Tag Archives: Chaire

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

The Peony Blooms, The Bowl Widens, The Furo is First Used

Bright cloudless skies hang over head. Grass pushes up through earth in the fields. The first heat of early Summer hangs in the air. Over the weekend, I escaped to the countryside to see all of this unfold before my eyes. Nature in full transition. The constant force. Coming home, I carried this feeling with me. A souvenir. An お土産 omiyage. Something brought back, special to a particular place.

As I walked the streets of my urban neighborhood, however, early Summer was still there. Lush green leaves on the maple trees. Mugwort growing tall in the shadows cast by fences. A burst of color as the tree peony blossoms (牡丹 botan) in the city gardens. All telltale signs that Summer has arrived.

For me, all this subtle change produced an upwelling of desire to make a bowl of tea. As is the custom for practitioners of 茶の湯 chanoyu, the “tea year” begins with the beginning of early Summer. Akin to a flower beginning to bloom, the energy of this time is on the rise, not yet cresting with the oppressive heat of the season, nor waning with the slow retreat and cool of Autumn.

Reflecting this, 茶人 chajin shift from using the sunken hearth (炉 ro) of the colder months and begin to use the portable brazier, the 風炉 furo. To observe this major shift, both in the technology used in the tearoom, as well as with the arrangement of the tearoom itself (as the hearth is closed (炉塞ぎ rofusagi) and the 畳 tatami are shifted), a special gathering to mark first use of the furo is held, 初風炉 sho-buro.

In keeping with this change, I adjust my 取り合わせ toriawase, bringing wares into the tearoom that reflect the fresh feeling of early Summer. In my 床間 tokonoma, I hang a scroll with light cursive calligraphy reflecting upon the coming of Summer. Below this, I place a small wooden incense container (香合 kōgō), inside of which is kept small cut pieces of 沈香 jinkō, the fragrance I am featuring in my sitting.

Below my tearoom window I have set my antique bronze furo, atop which sits its paired iron 茶釜 chagama, wisps of steam rising from the small gap between the mouth and lid.

Beside this is the 水指 mizusashi. Sitting before this, a small 文淋茶入 bunrin chaire. Before I prepare tea, I meditate for a moment, to listen to the sound of the kettle and to appreciate the dim light that filters through the rough hempen shades of my tearoom window. The heat of the kettle is soft, mingling with the heat of the day.

I leave the tearoom and return with my additional tea equipage.

I set the teabowl down and the chaire before it.

Slowly I untie the braided silk cord from the brocaded 仕服 shifuku, spangled in a motif of shimmering tree peonies against a sky blue field. I remove the chaire from the silk pouch and cleanse its glazed exterior with my 袱紗 fukusa.

Next I turn to the assembled implements with the teabowl.

I purify the 茶杓 chashaku, pinching it between the folds of the fukusa, cleansing the handle and curved scoop, placing it atop the lid of the chaire once cleansed.

I then lift the 茶筅 chasen out of the bowl, placing it next to the chaire.

I bring the teabowl closer to me and remove the 茶巾 chakin twisting it above the open mouth of the 建水 kensui that rests beside my left knee. I unfold it and refold it, placing it momentarily on the lid of the mizusashi.

I lift the 柄杓 hishaku off from the tiny porcelain plinth of the 蓋置 futaoki. With hishaku in my left hand and chakin in right, I lift the lid from the chagama. Steam rises steadily from the mouth of the kettle. The sound of the bubbling water breaking the silence of the tearoom. I place the bronze lid atop the futaoki and folded chakin atop the lid.

Passing hishaku from left hand to right, I draw a ladle’s worth of water from the kettle and pour it mindfully into teabowl. I press the chasen into the hot water. The tines slowly expand outward. Once cleansed, I return the whisk back next to the chaire, and pour the hot water out into the kensui. I wait for the water to drain completely from the teabowl, save for a final drop, which I catch with the chakin.

Now clean, I sit for a moment to appreciate the teabowl. Brushstrokes of glaze against the uneven, crackled surface of a white 刷毛目唐津茶碗 hakeme Karatsu chawan. Refreshing now, knowing that Summer’s heat will come in the weeks and months ahead.

From the chaire, I remove three scoops of 抹茶 matcha, placing each in the center of the bowl.

I place the chashaku along the rim of the chawan.

