inside the chawan.

I move the teabowl aside and prepare a separate 替茶碗 kae-chawan to cleanse the chasen. The shallow brightness of the antique 宋 Sòng period (960-1279) teabowl acts as a contrast to the deep darkness of the namako-yū tenmoku chawan.

I pour a measure of cool water into the chawan and then place the chasen into this.

I cleanse the whisk, transforming the clear water inside of the kae-chawan into a dark green pool.

With the whisk cleaned, I pour the refuse liquid into the kensui place the chakin and chasen into chawan. Next, I cleanse the chashaku and rest it against the rim of the teabowl. 

Finally, I move the teabowl slightly to the left and place the chaire next to the teabowl.

Today, I opt not to perform a 拝見 haiken. While the setting is formal, I prefer to sit alone in my new makeshift tea space. The sound of the breeze, once again, pressing through the open window and through the leaves of the maple, the pine and the oak trees that surround my new home.

This moment in Autumn, when the mountain air cools in this part of the world. This moment in Autumn when the warm coastal winds on the other side of the continent stoke the flames of forest fires. This violent imbalance met with natural ease. The sadness of things lost met with the pang of insecurity that comes from living in a precarious time.

What does the future hold? What cinder will be set aloft by an errant breeze? What revolution will be set in motion from the flapping of a dragonfly’s wing? A subtle change and dramatic movement, upon which the winds will carry.

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Filed under Ceramics, Green Tea, Incense, Japan, Matcha, Meditation, Tea

To Sit Where You Are, Now

As the year presses onward, the dramas of life, of the world at large, still bow to the subtle shifts of the season. While one may not perceive it, by the second week of August, around the seventh or eighth day, Autumn quietly arrives. Still present is the heat of Summer. Still not seen are the red and ocher colors of Fall. The change does not come in a bold or showy way, rather, it appears on the edges of existence. In the dim glow of the morning or the waning light of dusk. In the cool breezes that push through the trees. In the fresh coat of dew on the new tall grasses that grow wildly on the entrance to forests and against the banks of rivers.

立秋 Risshū, the beginning of Autumn, is a liminal time and space. A moment of transition and transformation. In the tearoom, this is no different. Remaining is the overarching emphasis on coolness, as the first days of Autumn still remain hot. Still, too, is the preference to gather for tea during the morning, just as the sun begins to peer over the horizon.

In the 床間 tokonoma, wildflowers spill-over from the fields, bursting into the alcove, set into rustic baskets. Summer’s lightness and refinement slowly shifts to the more 侘び wabi aesthetic as the year begins to cool down and decay with time.

Even with the choice of teabowls, the lingering influences of Summer on the nascent Autumn is felt. Shallow vessels are preferred. Delicate, wide-rimmed 平茶碗 hira-chawan are still a mainstay. 馬盥茶碗 badarai chawan, with their flat bottom and low-profile walls, are still favored, although this is the final moment they are used. As I prepare for my own solitary early Autumn tea gathering, I bring forth my own answer to assuage the remaining heat.

Kept in its wooden 桐箱 kiribako for much of Summer, it is now during Risshū that this unusual teabowl will finally make its appearance.

Opening the lid to the shallow box, the shape of the vessel can be made out through the soft folds of a 風呂敷 furoshiki, emblazoned with the refreshing pattern of 麻の葉 asanoha.

Unwrapped, what emerges is a low-slung and irregularly-shaped 黒織部 沓形茶碗 kuro-Oribe kutsu-gata chawan. Neither fully round nor angular, like the first days of Autumn, the kutsu-gata chawan seems like a fitting match to this “in between” period. I pair this with a small wooden 平棗 hira-natsume, a 茶筅 chasen made of dappled dark bamboo, and a 茶杓 chashaku with a light cloudy pattern.

Before I bring these into my tearoom, I heat the water in my bronze and iron 茶釜 chagama, and set beside it cool water, kept in a green 丹波立杭焼縄簾水指 Tanba-Tachikui-yaki nawasudare mizusashi. The gentle cascading comb pattern upon the mizusashi is a subtle visual nod to the woven rope curtains used during Summer. A reminder of the heat and the coming breezes.

As I set the mizusashi down, I gaze for a moment at the soft, reflective surface of the black lacquer lid that sits atop its open mouth. This, too, feels refreshing. A perfect shape placed atop an imperfect object. A black void set alongside the organic colors of a verdant season. The stillness of lacquer. The dynamism of ceramic.

Once brought into the tearoom, teabowl and natsume are placed before the mizusashi. The 柄杓 hishaku and 建水 kensui are places beside me. With the door now shut, the only sounds heard in the tearoom is the quiet hiss of the kettle boiling and the growing din of the cicadas outside my window.

The chawan is set before the 風炉 furo. The natsume is set before the chawan. Each item sits, for a moment, as they are. Each space between each item measured and remembered through practice.

How the chashaku lays nestled in the undulations of the chawan’s rough-hewn rim. How the chasen lightly rests against the pinched folds of the 茶巾 chakin.

The wooden natsume appears smooth, polished like a well-worn floorboard of an 縁側 engawa. How this, too, feels refreshing in the growing heat of the morning.

I remove the 袱紗 fukusa from my belt and cleanse the lid of the wooden natsume. As I set it down, I appreciate the weight of the tiny container filled with powdered tea. Next, I refold the fukusa and press the tip of the chashaku into it, running the purple cloth back and forth over it several times before placing the teascoop atop the lid of the natsume. I remove the chasen from the teabowl and place it beside the natsume and chashaku.

I remove the chakin and refold it, placing it momentarily atop the lid of the mizusashi. Next remove the lid of the chagama and draw forth a ladle of hot water, which I pour slowly into the teabowl.

I lift the chasen and set it into the irregular folded edge of the kutsu-geta chawan. It fits perfectly into the imperfect shape. I grip the whisk and press the thin tines against the bottom of the bowl. I lift the chasen and turn it a third of the way around and press the tines back into the hot water, back against the bottom of the bowl. I repeat this two more times until each thin blade of bamboo has been flexed and inspected, wetted and warmed.

I return the whisk back beside the natsume and chashaku.

I lift the bowl and roll the warm water around its interior, watching how the liquid climbs up and runs down the hand-formed inner edges. How light gathers in the odd corners and spins around the curves and knife cuts.

The bowl is emptied and dried. It sits against the swirling grain of the wooden slab, a board I use in lieu of having 畳 tatami in my city apartment. Myself. The bowl. The board. We find ourselves in this moment, together.

The bowl, a gift from a now-deceased friend, reminds me of his guidance. Upon its outer surface, the design of interlocked squares. To me, they appear as the wooden or stone slabs used to line the opening of a well.

To stare down into this dark cavern. To feel the rush of cool air that billows out from the depths. I am refreshed.

I lift the tiny natsume and remove its carved lid. I remove three scoops of 抹茶 matcha from it and press each into the center of the clog-shaped bowl.

I place the lid back atop the tea container and set the chashaku atop this. I draw cool water from the mizusashi and pour this into the chagama.

Next, I pull hot water from the kettle and pour a measured amount into the center of the teabowl. The remaining water is returned to the chagama. The chasen is placed down into the concoction of water and tea. I breathe and taste the flavor of fresh green tea that rises from the teabowl.

With one hand placed along the edge of the chawan and the other gripping the chasen, I begin to whisk the tea into a light foam. The tea moves vigorously around the interior of the bowl, matching the motions of my hand. A rhythm is maintained until the foam begins to form and rise and collect.

I slow the chasen and gently lift it from the center of the bowl.

A small low-lying peak forms where the whisk left it last. In the low light of the morning, the tea glows from the interior of the chawan.

From my vantage point, each angle appears different, dynamic. The round edge of the teabowl is like a vast sea.

The angled edge, like a dark valley. The shape is serious and somber, playful and irreverent.

I lift the bowl and turn it so that the angled edge now points towards me. From this I will drink the tea. I lift the bowl again and take the first sip. The liquid is warm, the texture soft. The sound of the matcha bubbles rolling and bursting, shifting and pulling as they run down the inner edges of the teabowl are audible, amplified by the shape of the bowl. I take two more sips, each feeling expansive in the short period of time it takes for each draught to pull down the interior of the vessel. All that remains are the the dregs.

Even once empty, I enjoy the patterns that remain inside the bowl. How the residual foam pools into the curl of clay and glaze. I cleanse the bowl, first with hot water, so I may for a moment inspect the bowl.

I hold the emptied vessel in my hand, turning it over to appreciate the carved 高台 kōdai.

The bare clay appears like wind-cut sandstone, much like those found around the hills and mountains of my boyhood home.

The dark black-brown glaze against this looks translucent, pooling and revealing the clay edges beneath it, reminiscent of the shell that covers a stag beetles’ wing.

Beside this, in contrast, is the crisp white glaze, common to most kuro-Oribe ceramics.

Setting the bowl upright once again, I appreciate the various motifs painted in glaze. The mouth of the well as the 正面 shōmen.

The abbreviated stripes, perhaps representing the grasses of Autumn, on the reverse side.

I cleanse the bowl once more, this time with the cool water drawn from the mizusashi. The chakin is refolded and placed into the teabowl. The chasen is placed with its tines pointed upward.

The chashaku, still covered in tea dust, is cleansed once again with the fukusa. Once purified, it is placed back atop the edge of the chawan. The natsume is brought beside the teabowl.

Between each object is a space. Room to breathe. Room to think.

Before I remove the wares from the tearoom, I prepare a solitary 拝見 haiken. With the sound of cicadas now booming from the trees, the natsume and the chashaku are placed atop an old 香盤 kōban.

Between each item, again, space is made. Between Summer and Autumn, too, there is a space. It is not marked by a specific moment or one particular attribute. Instead, signifiers abound in incalculable ways.

Carried on the arrival of a breeze. On the sudden realization of a subtle shift. Caught in a liminal place, where fields turn to forests, rivers to river’s edge. A band of mud. A stripe of grass. A patch of flowers pushing up past their leaves. To sit where you are, now. This, too, is like this very moment. A moment caught between moments.

Unannounced, it arrives. At first, not so perceptible. Not so special. But, this, too, is worth noting. When Summer fades to Autumn. Before the leaves turn color. Before the world decays. Before the heat subsides entirely. Like the warmth caught in the clay of a teabowl, or the condensation that collects on the side of the mizusashi.

This world, even now, is enough to awaken the mind, refresh the soul, remind oneself of the importance of this moment. This, too, shall pass. This now will, soon, turn to past.

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Filed under Ceramics, Green Tea, Japan, Matcha, Meditation, Tea

Breaking the Heat: Lotus Viewing and Morning Rain

The bridge that extends between July and August marks the hottest days of Summer. Known in the traditional lunar calendar of Japan as 大暑 Taisho, this brief period marks the final knell of the season’s heat, before the eventual ease into the cool of Autumn. All around, the air grows heavy and damp, and the earth swells with moisture. In this climate, earth and air conjoin in an exchange, often met with occasional Summer showers and outbursts of rain and thunder.

