Light emerges in the morning before the sun climbs over the mountain’s summit. Earth still cold from night, this is the best time to set out on the trail.
Between day and darkness, the forest feels foreboding. Where once I trusted myself, my mind now plays tricks on me in the shadows. Noises emitted from far corners echo through the knotted woods. Pathstones, once my guide, now confuse me, making me doubt the way. Steps fall shorter than they did before, second-guessing as I stumble and grope in the low soft dim of the swiftly approaching day. My ambition is to make it to the top and then some before the sun hangs high in the sky, but at this rate, I’ll settle for somewhere next to a cool cascade to abate the sting of sweat upon my brow.
Upon this compromise, I slow my pace and my heartbeats follow. What’s the use of racing one’s self? That old competition between ego and the true self has gone on long enough. Time for this, too, to take a break as I walk up the side of the mountain.
Morning birds call, rustling invisible in the fresh green canopies. Towering trees stand tall, unmoving. No breeze this Summer’s day.
The fear that gnawed at my stomach before has subsided now. My feet move more assuredly across stones in the pathway, pressing me further upward towards some undetermined destination. The crashing of water booms now before me. The small rivulet I’ve been walking beside has been traced to its source. A series of falls fades upwards against the rambling hills, cutting narrow passages through rock and wood. Moss and fern and dappled branches collect in chaotic brambles, soaked and saturated by the sparkling water.
I stand and sigh. No views from the summit today. No peering down on the thousands of villagers who occupy the river valley below. Just to sit and look within. There must be a hundred or so persons within me alone.
Set down my satchel. Unearth my worldly belongings. Unwrap the contents of my box. A cup. A pot. A measure of old leaves. A book. An antique thermos (though not antique when first purchased). I feel old, though not worn out. Just old enough to know what five decades look like. Old enough to have seen this world in a better spot. Old enough to have lived several lives in this one life and just begin to laugh.
Before I load the leaves into the little pot, I open up the book of poems by 寒山 Hán Shān and read a passage at random. Of course it’s something biting. Something melancholy. Something longing for that which has been lost but perfectly settled since life in the mountains. Never has a poet said “Get Lost!” to their readers so succinctly before than the old words of this cave-dwelling writer.
Book now closed, I toss the aged leaves into the open pot. They no longer bear the vibrant greens and opalescent blues of a fresh Taiwanese oolong, but now look like old wood, twisted and tawny from years of storage. I pour hot water into the pot and close the lid.
While my mind wants to wander, replaying the words of Hán Shān and the many stories I often regale myself with, I opt to just sit and let the sound of the mountain stream wash my ears. The loud crash of the falls quiets the rest of the world around me. The ever-present din of combustion engines subsides, though still there. The chatter of birds muted, though undoubtedly they still sing on. The regular patterns and habitual verbosity that usually keeps me in constant conversation with myself keeps on but I choose not to listen. The serenity of the forest, sitting beside the waterfall, is not without this chorus of the world, both inner and outer. It all just exists.
I pour the first of three cups of tea from the initial brew into my cup. It is light and mellow. Years from when the tea was harvested and now enjoyed have calmed the wild flavors that would normally be expressed. The tea now tastes of age. Sweet. Simpler. Softer, too.
I sit and sip, breathing out intentionally to capture the fleeting following flavors that get caught on the tongue and back of throat. “Why have I been so quiet?” I ask myself. “Why have I failed?” another voice mutters. “You used to be so prolific,” yet another voice adds. What company I have brought with me to this quiet spot. Perhaps I shall invite them to have some tea.
A second cup and third I pour. Each becoming darker and darker as the tea opens. Another steeping and I sit with the teapot, the shape reminding me of a puffed-up meditation cushion. “They collect farts,” I remember one monk saying. “Perhaps they do,” I recall thinking to myself.
I sit and try and ultimately fail to be in the now. Instead, my mind plays tricks on me and begins to spin stories of past, present, and future. Past obligations come to haunt me. Present situations arrive to tug at me. Future expectations invite themselves and don’t get the hint to leave me be. They all come to join me at this ever-growing tea gathering.
I breathe and pour out the next of three cups that are bound to come from this second steep. Golden-hued, it captures the light that filters through the forest. A cup of polished brass or untarnished bronze. A glint of sunlight. The outline of a tree painted upon its flat, reflective surface. I peer into this little world, a miniature vignette in situ.
Where does this world go when I drink the contents of this cup? Into my belly? Into my mind? Was it there before? Did these rays of light collect themselves within the concave of this cup before there was tea within it it? I bet they were there even before I sat down to idle away this moment. Why, now, are they deemed so special? Now that they have a vessel to reside within? And what to make of them once they’re gone? They’re my memory now. Will they die with me when I die or will they pass along and upon which dimension will they exist?
I don’t usually bother myself with such questions, but sometimes find myself being asked something like this by my partner at night, only to anger them by my all-to-clinical response. Who knows? Who cares? But then, who is “who”?
Each subsequent cup of tea poured is a reminder to sit down and shut up, and this time I listen. Finally there comes a minute of peace, which expands more and more as I breathe. The troubles of the world won’t go away when I sit for tea, nor will they subside when I hole myself up in this mountain crevasse next to a gushing cascade. They won’t disappear when I write about them, nor when I scorn them. In fact, they won’t ever disappear at all. They will always remain in me, in you, and in this world, and, as such, we must always work on them constantly.
Make friends with our fears and with our phobias, and invite them to tea. Let those whom you don’t understand speak up first and just listen actively. Don’t look for an answer when you yourself are lost. Get lost, and then get lost again. Learn how to disappear completely. Don’t speak, especially when you shouldn’t. Don’t write when you haven’t first determined what to say.
Words are like staccato actions. They’ll leave their mark on the world like thousands of chisel marks. To those who are privileged and think that all they produce is art, they will find their unpracticed hand produces a greater mess. Let those who are practiced make the masterpiece and learn by the examples they’ve set.
Done with my diatribe, I find myself sitting alone. Cup and pot and thermos beside me. The pulsing water falling. The leaves in the trees fluttering as they did before. Birds, calling to one another with words unintelligible.
One more pot of tea before I go. No trek to the summit. Content with halfway up the mountain. The tea leaves rise with the flood and shimmer on the surface, caught in the low light. Darkness abounds still. The morning sun hasn’t yet climbed above me or the mountain. It will be on my back as I walk down the sloping trail home.
One more poem from the poet read in silence. The last cup of tea slacked. Teaware wrapped up and packed. Tossed into my bindle and upon my back. Back down the mountain I wander. Back down to the world with all the problems. Back to where I have friends that I love. A garden that needs tending. A dog that expects to be fed. The sun finally crests over the rolling ridge and floods the river valley with light. Is this what I was waiting for?