With both hands, I lift the tiny tea container and empty it of the remaining tea, allowing it to cascade and fall into the chawan, creating a loose mound of bright tea powder.

In order to make the first bowl of 濃茶 koicha of the new year in tea, I pull forth a ladle of hot water from the kettle, pouring only a small measure of this into the chawan, returning the remainder back to the chagama.

The hot water pools around the edges of the tea, producing a small island of matcha amidst a emerald sea.

I bring the chasen down into the teabowl and slowly begin to work the tea into a thick paste. As the tea powder begins to bind with the water, the intense aroma of freshly ground green tea begins to rise, filling the tearoom, overcoming the lingering scent of aloeswood. I add an additional measure of hot water and continue to slowly, methodically whisk the tea. Back and forth, in a rhythmic manner. My hand slowly whisking. My breath keeping pace. Slowly the tea transforms into a slick opaque liquid. It is ready to consume.

I sit for a moment, having placed the chasen back beside the chaire, its tines coated in a thick layer of tea.

I stare down at the bowl of koicha. The dark green of the matcha looking back up at me.

In this pause, I hear the wind outside my window. Birds singing. Trees swaying. Even though I do not see the indicators of Summer, I can sense them.

I stare down into the bowl. The koicha appears like a void, like a mirror reflecting back at me. Does this reflect the future? The season that is due to come? The moment that is near to end? How to sum up a period of time so brief as a bowl of tea. Thousands of moments have I now had like this. The breath before I sip. The sensation of the tea changing my heart and mind. A feeling of being part of some sort of indescribable transformation. How a peony blooms. How we drink from a wider bowl as Summer nears. How the ro is closed and the furo is welcomed into the tearoom.

In this moment I quiet the mind and raise the bowl. I turn it ninety degrees so as not to drink from its 正面 shōmen and take the first sip. The flavor instantly washes over me. I pause and sip again. The flavor deepens. One more sip and I watch the tea pull from the center of the chawan down to the rim and into my mouth.

As I place the bowl before me once more, I see how time, gravity, my own production have played out over the crazed and crackled surface of the teabowl.

White brushstrokes of glaze. Grey streaks of clay beneath it. Tea. Steam. Sunlight filtering through the woven blinds. This moment caught in the empty space of the teabowl.

I cleanse the bowl, the whisk, the chashaku. I set each object to the side. Hishaku atop the kensui. Futaoki set below.

I produce an antique 香盆 kōbon upon which I set the chaire, chashaku and shifuku for 拝見 haiken. Light extends across into the tokonoma. I observe how light plays across the ceramic surface of the chaire. How colors and tones emerge as the day’s light grows.

How the grain of the chashaku feels warm.

How the silk of the shifuku is refreshing. A peony blooms across its brocaded expanse.

Leaves and blossoms, twisting and curling, billowing over the empty volume and undulating into the gathered folds. The kettle hums and the scent of aloeswood returns. Early Summer has arrived and the furo is welcomed back into the tearoom.

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

No Mind. No Tea.

For the past few months, as I’ve been forced by the current pandemic to remain inside, more and more I’ve found myself practicing 茶の湯 chanoyu. Whereas prior to the “shelter in place” ordinance I was seriously practicing maybe once or twice weekly, I now find myself practicing once or twice daily. Where mornings were once languid awakenings, they are now purposeful and full of activity, in preparation for setting the kettle and arranging the 茶道具 chadōgu. My afternoons used to be a long and arduous push to the end of the day. They’ve since been transformed into a glorious close as I sit by my tearoom window, accompanied by the mellow hiss of my iron 茶釜 chagama and the setting sun.

Not only has this change in my practice’s frequency shifted my daily routine, it has also had a palpable impact on my body and mind. Recently, I sat with my tea teacher, who, over our more regular virtual tea teachings, noted that I had begun to exude 無心 mushin (wúxīn in Mandarin). When I asked what he had meant by this, he said “no mind”, stating that my actions seemed less hesitant, more continuous, more focused. Actions seemed more fluid and the space between actions more expansive.