After a night of intense heat, I wake to find the world quiet and cool. During the early morning, rain broke the heat of the arriving day, running down the broad leaves of trees and refreshing the earth. Inspired, I take to my tearoom and prepare water to bring to a boil.

Once set, I sift bright green 抹茶 matcha into a tall ceramic 茶入 chaire. I pull from my tea cabinet a wide 桐箱 kiribako.

Wrapped in a cloth decorated with twisting vines, I pull forth an old Vietnamese celadon teabowl from the Lý-Trần period (13th-14th centuries), worn and weathered by time. I wet the bowl to bring it to life. Liquid fills its pores. Color returns to the clay.

I submerge a 茶巾 chakin in cool water and squeeze the linen cloth in my hands, pushing out the water it had absorbed. I fold the chakin and place it in the center of the old moss green 安南焼茶碗 Anam-yaki chawan. Atop this, I place a wetted 茶筅 chasen made of dark bamboo.

Wares are brought into the tearoom in waves. First the chaire, which is placed before the 水指 mizusashi. Next the teabowl and accompanying équipage. Finally, the 建水 kensui, 柄杓 hishaku and 蓋置 futaoki.

The door is shut. The fading scent of incense lingers in the air. The light in the room is muted. The sound of the rain outside the window blends with the low boiling hum of the kettle. I sit and breathe. I arrange the wares and ready each in preparation for a bowl of tea.

The chawan is placed before the kettle. The chaire, in its brocaded 仕服 shifuku pouch, is placed before the chawan.

Set together, the soft colors of shifuku and the old celadon harmonize.

I reach down with both hands and undo the cord that ties the silk cloth together.

Methodically, I loosen and remove the chaire from the shifuku.

I place the pouch between the mizusashi and the edge of the wooden 小板 ko-ita, atop which the 風炉 furo stands.

I cleanse the chaire with the folded 袱紗 fukusa and place it back a before the mizusashi.

I slowly inhale as I refold the fukusa. Holding it in my left hand, I exhale as I then reach out with my right hand to pick up the 茶杓 chashaku.

I press the carved and smoothed tip of the tea scoop into the folds of the purple silk of the fukusa, running the cloth from center to rounded end, back to center and back to tip.

I repeat this motion once more and place the scoop atop the lid of the chaire in one fluid action.

I remove the chasen and place it beside the chaire. I remove the chakin, lightly twist it between my left and right hands over the kensui, and refold it, momentarily placing it atop the black lacquer lid of the mizusashi.

I lift the hishaku, hold it between thumb and index finger of my left hand, and with my right hand, remove the lid from the boiling 茶釜 chagama, setting it upon the ceramic futaoki. The sound of the kettle grows once the lid is removed. A thin, wispy column of steam rises from the open mouth of the chagama. Beads of moisture condense and cling to the edge of the opening. I transfer the bamboo ladle from left to right hand and dip the carved cup into the boiling water. Air caught in the wooden scoop exhales audibly as it fills with water. With a steady hand, I breathe inward, drawing forth a ladle’s worth of hot water.

Exhalation, and I pour the water into the center of the teabowl. The color of the glaze deepens around the edges where the water meets the bowl, as liquid saturates the centuries-old vessel. I dip the flat tines of the chasen into the warm water. Their color darkens too as they drink up the water, absorbing it, becoming more pliable.

Once cleansed, I place the chasen back next to the chaire. I pour the water from the teabowl to the kensui and wipe the edges and inner surface of the chawan with the chakin. I look down at the teabowl. It looks back up at me, refreshed like a stone in a garden path after a Summer’s rain. Beaming and glistening. It is an ancient color caused by the creative energies of an artisan, affected by the countless years.

Along the rim, glaze once pooled and held to the clay body, caught forever in suspension by the heat of the kiln.

Along its outer edges, a craftsperson’s knife lightly pressed into the still-soft clay to create a subtle foliate design, an impression of lotus petals unfurling as Summer’s heat gently coaxes each fragrant bud to emerge, first from the baked mud of the wetland, to later bloom after a refreshing rain. Even after the centuries, even after the rise and fall of countless kingdoms, and even after the myriads of awakenings, the pattern still remains clear.

I turn back to the chashaku and chaire. I open the ceramic tea container, setting the lid beside the chawan.

I dip the teascoop into the soft green tea powder and lift out the first of three scoops of matcha.

Once a small heap has formed in the center of the bowl, I place the carved chashaku atop the edge of the chawan.

I tilt the chaire and let all remaining tea cascade down into the bowl. A fine cloud of tea dust rises from the bowl, followed by the fragrant scent of fresh green tea. The lid is placed back onto the chaire and the container is placed back beside the chasen.

Plucking the teascoop again as if I were lifting a calligraphy brush, I inscribe a simple sigil into the mound of tea dust, breaking its gentle organic form. Adding an impression upon perfect chaos.

I return the teascoop to the lid of the chaire. I remove the lacquered lid of the mizusashi and place it upright against the side of the fresh water vessel. I notch my hand along the long handle of the hishaku and press the bamboo cup deep into the hot water of the chagama.

A minute amount of water is poured into the chawan, slowly surrounding and seeping into the tea powder. I return the remaining liquid back to the water boiling inside the iron chagama.

I lift the chasen and slowly press the tines into the tea. With a series of repeated back and forth motions, I methodically fold and knead the tea and water together into a thick, lacquer-like paste. Small peaks form and curl and fall as the blades of the chasen cut and comb into the tea and water concoction.

In the quiet stillness of the tearoom, the aroma of matcha replaces the scent of aloeswood. With my left hand, I lift and tilt the chasen to the side, momentarily enjoying the sight of tea paste clinging to the curled tips of each bamboo tine. With my other hand, I lightly balance the hishaku and scoop water out of the chagama, letting it run through the blades of the tea whisk as I pour into the teabowl.

The hishaku is returned to rest upon the opening mouth of the kettle and the chasen is put to work to further knead the tea and water into a consistent brew. In this process, I focus my mind. Time begins to slow down. All that is around me falls away. The rain outside. The kettle before me. The glimmer of fresh water in the mizusashi. The shadows that pool around the edges of each object. The swirling grains within the wide wooden plank atop which I’ve set the wares. The patterns cut into the tea.

The repetition of motion. Whisking. Scooping. Lifting up and setting down of objects. One mind observing these. One mind caught in each moment. Is this the same mind that was once a baby? Once a child? Once a teenager? Now an adult, realizing this moment? Each past mind seems so different, so distant. Each with its own sense of self. Its own sense of truth. What was the mind before it was born? A lotus pushes up from the mud.

I lift the whisk straight up from the thick pool of 濃茶 koicha. I place it back down next to the chaire. The objects sit together in the dim light of the morning. Together with the gentle sound of the rain and the tea kettle.

I peer down into the antique chawan. The soft color of aged celadon and the striking emerald of the tea. As I bring the bowl towards me, I see my reflection caught in the mirror-like surface of the koicha. It bends and changes as the thick liquid draws down the inner edge of the teabowl, slowly pooling and pouring and pressing against my lips as I take my first sip from the bowl. The feeling of the first taste instantly awakes me. It courses through me. Enlivens my mind. Quickens my pulse. Two more sips and the tea is fully consumed, save for the dregs that cling to the side of the bowl.

I produce from my inner chest pocket a 古袱紗 kobukusa, a square of woven silk of with patterns of water plants stitched in 金蘭 kinran gold brocade. I unfold this and press it flat against the wooden plank.

Upon this I place the antique teabowl and for a moment I enjoy the single track of bright green tea against the old celadon. I admire how it catches the light. Iridescent like rain running off a roof tile. Slick like a lotus leaf floating on a pool.

I reposition the antique chawan to my side and place a grey 井戸茶碗 Ido chawan before me. Out of respect for the ancient Vietnamese vessel, I use this humble grey bowl as a 替茶碗 kae-chawan, a spare teabowl used to clean the chasen.

I draw cool water from the mizusashi and pour it into the Ido chawan. I press the chasen into the bowl and whisk-off the residual tea that clings to the flat bamboo tines. I pour the cool water from the teabowl into the kensui and place the folded chakin into its center.

I rest the chasen pointed upright against the chakin. With the fukusa, I cleanse the chashaku before it, too, is set atop the kae-chawan. The bowl is shifted to the left. The chaire is placed beside it.

As I close my sitting for tea, I pour cool water into the chagama, halting the rolling boil of the hot water for tea. The lid is placed back upon it. The lacquered lid is returned atop the mizusashi. The hishaku and futaoki are placed together with the kensui.

I arrange a final 拝見 haiken of the chaire, the shifuku and the chashaku. I cleanse the chaire and place it upon a 香盤 kōban.

I pick up the shifuku from between the mizusashi and furo and carefully place it atop the kōban.

Finally, I place the chashaku between the two objects.

For a moment, I sit and admire each. The way their different spirits harmonize with one another. How their textures play off of one another. How their colors differ yet are at ease.

The striped pattern of the shifuku and the grain of the teascoop.

The flecks of black and copper-blue hues within the glaze of the chaire in contrast with the warm tones of the chashaku.

For a brief moment the rain pours heavy outside my window. I spend this time in meditation, cleansing the remnants of koicha from the antique teabowl. As the Summer storm lifts, I place the cleansed bowl before me.

As light returns to the morning sky, pushing through the dark clouds that had collected, I inspect the chawan, turning it in my hand. The carved 高台 kōdai catches the light coming through the windows. The soft indentations upon the clay carved by the artisan’s knife.

The deep brown glaze brushed within the center of the 高台内 kōdai-uchi. The bowl reveals small features with each viewing. The first time is not like the last. Nuances emerge.

Cracks and crazing on the surface. Depth from pale color. Detail found in simple patterns. The clay retains the coolness of the water it once held. It feels refreshing in the hand. The last of the rainwater is heard dripping from the eaves over the window. The heat of the day rises once more.

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Filed under Ceramics, Education, Green Tea, History, Japan, Matcha, Meditation, Tea, Vietnam

The Salt in the Sea: Catharsis and the Way of Tea

In late July, Summer drags and the heat of the day is felt most severely. From July 22 to August 6, 大暑 Taisho, “Major Heat”, marks the final apex of Summer’s heat. For the practitioner of tea, any measure to mitigate the effects of this heat are taken.

In 茶の湯 chanoyu, tea gatherings are held in the early morning, before the sun is able to warm the earth, affording a fleeting moment of coolness. Everything about the tearoom at this time is lighter, and airier. Glass containers and teabowls are often employed. 簾 sudare hang from the eaves and 葦簀 yoshizu screens replace the 障子 shōji.

