In the muted light of early morning, I find myself setting a kettle within the warmth of an old 火鉢 hibachi in my meditation room. Finished with practicing the movements of 茶の湯 chanoyu (Japanese tea ceremony), I end my morning tea with an informal preparation of Korean 작설 jakseol (“sparrow’s tongue”), harvested last year in the mountains of Jirisan. With just a teapot and bowl, I use the last of the water from my morning practice to brew tea in the most casual of manner.
All I need is set before me.
Tea kept fresh in a small white ceramic 분청사기 buncheong-jagi tea container.
Upon opening it, a tiny world within is revealed.
A teascoop fashioned from a halved hollow of bamboo is used to measure out a portion of tea…
…and is tilted gently downward move the tea leaves into the teapot.
A moment is give. for the soft, sweet aroma of tea to be revealed as the small, curled tea leaves sit in the warmed ceramic pot.
Water is poured, giving just enough time to let the tea cool.
And, finally, tea is offered out into the empty teabowl.
Nothing is ever needed when there is just enough. The mind does not want nor does the heart desire. Just to sit, like the ease of morning light, can be all one requires.