Being a practitioner of 弓道 kyūdō as well as tea, he made the analogy of how when an archer releases the arrow, they remain in stance, expanding their gaze across the range, following their action with an equally mindful non-action. In short, as they prepare to shoot the arrow, they empty their mind of attachment. As they release the arrow, they maintain this state of non-attachment. In that moment of focus and release, there are no more rules, no more structure, just action. When they let go of the arrow, the let go of any expectations. As they release the arrow and watch it fly towards the target, they release their mind of the desire, of the mental grasping that wants it to hit the target. They just release. The arrow just flies.

As I continued my practice throughout the week, I meditated on this notion. In a sense, I did not know what my teacher meant, but I could feel it. My practice had become stronger, more sure. Without questioning my practice, I could finally trust it. I had practiced the forms, I knew the forms, and now, fully knowing, I could forget the forms.

I found myself preparing for a morning’s practice with what my teacher said still on my mind. Funny enough, it struck me just as I was in the process of filling a small 文琳茶入 “bunrinchaire with tea.

“No mind”. What did this really mean? I knew the definition. I could read this in a book or hear this from an expert. However, in practice, meaning often evades logical description, instead, it appears in the practice itself. Elusive and fleeting, yet spontaneous and ever-present. As I peered into the empty ceramic tea container, I continued to think about this.

Next, I pulled out a wooden box, the contents of which was a 黒楽茶碗 kuroRaku chawan by famed ceramicist 佐々木松楽 Sasaki Shōraku III.

This I would be using for my morning practice.

As I began to untie the 桐箱 kiribako, loosening its cord and lifting the lid to reveal the wrapped bowl within, I kept thinking about this notion.

“No mind”.

Unveiled, the bowl looked up at me. Empty. Receptive.

What makes a teabowl a teabowl? Is it the clay? The glaze?

The foot?

The form?

Or is it the emptiness that it contains? The space? The opportunity for tea?

I set the chaire and bowl together.

The space between them became the space of action and inaction. As I breathed between motions, an outward breath for my outward motion, my inward breath to bring objects towards me, I found my body and mind joining into one constant action.

As I pull open the silken cord of the chaire, I loosen the knot and peel the 仕服 shifuku off of its clay body. I fold the 袱紗 fukusa and lightly touch the rounded shoulders of the chaire. I lift the lid and look inside.

From chaire to 茶杓 chashaku, from whisk to bowl.

Each motion arises, exists, fades and ends, but never stops. Instead, there is a constant motion.

Waves rising and crashing and returning out to sea, to churn back upon the shore again. The body follows this. The mind follows this. The division between the two fades.

As I scoop tea from the chaire and place it into the center of the black chawan, I am reminded that just moments before I was placing this tea into the container which I am now drawing it from. As I place the chashaku down upon the rim of the teabowl and tilt the chaire to pour the remaining tea powder into the bowl, I let the tea fall out freely. I am not worried that it will not fall out or that it will. I just let it do what I know it will do.

As I bring the cup of the 柄杓 hishaku over the gaping mouth of the teabowl, I tilt it slightly, letting free only a small measure of hot water, which mixes with the heap of 抹茶 matcha, producing a vibrant gasp of green tea aroma. For a moment, I watch the water mix with the tea, the mound of bright powder slowly sinking. Whereas before I may have worried whether I had added too much or too little hot water, after so many years of practice I no longer worry. I know it will be just enough.

I lift the 茶筅 chasen and begin the methodical act of kneading the tea and water into a thick paste in order to make a bowl of 濃茶 koicha. In the process, I cannot go too fast nor too slow. The motion, now, feels fluid; unencumbered. The tea and water shifts from two distinct states to one united form. The new concoction clings to the thin tines of the chasen. A forest of uniformly-spaced trees with moss of deep green climbing up their trunks. I add more hot water to this, letting it pour through the whisk’s blades of cut bamboo, thinning the liquid out just enough so that it can be consumed.

Once complete, I allow for a brief moment to pass, to appreciate the bowl, the tea, the cavernous space it creates and the shadows that obscure the line between black glaze and the dark green of the tea.

I pull back and appreciate the objects as they are arranged.

Years of practice inform their placement. No thinking is required at this point.

No judgement or questioning of whether they are correct or not. No mind.

I turn to the window of my tearoom and place the bowl before me. Dim light of morning is growing increasingly bright. The sun illuminated the bright green and yellow buds atop the branches of trees. Leaves unfurl like small sails on a ship’s mast. The sky begins to shift from dawn’s deep purple to the warm blue of morning.