With these changes, the world of the tearoom seems evermore fragile, made-up of grasses, reeds, light woods and translucent glass. In this tenuous existence, however, there is life, vitality, and an ever-present awareness of how precious our existence is and how unique our chance to ever meet again must be.

With months of the pandemic still raging strong, I sit in my New York City apartment and wonder whether I will ever gather for tea the same way I had prior to this time. The feeling is bittersweet. A sense of longing for something from my past, yet a recognition that things will never be the same. A deep and gentle sadness for friends and family who have been separated, and from the time lost. A great feeling of my own mortality now rarely escapes me, a realization of how transient life is. 物の哀れ mono no aware.

Finding myself caught in the brief moment of the morning between the cool of the night and before the pervasive heat of the day, I decide to make a bowl of tea. Unable to shake the sadness that I’ve been feeling, I decide to meditate with this emotion and involve it in my daily practice of tea.

From my antique tea cabinet I remove a small 桐箱 kiribako, tied-up with a woven silk cord. Written across it is the signature and seal of 茶平一斎 Chahira Issai, a famous 蒔絵 maki-e artist from 輪島 Wajima, 石川 Ishikawa prefecture.

The words 汐汲 shio-kumi, “salt-scooper”, are written is a light calligraphic script.

Untying the cord and removing the lid, I pull from the box a dark maroon lacquer tea container in the shape of a 金輪寺棗 “Kinrinjinatsume. A shape that purportedly has its origins in lacquer containers from the 宋 Sòng period (960-1279), the “Kinrinjinatsume was apparently popularized by 後醍醐天皇 Go-Daigo-tennō (Emperor Go-daigo) (1288-1339). Originally, the natsume would have been used to contain 濃茶 koicha and would have been used in more formal tea settings. However, by the 1600s, the practice of using it as a container for 薄茶 usucha seems to have emerged.

Atop this particular version, the words 松風 matsukaze are written on the lid. Wrapping around the exterior of the cylindrical body of the lacquered natsume are images of curling and churning waves, with salt and foam rendered in cut flecks and dust of gold. This is the 汐汲棗 “shio-kuminatsume, favored by 圓能斎 Ennosai (1872 to 1924), the 13th generation head of the 裏千家Urasenke school of chanoyu.

I take a moment to fill the tea container with fresh 抹茶 matcha, producing a softly pointed mound of tea powder. As I do this, the kettle in my tea space comes to a low boil. Cool fresh water is drawn and poured into a green 縄簾 nawasudare 水指 mizusashi. A bamboo 茶筅 chasen and white linen 茶巾 chakin are wetted and placed in the center of a shallow antique Sòng period 平茶碗 hira-chawan. A 茶杓 chashaku made of cut bamboo is placed atop the teabowl.

In the low light of the morning, the chawan and shio-kumi natsume are brought into the tea space. As I sit down, the light of the day begins to grow.

Soft shadows collect under the edges of objects placed first in front of the mizusashi and then arranged between the warm 風炉 furo and myself.

The shio-kumi natsume is lifted and its lid is cleansed in the manner similar to a 茶入 chaire before being set down in front of the mizusashi.

The chashaku is purified next with the refolded 袱紗 fukusa and then placed atop the lid of the natsume. The thin carved shape of the tea scoop running along the center of the silver lacquered 漢字 kanji. The natural pattern of the bamboo resembling waves.

I fold the fukusa again and return it back to my side. With my right hand, I reach for the chasen, lifting it from the teabowl and placing it beside the natsume.

I remove the lid of the lid of the 茶釜 chagama and a ladle’s worth of hot water is pulled from it. While I pour water from the cup of the 柄杓 hishaku into the shallow of the teabowl, I watch as a fine mist of steam spins along the water’s surface. Small whirlpools form and dissipate, dissolving as fast as they appeared.

I dip the thin tines of the chasen into the warm water, pressing them and flexing them, appreciating the tiny beads of water that collect upon them like clear dew that collects on grass after a night’s rain or a morning’s mist.

I pour the water from the teabowl into the 建水 kensui and dry its surface of the shallow chawan gently with the linen chakin.

I take care to ensure the woven fibers do not tear upon a small rock that has broken through the teabowl during its firing a thousand years ago.

The shio-kumi natsume is brought forth again and the lid is placed before the teabowl.

Three scoops of bright green matcha are issued from the tea container and placed into the center of the chawan.

The chashaku is tapped lightly against the inner edge of the tea vessel and the natsume is placed back beside the chasen. I transfer a ladle’s worth of cool water from the dark green mizusashi to the bubbling chagama. Warm water is pulled from the iron kettle and half a ladle is poured into the teabowl.

The sound of water, the mixing of water, the foaming of both water and tea. The whisk frothing-up foam as if it were waves upon the seashore. In this Summer, I have not yet seen the sea. I have not yet seen friends or family. Some of those friends and family I may never see again in my lifetime.

As I prepare the bowl of tea to serve to myself, in this moment of quiet solitude accompanied by the sound of water, I am reminded of the sadness that surrounds shio-kumi.

Shio-kumi is not just a poetic name given to a tea caddy. Shio-kumi refers to a tale of love lost. Of a woman, named Matsukaze, herself a person who works hauling brine to make salt on the shores of 須磨 Suma (near modern-day 神戸 Kobe). The story was retold in the 1811 歌舞伎 kabuki play titled “七枚続花の姿絵” “Shichimai-tsuzuki Hana no Sugata-e” (“A Dance of Seven Changes”), itself, originating from a 能 play titled “Matsukaze”.

In the play, the lovelorn character of Matsukaze pines for her poet lover 在原 行平 Ariwara no Yukihira (818-893), who was momentarily exiled to the shores of Suma, where the two met. As she scoops saltwater from the sea, she recalls her love and the feelings she had for him, now a distant and bittersweet memory.

As the foam of the tea rises, I peer into the center of the teabowl.

A low mound of whisked matcha floats, tiny bubbles suspended in liquid.

I sit back and my gaze widens as I set the chasen back beside the natsume.

The quiet hiss of the boiling water in the chagama. The sound of a gentle breeze outside my tea space. Silence. Solitude. The missing of friends and family. The longing for their company. The recognition that the apex of Summer is here. Half a year has come and gone. A year of death and disease. Of change and revolution. Of awakening. Of letting go.

I lift the chawan and drink the tea. As I tilt the teabowl, I watch as the fine foam of the matcha catches against the rough surface of the small rock embedded in the ceramic. Small, bright green waves pressing against the trapped object. Moving over and around it. The tide pulling outward, leaving the shore exposed, uncovered.

Dregs of tea dry quickly, like salt on the edge of briny pools. I pour warm water into cleanse the bowl and then finally cool water to cleanse the chasen.

The bowl is overturned and I inspect the carved 高台kōdai. The cracks that have formed over time. The small entrapped rock visible from both sides. The warmth still held in the clay.

I turn the bowl back over. The chakin is folded and placed into the chawan’s center. The whisk is placed with its tines pointing upward. Small beads of fresh water cling to the thin bamboo blades.

The chashaku is purified once again and placed back down onto the rim of the shallow teabowl.

The shio-kumi natsume is placed beside the bowl.

I arrange a final 拝見 haiken to admire the wares one-by-one. The natsume is cleansed once again. The chashaku is placed beside it.

I admire the broad, rounded end of the teascoop.

Images of waves come to mind.

The silver calligraphic characters atop the lid of the shio-kumi natsume bring a sense of coolness and ease.

I lift the lid and turn it over. Five 千鳥 chidori are rendered in gold. I recall the sensation of sea breezes. The sadness that comes as you hear their shorebird cries. The shape of the tea caddy is akin to the salt-scoop buckets on the sea’s edge of Suma. The motif of waves the same that once decorated the hem of Matsukaze’s 着物 kimono. The reminder that the feelings of loss are both sad and sweet. To have once loved and lost. To have known that feeling of closeness with those you love. To remember that now, now that they are not here, now that they are gone, perhaps gone forever.

The heat of Summer grows as the day continues until it is unavoidable. Even in the shade of my tea space, it still creeps in. Through the reeds that cover the windows. Through the gaps between fragile woven grass. The feeling is transient and vital, precious and unique.

****

Additional Notes & Resources

As this particular post contained quite a bit of research, I wanted to make sure that I included additional notes and resources to follow.

Above, I’ve included an image of 初代 坂東 しうか Shodai Bandō Shūka (1813-1855) performing Shio-kumi, staged in the 7th lunar month of 1847, image created by 三代 歌川 豊国 Sandai Utagawa Toyokuni (1786-1865). In this, you can see how the salt-scoop buckets were rendered in the same way that the natsume wave motif was decorated, including chidori (which appear flying above the waves on the blue sky). It is my belief that this motif (which was common and popular during the 井戸 Edo period, 1603-1867) probably came to reside upon the natsume through way of this prop from this much-loved kabuki dance.

As always in tea, pull one thread and you reveal a tapestry. In this case, a simple natsume reveals a story that spans centuries, interwoven with various arts!

If you’d like to learn more about this particular piece of teaware and the play that inspired it, I’ve linked several resources below:

“Shiokumi” – Kabuki 21

https://www.kabuki21.com/shiokumi.php

“Kinrinji natsume” – Chanoyu.World

https://chanoyu.world/natsume-kinrinji/

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Filed under Ceramics, China, Education, Green Tea, History, Japan, Matcha, Meditation, Tea

The Skill and Challenge of Love and Hate

As I sit in my New York City apartment for my daily tea brewing session, I sit looking out upon the treetops, grey sky, and the faint rolling outline of Manhattan’s silhouette. The soft booming of thunder peels in the distance. A storm is coming. With the windows open, I can feel the change in the atmosphere. The air grows cooler, thicker with moisture. Latent with entropy.

For a moment I meditate, giving pause as I wait for the old 鉄瓶 tetsubin to boil water for tea. Spread out before me are implements that I’ve collected over the years, each one brought forth to serve a purpose. Despite their beauty as art objects, they are worth more to me as tools, items that serve a purpose. A wide-rimmed 宋 Sòng period (960-1279) teabowl from a kiln in Fujian which I shall use as a 茶船 cháchuán.

A mid-20th century replica of a 清 Qīng period (1644-1912) 思亭壺 Sī Tíng Hú.

A jade archer’s ring which I’ve repurposed as a lid rest.

Other wares include items foreign to the Chinese tea tradition. A Japanese porcelain tea container, decorated with orchid blossoms, an image borrowed from Chinese visual culture, referring to integrity and scholarly pursuits.

An antique carved bamboo 茶合 sagō used for 煎茶道 senchadō, inscribed with a poem. A thin branch from a willow tree.

Grey 분청사기 buncheong-jagi cups from Korea.

Each item I’ve adopted and adapted over the almost twenty years I’ve been practicing the traditional Chinese method of tea brewing known as 功夫茶 gōng fū chá.

Over these many years, I’ve come to realize through the quiet efforts of brewing tea daily in a mindful manner the meaning of this approach to making a cup of tea. To simply pour water into the cavernous hollow of a small teapot.

To warm each teacup so that the radiant heat of the water can be felt on the outer surface.

To wait until the steam rising from each vessel subsides. These are things that are learned after years of practice and observation. A skill acquired by being challenged.

I remove the lid from the porcelain tea container and slowly roll out a healthy portion of 鐵觀音烏龍茶 Tiěguānyīn wūlóngchá. Years of practice, of study under teachers, and travel to tea farms and tea markets has given me insight into this tea. Even before I know what this tea will taste like, I have a thought as to what to expect. With this knowledge, I can quickly pivot and adjust my actions once this tea is brewing in order to make the very best pot of tea I can with what I am given. The dark green side-by-side the rusty-red coloration upon each leaf hints at the level of oxidation this tea has incurred. The tightness of each curled leaf indicates the manner and method it was rolled.

A mindful tilt of the bamboo tea scoop and a gentle push by the thin willow branch aids in arranging each of the leaves into a small mound at the center of the teapot.

Leaning over to peer down into the vessel, I inhale to admire and analyze the aroma of the tea as it comes into contact with the wet interior surface of the teapot. This, too, is a sign, a means to guide my approach to brewing this tea.

Each time I take in an observation, I change my tack. These are not huge changes but subtle ones. Over time and accumulated experiences, this method has shaped not only my practice but also my mind. Rather than become more rigid in my ways and more resistant to change, I’ve become more fluid, more adaptable, more welcoming of taking chances, being challenged, open to surprises. It has brought about a real sense of joy to face these, both in tea and in life.

To say that these are challenging times we live in today would be quite an understatement. All around, people are justly fighting for their voices to be heard, for their civil rights to be recognized. The world is faced with a deadly pandemic. Our fragile earth continues to be threatened by greed, war, destruction. Faced with such dramatic changes, it is common to do what most do: avoid them, resist them, claim ignorance of these changes, shut them out and find solace in a life of ease and moments of joy. Perhaps, like the Summer storm that is now currently raging outside my window here in New York City, some may believe that these changes will subside. The turmoil will calm down. Things will go back to normal.

But as I lift my kettle from the heat of the brazier and pour hot water into the teapot, I am reminded that this does not need to be the way.

As I close the lid of the teapot and pour a drought of hot water upon it, waiting for the telltale signs that the tea is brewing, I reflect on what it takes to understand each moment.

We must be quiet to let others speak their mind and tell their story, as I must quiet my mind to truly take in the moment. I must observe the context of each time and place, as I do when I watch the heat rise from the teapot and the water dissipate from its surface, keeping in mind the temperature of the air around it, the time of day, the heat or chill of the season, and perhaps the guests and their preferences.

I have to be attentive to what might be going on from an internal level, and what external cues I can draw from, in the same way I watch the small meniscus rise.

In the same way I watch it fall down the interior of the teapot spout, indicating the movement and unfurling of the tea leaves within the teapot. And I must ask myself what I take for granted, what do I not have the ability to see, in the same way I must wonder what is going on inside the teapot.

All of this goes to further highlight certain truths. Change is a constant. Nothing remains the same forever. Each moment exists only in that moment and then it is gone, transformed into something else. Oftentimes, we have the choice to meet these changes and learn from them, or ignore them. To engage and adapt with change, or to resist it.

Tea has taught this. It has taught me patience. It has given me the ability to practice this and eventually trust in my practice. Whereas in the beginning of my life as a tea person I would have doubted and maybe even judged myself, with a litany of internal self-directed micro-aggressions telling me that I was “doing it wrong” or “I don’t know enough” or that I was “unable to do this” or “that properly”, I now have enough direct experience brewing tea to not judge myself and, instead, recognized when I feel this way and recognize that it’s okay. The tea will be fine. I will be fine.

I’ve made a lot of bitter tea in my day, even over-brewed tea. I actually enjoy this flavor now. It is the flavor of quality. In truth, an excellently-crafted tea will still taste excellent even if you over-brew it. This was something I only learned when I stopped being afraid to make mistakes and to be challenged.

As I pour out the tea from the teapot, moving from cup to cup to cup in a circular motion, I adjust my hand and the pitch of the teapot to increase or decrease the velocity of the tea liqueur coming out of it. As the liquid pours out faster, the tea has leaf time to brew, resulting in a slightly lighter steeping.

Conversely, if I slow the pour, the tea steeps a moment longer and the liqueur has a chance to become darker and more profound in flavor. This may depend on the style of tea, the manner it was finished by the tea master’s level roast or oxidation, or by the season the tea was harvested. Subtle changes to one’s practice can make all the difference.

As I shake out the final droplets of tea from the teapot and return the teapot back the center of the Sòng teabowl, I remove the lid of the pot to enable all remaining moisture and heat to escape the teapot. Experience has shown me that doing this helps to prevent unintended over-extraction of flavor through residual hot water sitting with the tea leaves.

I admire the color of the tea liqueur. It is a rich copper color, deepening at its center and becoming a light blush gold on the periphery. As I bring the first of three cups to my lips, I savor the multi-layered aromas the tea gives off. Florals like gardenias, marigolds and rose. Light incense. Toasted biscuit. As I take the first sip, I draw back it over the back of my mouth and into my cheeks, both cooling the tea and atomizing the liquid, enabling a greater sensory experience. I’ve made the tea strong. The flavors of dried apricots, marigold, rose water, and toasted walnut are pronounced. As my mouth empties, lingering flavors of cacao nibs, sweet caramel and baked apple remain.

I pause to let these flavors play out and fade before I move on to the second and third cup. Each time I sip I use the moment to meditate and observe. To open my mind rather than fixate on a particular aspect of the tea or of the time and space that I’ve found myself within. As I continue to brew the tea, steeping after steeping, I practice this mindset. I use the moment to explore the tea and it’s flavors, as I also use the moment to explore my mind and the many sensations that arise.

As I’ve said before, these are challenging times. We might find ourselves up against some very intense situations. Ourselves, as well as our friends and family may be affected by the many upheavals that have come. How to give space to each so that we can explore these moments together and individually is important to foster true learning and awakening. This is core to being compassionate. How we can practice this in our own practice of tea can be a beautiful first step.

Vietnamese Thiền Buddhist monk, peace activist, and founder of the Plum Village Tradition Thích Nhất Hạnh discusses this form of practice in his 2002 book “Anger”. What he describes as “knots of anger” are “blocks of pain, anger, and frustration“. Over time, these knots can tie us up and obstruct our freedom to learn, to be open-minded, and be able to communicate with others and ourselves. If we practice aggression towards others or ourselves, these becomes trained. Like brewing an excellent cup of tea, we can become excellent at being angry, at harming others, at denying their freedoms and our own.

However, one can practice the opposite. One can practice love, compassion and empathy. Much like how one brews tea, changing one’s habitual mind takes patience, presence, observation. It requires breathing and practicing a capacity of awareness that includes listening to both body and mind, material and environment. In the same way we can learn from the tea that we’ve over-steeped, we can learn from our anger, our sadness, and our frustration. We can still love a bitter brew in the same way we can still love ourselves and others despite how we fee about them or they about us. This needn’t become a block to our freedom. Rather, it can become the way forward.

As I finish the final cup of tea, I begin the processes of cleaning the equipage. The cups are cleansed once again and placed together.

So, too, are the wooden trivets they sat upon.

The tea leaves are pulled from the teapot.

For a brief moment, I appreciate the teapot, the small Sī Tíng Hú. The shape, volume, clay, and firing, all honed and practiced by the craftsperson who created it to be a tool to best brew tea.

Next I turn my attention to examine the tea leaves. Each leaf tells a story. Every color of dark emerald green, russet and red speak to the journey that they’ve endured.

Now, in their unfurling, they sit as a knot untied. As a result of the water’s heat, of time elapsed, of attention given. They’ve become a grip loosened. A moment explored. A heart opened.

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Filed under Ceramics, China, Education, Meditation, Oolong, Tea, Tea Tasting

Waterfall

With the coming of July, Summer’s heat becomes a constant feature, one that practitioners of tea have to devise inventive ways to overcome. In the traditional lunar calendar, July 7th heralds 小暑 shōsho, “minor heat”, the moment when the first hot winds begin to blow and the experience of heat becomes unavoidable. The only respite from this seems to be water.

Water plays an important role in tea. The term 茶の湯 chanoyu refers less to tea and more to the water for tea. “Chanoyu” literally means “hot water for tea”. In his 茶經 Chá Jīng (760-762), the 唐 Táng period (618-907) tea practitioner 陸羽 Lù Yǔ (733-803) wrote about the flavor qualities, grading, procurement and manipulation of water more than he did about tea.

Water, too, plays a key role in the world of the tea gathering. Water is ideally to be drawn at the hour of the Tiger (3:00-5:00 am), as it is believed to have the most vitality at this time. Likewise, water is sprinkled on the 露地 roji path to enliven and refresh the surroundings before the guests’ arrival. Water, too, is used to purify the hands and mouth before entering the 茶室 chashitsu, drawn from the 蹲踞 tsukubai. Water is used to create harmony, evinced by the 水指 mizusashi which moves closer to the guests the hotter the seasons become, shielding them from the heat of the 風炉 furo and acting as a refreshing visual cue to the mind. Water is able to convey this feeling. Water conveys more than this.

Water conveys history, it conveys memory. Much of the water we drink contains trace materials that are billions of years old. If water could speak, it would tell tales of the many life forms that sprang from it, the many civilizations that were nourished by it, of ships packed with the souls of the enslaved riding upon it, of the poisons poured into it, and of the tears of millions who are constantly denied it. It is our past and determines our future. You can chose to ignore this yet water is, literally, part of you. It is part of all of us.

The seventh day of the seventh month carries an additional meaning. In Japan, 七夕 Tanabata is observed, celebrating the meeting of lovers, the deities Orihime and Hikoboshi (represented by the stars Vega and Altair respectively), as they cross the Milky Way, a celestial waterway. Wishes are written on strips of paper (短冊 tanzaku) and tied to boughs of bamboo. The sound of these rustling in the wind create a fluttering akin to a babbling brook.

In the tearoom, a dew-covered leaf (often that of a mulberry) is used as a lid for the mizusashi. The site of this seems to invite the freshness of nature into the tea space, assuaging the heat of the day.

In the morning, just as the sun creeps over the horizon, I prepare my own 葉蓋点前 habuta-temae. I fill my old iron kettle with cool water and set it to slowly come to a boil. I fill a tall, slender glass mizusashi. Atop this I place a broad mulberry leaf that I had picked from a large mulberry tree near my New York City apartment, its surface slick with fresh water.