I lift the bowl to my lips and breathe in the overwhelming fragrance of the tea. No space is left for me to exist outside of this. With three sips I drink all that I can.

The remaining dregs cling to the inside of the bowl. Evidence of action. No hesitation. No mind.

I cleanse the objects as I always do and arrange them for a final solitary 拝見 haiken. The lid of the chaire is lifted and left on the center side of the wooden tray before it is returned atop the little tea container.

The chashaku is placed next to the chaire, picked up and set down over the course of one inhalation and one exhalation. The shifuku, emblazoned in peony brocade of silver and blue, is lifted from between the 水指 mizusashi and 風炉 furo, shaped with the hands in a manner to emphasize its inner volume, and placed beside the chashaku. It is empty. It is full. It is the container and the void it contains.

I look down upon each object, enjoying them for what they are. Each crafted by masters of their art. Each reflecting different paths walked upon. Full strides. Confident. Assured.

How can one judge a tea container? It is neither good nor bad.

How can one assess a shifuku? It could be made of the finest silk and still, over time, it will fade and tatter.

How can one determine the value of a chashaku? It was once a branch of a cherry tree. What use is it now? A twig in the path. A scoop to measure tea. A staff to quell fighting tigers. To be used without hesitation.

An empty bowl will hold all the tea in the world and none at all.

When we practice the forms and involve these objects, we recognize how essential they are. Yet the more we practice, this, too shifts. The mind becomes lighter. The gaze opens, widens, expands. When we release our arrows, they speeds down range. When we pour the last of the tea powder out, we return the container from back where it once had sat, empty. We see how necessary they are. We see how unnecessary they are.

Even when these object are fully removed, you’ll find that they are still there. In between breathes. In pauses during the day. As light shifts. As one’s hand moves. As one’s mind grapples. Object and mind object. Pause and practice. Action and inaction. Constant. Fleeting. Form and no form. No tea. No mind.

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Cherry Blossoms. Buddha is Born.

The morning came after a light rain. The sun rose from a full moon night. As I made my morning walk, face covered in a mask, I made my way through my neighborhood. As it has been in the past, my walks have felt more and more like a meditation, on the current situation, on the emergence of Spring its full glory. Below me, a ground covered in moss, bright green sprigs of grass, lush carpets of flowers, interrupted by dandelions of electric yellow.

Above me are canopies of blossoms. 梅 ume of March. Magnolias of purple, white and pale green. The 桜 sakura of all kinds. Those which explode like a firework. Those which bloom gently like a rose. Those that cascade from willow-like branches, pouring downward like peach-hued waterfalls.

Amidst this beauty, yes, there is great sadness, death, despair. A screaming ambulance flying by on the streets of Queens, New York City is the ever-present reminder of this. So, too, are the men, women and children huddled either underneath overpasses, by the doors of government buildings asking for handouts, or together in the long lines to enter markets.

A walk down my neighborhood street reveals this, the bare reality. How the many once grinning streets of commerce now bear gaps, hollow holes in the mouth of a once smiling community. How will we repair that which is gone, perhaps forever. The realization that nothing will be the same.

Yet, on this walk, I am reminded that this is April 8th. In my Zen practice, one that hails from the Japanese 曹洞宗 Sōtō-shū tradition, today we observe 仏生会 Busshōé, the birth of the historical Buddha Siddhārtha Gautama (c480 B.C.E – 400 B.C.E). During this day, it is common to create a small altar, situated in the center of which is a small statue of the Buddha as a newborn child. Surrounded in garlands of flowers, the statue is bathed in sweet tea (甘茶 amacha) and we are reminded that all great things come from small, humble beginnings and that all forms, too, shall be born and die and transform. As I walk home, back through the deaths of flowers and calamity, I formulate how I shall prepare tea to observe this day.

Entering my home I set my iron kettle to boil. As the water heats in this cauldron, I pull together teaware. Having recently acquired a tall 茶入 chaire, I opt to use this in my Busshōe tea gathering. I pull it forth from its wooden 桐箱 kiribako, its 緒 o tied in such a manner to indicate that it is empty of tea.

For a moment I inspect it, still enrobed in its silken 仕服 shifuku, one made not from the sacred 袈裟 kesa robes of a Buddhist priest but from the profane cloth of a kimono. The rippled texture and alternating colors of pink and blue, yellow and red remind me of the blossoms from this morning’s walk.