Bright green 抹茶 matcha is sifted into a black lacquer 棗 natsume. A shallow teabowl is cleansed. So too are the 茶筅 chasen and 茶巾 chakin. A 茶杓 chashaku is selected. Just before the water in the 茶釜 chagama boils, I light incense and take a moment to meditate. The scent of sandalwood rises and fades. The sound of boiling water fills the space of the tearoom.

The teabowl, a 青白茶碗 qīngbái cháwǎn from the 宋 Sòng period (960-1279), is set between the furo and the glass mizusashi.

The natsume is placed before it. Each ware is then cleansed. The lacquer is purified by the silk of my 袱紗 fukusa. So too is the speckled bamboo of the chashaku, the 胡麻竹 goma-dake pattern resembling minute raindrops.

I lift the 柄杓 hishaku from a hammered silver 蓋置 futaoki and dip it into the water for the chagama.

I draw forth a dipper’s worth of hot water, pouring it into the shallow teabowl.

Thin networks of steam rises from the chawan as I press the thin tines of the chasen into the pool. Once cleansed, the chasen is returned beside the black lacquer natsume, beads of water still clinging to the blades of bamboo.

Tea is scooped and placed into the center of the pale blue-green teabowl. The curved scoop of the chashaku is lightly tapped against the inner rim, producing a clear, bell-like sound.

With my right hand, I take hold of the stem of the mulberry leaf, lifting it off the glass mizusashi. From right hand to left, I fold the leaf gently and place it into the large 建水 kensui beside me.

Cool water is drawn from the mizusashi and poured into the chagama, arresting the rolling boil, silencing the kettle and the tea space. A full ladle is pulled from the steaming mouth of the cauldron and brought above the chawan.

Only half is poured into the teabowl. The other half is returned to the kama. This action calls to mind 曹洞 Sōtō Zen teacher 鈴木 俊隆 Suzuki Shunryū’s (1904-1971) discussion of the order’s founder, 道元禅師 Dōgen Zenji (1200-1253), and 半杓橋 Hanshaku-kyō at 永平寺 Eiheiji. In the story, Dōgen would cross the bridge leading to the temple of Eiheiji and draw forth a dipper-full of water to cleanse himself, returning half of the dipper’s worth of water back to the river.

To understand why Dōgen did this is quite difficult. As a means of economy or of efficiency it makes no sense. However, as Dōgen understood the river and felt at one with the river, his action, to use half a ladle of water and pour back the other half (半杓 hanshaku, “half-ladle”), was a sign of respect for the water. In Zen, this is a reflection of one’s “essence of mind” or “big mind”. An understanding of one’s self intrinsically linked to everything in the universe.

In the realm of tea, the half-ladle of water is a form of modulation. On a hot day, I use slightly more water. The result is a thinner tea. The swift motion of the chasen and the shallow draft of the teabowl will eventually cool the water down. The end result is a refreshing bowl of tea. If I take care to understand the moment at hand and the guests in the tearoom, I will understand what each moment needs. With time and practice and attention, this motion becomes second nature. I convey this. Water conveys this.

Within seconds of whisking, the matcha is whisked into a light foam. The bright green of the tea stands against the light celadon color of the antique qīngbái bowl. The bowl sits atop the wave-like pattern embedded in the wooden floorboards of my apartment. The expansive surface is cool and relaxed.

Sunlight filters through window shades. It pools in the center of the chawan. It collects in the prism of the glass mizusashi. Caught in the bubble that rise and churn in the chagama. Caught in the bubbles that cling to the side of the fresh water bucket’s translucent walls.

I stare downward into the foamy surface of the tea, mounding inside the concave of the shallow teabowl. The clean scent of 宇治 Uji tea. The scent born from earth, from sunlight, from the water that is found in the mountains. The water that I’ve used, sourced from the mountains of New York state, revive these flavors. One water meets another, converge and harmonize.

As I lift the bowl, the heat of the day creeps into the tearoom. Hot, heavy air laden with moisture, synonymous with Summer in New York City. I sip the tea and, despite the warmth of the liquid, my body feels revived. For a moment I enjoy looking upon the final dregs which cling to the bowl’s interior.

I rinse the bowl with water pulled from the chagama and turn the bowl over to inspect the 高台 kōdai. Patches of exposed rough clay show through the thin, green-blue glaze. Much of this teabowl’s life was spent sitting at the bottom of a river. For many hundreds of years it was protected by the water, kept away from the destructive forces of humanity. As wars tore civilizations apart, it remained below the surface, re-emerging once again to live out its current life as a teabowl once more.

I pour cool water in the bowl and cleanse the whisk. I remove the remaining matcha powder from the chashaku.

Bowl and natsume are placed side-by-side.

Each item appears slick with water. Before return to my busy day, I arrange a small solitary 拝見 haiken.

The natsume is cleansed once again and placed upon an old 香盤 kōban.

The chashaku is placed beside it. Swirling wood grains create a whirlpool around each item.

Like water pushing off rocks below a mighty waterfall. Each wave appears separate. Each an individual surge. A single body and mind. An event and action. Yet each motion is part of a single vast expanse. A river that runs to an ocean. An accumulation of memories, of pain, of trauma. Of joys, of celebrations, of boundless lovers finding one another, of beings awakening.

All of this is conveyed by water, held by it, harmonized by it. To assuage the heat of Summer. To return us to our most essential self. This, too, is refreshing.

 

****

Given how essential water is to tea, and how precious it is for life, below are links to resources that offer ways to become active in your own community. Each link gives an opportunity to learn more about water rights, clean water protection, the link between access to clean water and human rights, and ways you can become more actively engaged in ensuring that clean water won’t become a thing of the past.

Waterkeeper Alliance

https://waterkeeper.org/news/issues/covid-19/

Native American Rights Fund – Protect Tribal Natural Resources

https://www.narf.org/our-work/protection-tribal-natural-resources/

No More Deaths

https://nomoredeaths.org/en/

People’s Water Board Coalition

https://www.peopleswaterboard.org

Hydrate Detroit

https://www.hydratedetroit.org

The Human Utility – Detroit Water Project

https://detroitwaterproject.org

Navajo Water Project

https://www.navajowaterproject.org

Flint Rising

https://flintrising.com

Clean Water Advocacy Center

https://www.cwacenter.org/home-1

Publications on Race and Water Justice

(From Household Water Insecurity Experiences (HWISE) – Research Coordination Network (RCN))

https://hwise-rcn.org

Balazs, C. L., & Ray, I. (2014). The Drinking Water Disparities Framework: On the Origins and Persistence of Inequities in Exposure. American Journal of Public Health, 104(4), 603–611. https://doi.org/10.2105/AJPH.2013.301664  

Ahmad, K., Erqou, S., Shah, N., Nazir, U., Morrison, A., Choudhary, G., & Wu, W.-C. (2020). Association of Poor Housing Conditions with COVID-19 Incidence and Mortality Across US Counties. MedRxiv, 2020.05.28.20116087. https://doi.org/10.1101/2020.05.28.20116087 

Butts, R., & Gasteyer, S. (2011). ENVIRONMENTAL REVIEWS & CASE STUDIES: More Cost per Drop: Water Rates, Structural Inequality, and Race in the United States—The Case of Michigan. Environmental Practice, 13(4), 386–395. https://doi.org/10.1017/S1466046611000391 

Clonch, A. (2019). Annexation and Water Utility Extensions in Wake County, NC: The Role of Race, Income, and Other Demographic Characteristics. https://doi.org/10.17615/2qb3-5f55  

Deitz, S., & Meehan, K. (2019). Plumbing Poverty: Mapping Hot Spots of Racial and Geographic Inequality in U.S. Household Water Insecurity. Annals of the American Association of Geographers, 109(4), 1092–1109. https://doi.org/10.1080/24694452.2018.1530587  

Dyer, O. (2020). Covid-19: Black people and other minorities are hardest hit in US. BMJ, 369. https://doi.org/10.1136/bmj.m1483 

Gasteyer, S. P., Lai, J., Tucker, B., Carrera, J., & Moss, J. (2016). BASICS INEQUALITY: Race and Access to Complete Plumbing Facilities in the United States. Du Bois Review: Social Science Research on Race, 13(2), 305–325. https://doi.org/10.1017/S1742058X16000242  

Hyde, K. (2020a). Residential Water Quality and the Spread of COVID-19 in the United States (SSRN Scholarly Paper ID 3572341). Social Science Research Network. https://doi.org/10.2139/ssrn.3572341 

Hyde, K. (2020b). Residential Water Quality and the Spread of COVID-19 in the United States (SSRN Scholarly Paper ID 3572341). Social Science Research Network. https://doi.org/10.2139/ssrn.3572341 

Muhammad, M., De Loney, E. H., Brooks, C. L., Assari, S., Robinson, D., & Caldwell, C. H. (n.d.). “I think that’s all a lie…I think It’s genocide”: Applying a Critical Race Praxis to Youth Perceptions of Flint Water Contamination. Ethnicity & Disease, 28(Suppl 1), 241–246. https://doi.org/10.18865/ed.28.S1.241 

Pulido, L. (1996). Environmentalism and economic justice: Two Chicano struggles in the Southwest. University of Arizona Press.

Pulido, L. (2000). Rethinking environmental racism: White privilege and urban development in Southern California. Annals of the Association of American Geographers, 90(1), 12–40.

Pulido, L. (2015). Geographies of race and ethnicity 1: White supremacy vs white privilege in environmental racism research. Progress in Human Geography, 39(6), 809–817.

Pulido, L. (2016). Flint, environmental racism, and racial capitalism. Taylor & Francis.

Pulido, L. (2017). Geographies of race and ethnicity II: Environmental racism, racial capitalism and state-sanctioned violence. Progress in Human Geography, 41(4), 524–533.

Ranganathan, M. (2016). Thinking with Flint: Racial liberalism and the roots of an American water tragedy. Capitalism Nature Socialism, 27(3), 17–33.

Ranganathan, M. (2019). Empire’s infrastructures: Racial finance capitalism and liberal necropolitics. Urban Geography, 1–5.

Ranganathan, M., & Balazs, C. (2015). Water marginalization at the urban fringe: Environmental justice and urban political ecology across the North–South divide. Urban Geography, 36(3), 403–423.

Rodriguez-Lonebear, D., Barceló, N. E., Akee, R., & Carroll, S. R. (2020). American Indian Reservations and COVID-19: Correlates of Early Infection Rates in the Pandemic. Journal of Public Health Management and Practice, 26(4), 371–377. https://doi.org/10.1097/PHH.0000000000001206 

Rosinger, A. Y., & Young, S. L. (2020). In-home tap water consumption trends changed among US children, but not adults, between 2007 and 2016. Water Resources Research, n/a(n/a), e2020WR027657. https://doi.org/10.1029/2020WR027657

Stillo, F., & MacDonald Gibson, J. (2016). Exposure to Contaminated Drinking Water and Health Disparities in North Carolina. American Journal of Public Health, 107(1), 180–185. https://doi.org/10.2105/AJPH.2016.303482 

Stillo, F., M.S.P.H., & Gibson, J. M., PhD. (2018). Racial disparities in access to municipal water supplies in the american south: Impacts on children’s health. International Public Health Journal, 10(3), 309-323

Switzer, D., & Teodoro, M. P. (2018). Class, Race, Ethnicity, and Justice in Safe Drinking Water Compliance*. Social Science Quarterly, 99(2), 524–535. https://doi.org/10.1111/ssqu.12397  

Takahashi, B., Adams, E. A., & Nissen, J. (2020). The Flint water crisis: Local reporting, community attachment, and environmental justice. Local Environment, 25(5), 365–380. https://doi.org/10.1080/13549839.2020.1747415

Troesken, W. (2001). RACE, DISEASE, AND THE PROVISION OF WATER IN AMERICAN CITIES, 1889–1921. The Journal of Economic History, 61(3), 750–776. https://doi.org/10.1017/S0022050701030066  

Troesken, W. (2002). THE LIMITS OF JIM CROW: RACE AND THE PROVISION OF WATER AND SEWERAGE SERVICES IN AMERICAN CITIES, 1880–1925. The Journal of Economic History, 62(3), 734–772. https://doi.org/10.1017/S0022050702001067  

Troesken, W. (2004). Water, Race, and Disease. MIT Press.

VanDerslice, J. (2011). Drinking Water Infrastructure and Environmental Disparities: Evidence and Methodological Considerations. American Journal of Public Health, 101(S1), S109–S114. https://doi.org/10.2105/AJPH.2011.300189 

Whitford, A. B., Smith, H., & Mandawat, A. (2010). Disparities in access to clean water and sanitation: Institutional causes. Water Policy, 12(S1), 155–176. https://doi.org/10.2166/wp.2010.019 

Wilson, S. M., Heaney, C. D., & Wilson, O. (2010). Governance Structures and the Lack of Basic Amenities: Can Community Engagement Be Effectively Used to Address Environmental Injustice in Underserved Black Communities? Environmental Justice, 3(4), 125–133. https://doi.org/10.1089/env.2010.0014 

Wutich, A., Budds, J., Eichelberger, L., Geere, J., M. Harris, L., A. Horney, J., Jepson, W., Norman, E., O’Reilly, K., Pearson, A. L., H. Shah, S., Shinn, J., Simpson, K., Staddon, C., Stoler, J., Teodoro, M. P., & L. Young, S. (2017). Advancing methods for research on household water insecurity: Studying entitlements and capabilities, socio-cultural dynamics, and political processes, institutions and governance. Water Security, 2, 1–10. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.wasec.2017.09.001 

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Filed under Ceramics, Education, Green Tea, History, Japan, Matcha, Meditation, Tea

Sitting with Discomfort

Dear Beloved Blog Readers,

What I am writing to you today is meant to challenge you. Indeed, every post I write is meant to challenge you. The message in this post might connect with you, it might not. This post might not even reach you. You might not be able to get past the first paragraph without feeling uncomfortable. That’s the point.

In the almost twenty years of practicing tea (茶の湯 chanoyu, 功夫茶 gōng fū chá, the Korean Way of tea), I’ve come to see tea as a great source of comfort. For me, it provides a calm “home base”, a return to center, and a way to settle the mind. For years, now, I’ve written about this quality of tea, the special place it creates to practice meditation, and a space where I can explore culture and history. Tea and comfort have seemed very close together; at times, one. 

But then there is the reality of practicing tea. You use boiling water and, occasionally, you get burned. You over-steep tea and it becomes bitter. You make a mess. You break a piece of ceramic. This is uncomfortable, but you get over it, you learn from it, you move on. The comfort returns.

Chanoyu is uncomfortable. The upright posture. The sitting in the formal 正座 seiza position. The sometimes forced silence and oftentimes scripted dialogue. The formalism. The repetition of it all. It is uncomfortable, but, again, to get good at it, to overcome and understand this discomfort, one must practice it. One must master it. It will take your lifetime to do this, and it will take lifetimes to further develop and deepen this practice until it evolves into a rich tea culture. 

But there is another discomfort that we need to sit with in order to understand it. We need to sit with racism. Racism in tea and racism in the world at large. 

As I’m writing this, I’m sitting in my New York City apartment. I have ample access to food, to running water, to resources. It’s Summer and the AC is on. A kettle is quietly boiling and I’m getting ready to prepare a bowl of tea. It’s comfortable. 

As a white person in America, I’ve come to this place largely through privilege given to me and maintained by a system that enables, empowers, engenders, and encourages white supremacy. It’s part of the history of this nation and it’s woven into the very fabric of this country, written into the very documents upon which it was founded. This foundation was, and still is, based on maintaining power for white people. Comfort for white people.

While this history was and still is based around ensuring the comfort of white people, the acknowledgment of this is (and this will be the understatement of all understatements) uncomfortable. It should be uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable. Indeed, if you are not uncomfortable with this truth, if you are not ashamed by it, embarrassed by it, or enraged by it, I encourage you to sit more with it, examine it, see what it enables. See what it allows a certain section of humanity, a certain class of people, to get away with. See what it has done in the past and what it continues to do. Are you still comfortable?

While this does not sound like the writing of a tea person, I assure you, it is.

When one thinks of tea (particularly from a Western, white perspective), one thinks of the formal English afternoon tea, of the “exotic Orient”, of old and ancient ways, of plantations and magic elixirs. These are commonly celebrated images and often part of the marketing of tea. By and large, these myths were created by whites, to entice a white audience. This may explain why outside of the countries of their origin, tea and traditional tea culture is greatly consumed by white people. Yet, whether you acknowledge it or not, these myths are racist constructs; with the sole purpose of creating imbalances in power, authority, authenticity, agency, voice, and claim over another people and another people’s culture. 

As Edward W. Said (1935-2003) posed in his 1978 work Orientalism, images such as these were created to normalize and amplify the legitimacy of Western hegemony and to cast those outside of this sphere as the “other”. The cultures of Asia, of Africa, of the Middle East were cast in a different light than their Western counterparts. They were mystified, exoticized, rarified, and set in opposition to the self-proclaimed logic of the Western cultures and world-views. In this light, tea’s historical claim as a medicine is thrown into a form of epistemological conflict between the “scientific” medicine of the West and the thousands of years old medicinal practices of China. The notion that Western science has to validate Chinese medicine before it is deemed “safe” is part of this. This is racist.

This is echoed in the way tea and tea practices are written about; still largely cast in a poetic or spiritual or mystical light. While this has historically been part of tea and tea literature (from writers, poets and tea practitioners like 陸羽 LùYǔ to 太田垣 蓮月 Ōtagaki Rengetsu), it certainly is not its totality. One should not necessarily be preoccupied by this approach. One should not ignore the science of tea. The logic of tea. The real world and human part of tea. Tea is a plant, a product, a trade good, an object that has been fought over, smuggled, loved and loathed. It has a history and it has specific locales and cultures from which it arose.

This reality is most apparent in the trade of tea. Historically (and still to this day), the production of tea was a back-breaking work, requiring skill and knowledge gained over generations to produce high quality tea. Like anything, tea was and is not immune to the influences of oppression and racism. Today, the majority of the world’s tea comes from India, from farms that still practice and uphold methods developed during India’s colonization by the British. Still to this day, throughout the thousands of plantations that supply India’s tea industry, of which employee over three million workers, flagrant violations of domestic law and basic human rights continues to be the norm. 

In a 2014 report conducted by the Columbia Law School Human Rights Institute, researchers found that plantations continue to keep their workers in cramped, dangerous living conditions, with little access to fresh water and basic sanitation. There is little to no access to medical care. Labor laws are ignored, unions are either broken, ignored, or used against the needs of the workers they represent. Workers are often bound to the service of the plantations, either through economic limitations placed upon them by the plantations or through the controls over housing offered by the plantations. Remember this when you comfortably sit down to your cup of Assam. Are you still comfortable?

Why this tone all of a sudden? Where did the niceties about tea go from what was typically a blog about the peaceful, relaxing qualities of tea? Before and certainly since the deaths of Breonna Taylor, George Floyd, Elijah McClain, and countless others who have galvanized the Black Lives Matter movement across America and the world, I’ve been trying to come to terms with this. For my lifetime, and perhaps yours too, I’ve been sitting with this discomfort, of seeing black people, indigenous people, people of color, lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, queer, intersex people silenced, minimized, denied, and killed. It’s never felt comfortable. It’s always felt terrible. Yet, for much of my life, I’ve been told that I alone was unable to change this or affect this. I, as with many white folks, recognized this pain, acknowledged it, yet didn’t know what to do with it.

Recently, something changed. Rather than get loud, get angry, get provoked (which, of course I also do), I just sat. I meditated. It was uncomfortable. Sitting, meditating, making tea. It felt stupid (and it still does). Would this make a difference?

In her 2018 book How to Be Less Stupid About Race: On Racism, White Supremacy, and the Racial Divide, Dr. Crystal Marie Fleming gives ten action items to confront one’s own relationship with racism (I’ve included all ten below this post). In the first point, she states “Relinquish magical thinking.” By this she means that there is no quick fix to ending racism, no magic wand will make it disappear, and no single action will eradicate it. Instead, it takes constant work. Constant practice. 

She states:

Racial oppression is so intrinsically violent, so ghastly and inhumane, that facing it in its full, catastrophic splendor is almost more than the mind can handle. And so, given that it’s human nature to avoid what’s unpleasant, many minds do not handle it at all. And then there are those who cling to the fantasy that racism can be easily eradicated simply because they’ve never studied it—and so they are unfamiliar with the scope of its historical, economic, psychological, sociological, environmental, and health dynamics.

If you want to pursue the cause of social justice, give up the need for quick fixes and gird your loins for a long struggle.

Upon reading this, something clicked. For some reason “gird your loins” instantly reminded me of the long, protracted, formal and mindful sitting in seiza. How I’ve been sitting, now, for years in seiza, each time as I prepare a bowl of tea. Similarly, the notion of something only arising from investigation, through outward study and self-study was akin to tea. It is also akin to meditation.

I was reminded of a quote by theologian and founder of the 曹洞宗 Sōtō-shū order of Zen 道元禅師 Dōgen Zenji (1200-1253): 

To study the Buddha way is to study the self. To study the self is to forget the self. To forget the self is to be actualized by myriad things. When actualized by myriad things, your body and mind as well as the bodies and minds of others drop away. No trace of realization remains, and this no-trace continues endlessly.

In their statements, both Dr. Fleming and Dōgen ask their audience to practice diligently, to honestly interrogate the self and the structural machinations that formed the basis of one’s egoic mind, and dismantle that which they take for granted, whether this be the “stories we tell ourselves” or the status quo. Neither Dr. Fleming nor Dōgen deny that it will take a lifetime of practice, strength and diligence. Both acknowledge that it will be mentally uncomfortable and physically uncomfortable. Yet, both are clearly guided by wanting to point their audience to greater enlightenment.

To become an enlightened being and to dismantle racism both within ourselves and in our communities, there are no quick fixes. We’re in this not for the sprint but for the marathon. As white people who are trying to be a better white allies, we’re going to have to continue to sit in discomfort. We’re going to have to be brutally honest, both with ourselves, our privilege, with the world around us. We’re going to have to commit to change, to be accountable, and to be comfortable with the fact that despite all that we might learn about racism, all that we know about racism, that we are not the experts on this. We’re going to have to be quiet. We’re going to have to listen and learn and recognize that the little sensation to want to always speak, to always want to have the “right answer” or the “right solution” to a problem (including racism) comes from the desire for comfort, for assurance, for the status quo. It come from the ego, one nurtured by a society founded on the tenets of white supremacy. 

What tea has taught me in the many years of my life practicing it is that one must first learn to be silent in order to truly listen. In order to dismantle systemic institutionalized racism, as a white person I will need to learn how to listen to those who have, for their lifetimes, studied it, fought against it, know it and experience it firsthand. I cannot raise my voice but, instead, work to amplify theirs. In the same way that I cannot claim to be an expert in tea, I cannot ever become an expert in dismantling racism. I can, however, be a good student in this and work hard to learn from my teachers.

New York City-based writer, blogger, novelist, activist, critical thinker, and creator-curator of the social justice social media community Son of Baldwin, Robert Jones Jr states “We can disagree and still love each other unless your disagreement is rooted in my oppression and denial of my humanity and right to exist.” As compassion and empathy is at the core of dismantling racism, it, too, is at the heart of the spirit of tea. To make someone a bowl or cup of tea is to recognize their humanity. This is a powerful gesture and, when studied, can become a powerful meditation and practice.

In his lifetime of practicing chanoyu, the former 家元 iemoto of the 裏千家 Urasenke school of tea, 十五代千宗室 Sen Sōshitsu XV has proclaimed his mission of making tea as “peace through a bowl of tea.” Central to this belief is that so long as you can have two sworn enemies sit together and share a bowl of tea, they would become friends; through this gesture peace could be made. In chanoyu, we spend considerable amount of time to practice this and, eventually, master this. This is exemplified by the way tea is taught. Before one learns how to serve a bowl of tea, one learns how to be a guest. We do this as a practice in compassion, so we know what it is like to be on the receiving end, to recognize the humanity of each participant, and to know their discomfort and to know how to act when this arises. As a result, the relationship between host and guest, between comfort and discomfort, becomes a practice in compassion which, in turn, becomes a fulcrum of action.

In practicing tea, we are taught that we are not helpless and that we can reshape the world out of compassion. Each action in tea reflects this. We are taught how to source the right water to make sure that its flavor will harmonize with the tea. We learn how to prepare the garden path for the arrival of the guest. We are shown how to lay the charcoal so that it warms the water to the right level of heat, dependent on the time of day and time of year. We are made aware of the many subtle changes that happen in the tearoom in accordance to the comfort of our guests. We learn how to be patient and sit with our discomfort as we learn from our teachers. All of this is done diligently so that when it comes our turn to act, we can finally make a bowl of tea for someone, so that host and guest can truly connect in equanimity.

In the same way, we cannot adopt a stance of hopelessness against racism. In the same way we actively practice compassion in tea, we need to actively learn about and practice anti-racism. We need to critically assess our racial socialization and recognize the dynamics it has created (and still creates). We have to meditate and sit with this, actively. To my white blog readers, we need to make a proactive decision to do this work and stop relying on BIPOC and LGBTQI people to carry this burden. We all need to be active in critically engaging with and dismantling oppression. We all need to be good students in this practice.

As I’ve been writing all of this, I’ve been preparing a bowl of 濃茶 koicha. The manner in which I’ve been preparing it is a formal style known as 唐物点前 karamono temae. As per its namesake, the procedure of making tea in this manner involves wares that were once native to ancient China (唐物 “karamono” literally translates to “Táng objects”). While the procedure of karamono is largely the invention of creative tea masters of the chanoyu tradition, the use of foreign wares such as a Chinese or Chinese-styled 茶入 chaire (featured is a 肩衝茶入 katatsuki chaire or “shouldered” tea container) reflects a sign of deep respect of one culture for another.

Looking deeper into the 取り合わせ toriawase of the setting, one finds that the chaire is protected in a silk 仕服 shifuku. The brocade it is made of is emblazoned with images of readers upon the Silk Road, a motif common during the Táng period (618-907), stylistically linked to designs found in Central Asian and Middle Eastern tapestries and textiles. 

The formal 茶杓 chashaku, made of carved cedar, is in a form that would have originally been made of carved ivory or hand-shaped gold or silver, the origins of which harken back to tea scoops of the Sòng period (960-1279).

The 茶碗 chawan is a 黒楽茶碗 kuro-Raku chawan by famed ceramicist 佐々木松楽 Sasaki Shōraku III. The form of this bowl originates from teabowls first made by 長次郎 Tanaka Chōjirō, himself, a ceramicist of Korean descent.

Beyond the notion of toriawase being a concept in which objects are chosen and combined with care, it, too, is an act of compassion and a recognition of the person for whom you are preparing a bowl of tea. Each object is brought together to convey through the interrelation of subtle visual cues a message specific to the invited audience, so that they may awaken to the moment within the tea gathering. For you, my beloved blog reader, I’ve chosen these objects to convey a special message. The karamono, and the heightened level of respect each object is given during its specific temae. The mixing of cultures through time and space. The context within which we are sitting. A meditation on discomfort with the realities of the world, with our place in it, and with our responsibilities to face and change them. As tea is about unlearning old practices and misconceptions in order to truly learn, one must do the same with racism and hate.

While enjoying the last dregs of koicha, the final haiken, the objects and their interwoven histories, the discomfort of where I am and where we are collectively as a society doesn’t go away. Even as I bring teawares together from different cultures, respectfully using them, employing them to deepen my meditative practice, I do this not to quiet the mind but to study it. Practicing tea and sitting in discomfort. Practicing tea and facing down the long and twisted history of racism in this country and in this world. If you haven’t begun sitting, sit now. Sit now, listen and learn. Are you still comfortable?

 

****

 

Additional Readings & Resources

As noted, below are resources on anti-racism, including Dr. Crystal Marie Fleming’s ten action items from her book “How to be Less Stupid About Race”, published by Beacon Press.

 

1. RELINQUISH MAGICAL THINKING.

2. CRITICALLY ASSESS YOUR RACIAL SOCIALIZATION.

3. START OR JOIN AN ANTIRACIST STUDY GROUP AND SHARE WHAT YOU LEARN ABOUT SYSTEMIC RACISM.

4. EMPOWER YOUNG PEOPLE TO UNDERSTAND SYSTEMIC RACISM.

5. RECOGNIZE AND REJECT FALSE EQUIVALENCIES.

6. DISRUPT RACIST PRACTICES. GET COMFORTABLE CALLING SHIT OUT.

7. GET ORGANIZED! SUPPORT THE WORK OF ANTIRACIST ORGANIZATIONS, EDUCATORS, AND ACTIVISTS.

8. AMPLIFY THE VOICES OF BLACK WOMEN, INDIGENOUS WOMEN, AND’ WOMEN OF COLOR.

9. SHIFT RESOURCES TO MARGINALIZED PEOPLE.

10. CHOOSE AN AREA OF IMPACT THAT LEVERAGES YOUR UNIQUE TALENTS.

 

Writers & Authors

Sara Ahmed, Maya Angelou, Kimberlé Crenshaw, Rokhaya Diallo, Angela Davis, Mona Eltahawy, Jacqueline Goldsby, Lorraine Hansberry, Audre Lorde, Janet Mock, Toni Morrison, Ijeoma Oluo, Shailja Patel, Issa Rae, Isabel Wilkerson

 

Articles & Online Resources

Anti-Racism Resource Collection

http://www.resourcesharingproject.org/anti-racism-resource-collection

 

White People 4 Black Lives

https://www.awarela.org/white-people-4-black-lives

 

“A Toolkit for White People” – Black Lives Matter

https://blacklivesmatter.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/10/Toolkit-WhitePpl-Trayvon.pdf

 

“Anti-racism Resources to Become a Better Ally” – JDSUPRA

https://www.jdsupra.com/legalnews/anti-racism-resources-to-become-a-36289/

 

Anti-Racist Resources from Greater Good

https://greatergood.berkeley.edu/article/item/antiracist_resources_from_greater_good

 

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Filed under Ceramics, China, Education, Green Tea, History, Japan, Korea, Matcha, Meditation, Tea

In One Month’s Time: Everything’s Changed. Everything Remains the Same.

With a blink of the eye, the month of May has come to a close. At its beginning, Spring was in its last days of full glory. Blossoms blooming and bending every bough. Fresh shoots of grass pushing up through rich dark soil. The mornings keeping cool. Fresh breezes blowing.

In four weeks’ time, Summer has come. The myriad of flowers that once hung on trees now blow about as dried-out bodies on the streets, collecting in corners, dedicated and rotting. In their place flap large, billowing leaves of deep green, waving in the wind like huge unfurled sails atop masts of sailing ships.

During this month, the occasional rain storm has come and gone, leaving this new verdant world bedecked in a crystalline veneer of shimmering droplets. In this new world that emerges, the silence of morning pervades and lingers throughout the remainder of the day. The booming voices of birds echo through the neighborhoods. The soft patting of leaves fluttering produces a mellow, rhythmic murmur.

In this new world that has arrived, inspiration is tempered by loss. Creativity presses up against destruction. A new world arrives as the old world dies all around it.

In the quiet of my tea room, I cannot escape this. The silence of this early Summer, the lack of cars on the street, the hush that comes over passers by, the bated breath. The cause of sickness that has gripped the world where one loses their ability to breathe. The sickness that grips this nation where one is choked to death. This, too, creeps into the space of my tea room.

A wide bowl and low-slung tea caddy greets me.

A green 水指 mizusashi with a lacquer lid stands side-by-side the summery bronze brazier. Etched in its clay, green-glaze pooling within the carved and combed pattern, is the motif of 縄簾 nawasudare, a twisted rope curtain rustling in the breeze. What would refresh me and my guest on a hot, windless day, seems to do little to placate a sense of burning restlessness in me.

As I sit for tea, I do not do so to pacify the mind. I do so merely to observe its motions.

I cleanse the wooden grain surface of the small 平棗 hira-natsume.

I check its interior to see that the low mound of tea remains undisturbed. With care, I place the container down in front of the mizusashi.

I purify the 茶杓 chashaku and place it upon the lid of the natsume. The skin of the bamboo marked by hundreds of black spots. 緑雨 ryokuu.

I lift the 茶筅 chasen and place it beside the natsume and chashaku. I lift a ladle’s worth of hot water from the 茶釜 chagama and pour it into the wide-rimmed Summer 茶碗 chawan. The sound of water splashing inside rings like a hollow bell.

The chasen is returned to the bowl. The bamboo tines open slowly. When the mind is focused, the heart opens. When one does something in service for another, the heart softens. I lightly whisk the chasen in the warm water and return it beside the natsume. Small beads of water still cling to the upright blades, slowly running down like held-back tears.

The teabowl is emptied and dried. The uneven glaze ripples across the circumference of its interior. It appears as a mighty mountain range surrounding the center, save for where one will eventually drink from, where the tea will climb up the side. An interrupted chain, breaking, building, abating to the crashing of the now like a wave upon the shore.

Nine rough spur-marks appear from the center where once another bowl had been stacked upon this one, each packed within the belly of a kiln, burned and born from the fire. How many countless beings had been destroyed in the passage? How many more have been broken in the service to others? By uncaring hands?

I lift the first of three scoops of green tea from the open natsume and place it in the bowl’s open center. Two more follow it.

A small mound is made and broken by the sigil of my school.

The remaining dust is tapped off and whatever still clings to the tip of the chashaku is carried over to sit upon the lid of the tea container.

Cool water is drawn from the deep green interior of the mizusashi and poured into the steaming mouth of the chagama. The hiss of the boiling kettle quiets as warm water is drawn forth and placed into the chawan. Bright green tea powder lifts upwards, floating on the surface, slowly becoming saturated by the water, and sinks.

I lift the chasen and slowly press it into the center of the pool of tea. With one hand I stabilize the bowl and begin to whisk, at first slowly, speeding up until it is a quick back and forth movement. My eyes focus on the chawan, on the water lapping against the inner edges of the bowl, on the mixing of the tea and hot water, on the size of the bubbles forming as the concoction turns into foam.

The mind focuses. The hand motions slow. The breath becomes more even and calm. One long out-breath. One long weight pressing down upon the chest. Exhale. Inhale. The joy of breath. The sadness that comes when one realizes how vital this is to life. How often individuals are robbed of this breath. Of this very moment they were given.

I offer up the bowl of tea to my partner. A simple gesture. A bowl for peace. A bowl for change. As a wordless lament.

Bubbles rise again from the iron chagama as the last of the tea is had. Small pools of foam still clinging to the interior of the chawan. The warmth of the tea still present. The heat still radiating from the clay of the teabowl until it slowly leaves the body. The flavor lingers. The scent wafting sweet like the blossom on a honeysuckle vine.

I draw forth a ladle of cool water from the mizusashi and pour it down into the center of the bowl. The last of the tea swirling around. Small granules of 抹茶 matcha sinking and rolling down to the lowest part of the concave form. Light shimmers and bends in the water.

Memories of a moment pass and bend with time. Distortion and a great forgetting can occur if we don’t steal moments away like this. If we don’t actively take back the time that is so eagerly pulled away from us by work, by leaders, by taxes, by expectations. Each moment, priceless and fleeting. As mundane as today. As special as Spring turning into Summer. A kind of magic. Inexplicable.

I use the whisk and cleanse the bowl once more. I and my partner inspect the rough-hewn 高台 kōdai hoping to learn something profound.

I wipe the remnants of tea powder of the chashaku. I arrange the wares inside the bowl once again, though their exact placement differs now.

The wooden natsume is placed beside the teabowl, side-by-side like two old friends. They may only meet once this year. This early Summer.

I decide for a small 拝見 haiken. Words don’t pass my lips. The objects assembled are just that, objects. This practice called 茶の湯 chanoyu. This Way called “tea”.

This dust we whisk into a bright, light foam. Will this change the world? Will this moment do anything to change the tide?

A wave crashes against the shore. A tiny rivulet presses through the mountain’s rock.

A tree expands in size throughout the course of a year. Dried-up blossoms rotting in the gutter. Large leaves billowing in the wind.

A subtle change. A mighty force to be reckoned with.

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Filed under Ceramics, Green Tea, Japan, Matcha, Meditation, Tea

Iris by the River’s Edge. Carp Leaping Up a Waterfall.

With the beginning of May, the heat of Summer seems to be growing day by day. As the glories of Spring have come and gone, blossoms are replaced by the deep greens of the forest and the occasional burst of color as flowers bloom by the river’s edge. The soft murmur of a creek or stream blends with the wind pushing through the trees, bringing a sense of coolness to the mind, even when temperatures are on the rise.

In Japan, early May is marked with the events of Golden Week (黄金週間 Ōgon Shūkan), reaching its climax on the fifth, with 菖蒲の節句 Shōbu no sekku, Iris festival. Also known as 重五 Chōgo (“Double Five”), 端午の節句 Tango no sekku (“Beginning of the Horse Month”), and こどもの日 Kodomo no Hi (“Children’s Day”), May 5th is packed with meaning, both in the profane world and in the nebulous world of nature and the supernatural.

Just as Summer begins to appear, people in ancient times would take measures to fortify themselves agains the heat, which also brought about plague, famine and the premature death of young children. In ancient China, sweet-flag (Acorus calamus), as well as mugwort, was hung under the waves of homes to purge evil spirits and avert fires. Similarly, in China, the fifth day of the fifth month is marked with the observation of 端午節 Duānwǔ jié, where it was believed that an offering of rice wrapped in reed or bamboo leaves to the river dragon would avert dangers that came with the arrival of the rainy season.

In Japan, the water iris (Iris ensata var. ensata) bloom during this period, which spring up like violet-colored arrow points. Their likeness to this article of martial spirit joins the often warrior-infused ethos that surrounds the precursor of Children’s Day, Boy’s Day. Imagery of arrows, samurai armor, and the refined warrior, thus often are abundant in Japan during this time.

As one’s eyes go from the river’s edge to the sky, fluttering multicolored carp-shaped banners can be seen, representing family members in a household. These, too, trace their origin to the dragons of ancient China, as it was believed that dragons originated from carp that swam up waterfalls. The notion of this determined fish to overcome great difficulties and become something greater, more noble than itself, is analogous to a child growing, studying, and cultivating the skills to become an adult, to beat all odds, to awaken to their true self.

As I sit for tea on this May 5th, I cannot help but to engage with this swirl of energies around me. Summer’s heat is finally here and I’ve begun to use the 風炉 furo to heat my 茶釜 chagama. So, too, have I begun to use lighter, wider teabowls. For today’s sitting in observance of Shōbu no sekku, I use a modest 井戸茶碗 Ido chawan, which has subtle hues of grey and purple.

For a tea container, I employ a small antique lacquered 小棗 konatsume, upon which is the playful design of 壺 tsubo in a warm gold.

As the kettle comes to a soft, roiling boil, I cleanse the small natsume. After running the 袱紗 fukusa over its glossy surface, I lift the lid, revealing a mound of bright green tea powder.

Placing this to the side, I begin to remove the other items, one by one, to cleanse and prepare for making a bowl of 薄茶 usucha.

The 茶杓 chashaku, as straight as an iris, is cleansed and placed atop the natsume. The skin of the bamboo conveys a murky landscape, akin the mists and clouds that surround a waterfall as it pours and torrents through a canyon.

The 茶筅 chasen is lifted and set beside the natsume.

The 柄杓 hishaku is lifted and held in the left hand.

From where it had rested, a 蓋置 futaoki made from a jade archer’s thumb ring, once a symbol of the military elite of 清 Qīng and, later, of scholars.

Water is drawn from the kettle and poured into the bowl. The chasen is dipped and whisked and returned to sit beside the natsume once again.

The bowl stands alone, slick with moisture, clean and fresh and refreshing to view. Small gusts of wind push through a space underneath the window of my tearoom and the coming heat of the day is assuaged for a moment.

I lift the chashaku from atop the natsume and bring it before me. I lift the natsume and remove its lid. I place the first of three scoops of 抹茶 matcha into the teabowl. The bright color contrasting against the soft greys and purples of the teabowl’s glaze.

Once all three have been placed in the center of the bowl, I mark the small heap with the sigil of my school and lightly tap the chashaku along the inner rim of the teabowl, removing any excess tea dust from the scoop. A soft ringing sound rises like a small bell.

I place the chashaku back atop the natsume, its tip coated in tea. Cool water is added from the 水指 mizusashi into the chagama and the sound of boiling ceases. The tiny world of my tearoom is silent and still. My mind focuses as I bring the ladle down towards the teabowl. A small gust of wind. A splash of water. The rhythmic motion and sounds of whisking tea.

I draw the chasen out from the bowl. A small peak of foam rises in the center of the chawan. A tiny mountain for the mind to climb. I lift the bowl before me. A solitary offering as I take a moment for myself to pause between work and life and the ongoing challenges of the world. The mind flutters like a flag in the wind. Like a carp leaping up a waterfall. Caught in these actions all day, we often don’t take moments like this to just return to simply sitting. Simply doing. Simply being.

As children, perhaps we unlearned this quality of life. For what? To become a warrior like mom and dad? A scholar, resting their head upon a stack of books? A poet, forced from their home into exile? The carp jumps out of the water. The iris springs from the river’s edge. Dragons are born and people awaken.

The bowl of tea vanishes as quickly as it was made. All that is left are the frothy dregs.

I turn the bowl in my hands and inspect its every imperfection. The bubbling glaze on its foot reminding me of who I am.

I cleanse the bowl, the chasen, and the chashaku once more.

I decide on a whim to enjoy a final 拝見 haiken by myself. The natsume is placed beside the chashaku on a tray of mulberry wood. Set against the swirling of the wooden grain, I lose myself in the little objects and the moment they helped to make possible.

A painting of tsubo playfully dance and roll across the lid of the tea container.

I open the lid to see the remnants of the tea inside. A concave carved-out represents this one meeting of myself with myself.

The chashaku, with its mountains and canyons, mists and waterfalls all made by some moisture that had once accumulated against the skin of a bamboo stalk now become the journey I have taken.

Leaping and fluttering, flapping and climbing.

My eyes glance over to the alcove. A scholar’s carp-shaped water-dropper sits in the 床間 tokonoma. This carp, too, will become a dragon.

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Filed under Ceramics, China, Education, Green Tea, History, Japan, Korea, Matcha, Meditation, Tea