I remove the cloth and begin to scoop 抹茶 matcha powder into the chaire until there is just enough to make a bowl of 濃茶 koicha for my partner and myself to share. I then place this in front of the 水指 mizusashi which I’ve set beside my 風炉 furo.

Once the kettle has come to a boil I call my partner into the tearoom to join me for a bowl of tea. Before her, I place a small sweet to enjoy. After this I re-enter into the tearoom with teabowl in hand. It is a blush-colored 萩焼茶碗 Hagi-yaki chawan by 清和釜 Seiwa gama kiln master potter 祥雲 Shōun, the color of which harmonizes with the colors of the shifuku. Finally, I return with 建水 kensui, 柄杓 hishaku and 蓋置 futaoki made of split bamboo.

Together my partner and I sit to prepare a bowl of koicha. I set the teabowl and assembled equipage within it before me. Breathing out, I reach for the chaire, and place it before the chawan, creating a center line between myself, the wares, and the space between 茶釜 chagama and mizusashi.

I reach both hands down and lift them up the length of the chaire until my fingers reach the lightly-tied knot that ties the shifuku together. Carefully I unbind the silken cord and draw it open.

With well-practiced movements, I pull the chaire from the shifuku, placing the latter between the mizusashi and furo where it will sit for the remainder of the gathering as an empty shell.

Next, I cleanse the chaire, touching the lid with my purple silk 袱紗 fukusa, then the shoulders, and then the sides, until all surfaces which will come in contact with my hands have been purified.

Next I turn to cleansing the 茶杓 chashaku which, rather than being fashioned from the more typical bamboo, is made of cherry wood. As I run the fine silk of the fukusa over its surface, I admire the iridescent sheen of tree bark which still remains, an echo of a Spring long since passed.

The 茶筅 chasen is warmed and set upright next to the chaire, its thick tines expanding slowly.

I bow to my partner and invite her to enjoy the tea sweet prior to receiving a bowl of thick tea which I will prepare for her. She bows back and we both set into action. I lift the chashaku from the chaire and bring it towards my center. Next, I bring forth the chaire and remove its lid, placing it next to the chawan.

I lift the first of three scoops of tea from the tiny ceramic tea container, slowing my cadence for a moment to appreciate the movement of matcha powder from caddy to teabowl.

Two more times do I dip the chashaku back into the chaire, removing glowing green tea powder each time from its dark interior.

Finally, I tilt the chaire over, pouring out the remaining powdered tea into the chawan. In the brief moment of random pattering of tea to teabowl I am reminded of how the amacha would fall onto the small metal statue of the child Buddha. How it made me feel like a child. A little sense of chaos and joy that comes from letting gravity take over.

I enjoy the scene that has been made inside the teabowl. A split second vignette of colors and textures, of volumes and voids, of actions and inactions playing out and recorded in this art of being.

I return the object back to their resting positions and draw a ladle of hot water from the steaming chagama. A minute fraction of the water is placed along the inner edge of the teabowl, slipping under the heaped mound of tea dust. The matcha lifts and slowly sinks, changing from bright green to a dark emerald.

I slowly press the chasen into this pool of thick tea and proceed to knead the tea into a firm paste. As I do this the scent of tea is overwhelming. Its lively, grassy and bittersweet notes merging with the warm and gentle fragrance of incense lingering in the tearoom, one which was commonly burned at my temple back in California.

Memories of the past merging with moments of the present. How eagerly the mind brings up such images, especially in times of sadness and despair. “Remember this?” my mind seems to call. “Remember what joy you had back then?” it abruptly interrupts the silence with.

It calls me to think of those times as if they were spotless, as if they were without their own trials and tribulations. How this mind clings and grapples with the past. Tosses and turns and trips over itself like a child at play, hurting itself in the process.

Another draught of hot water is added to the tea and I continue to whisk it slowly, methodically, using every motion of my practice to focus the mind.

Though the Buddha was born a child, it wasn’t until he was in his 30s that he awoke to his own Buddha mind. It was said that he was met with thoughts of temptation, desire, fear and anger, but chose to simply sit, to bow to these notions, and to claim the earth on which he sat as his sole witness to this knowing.

In a similar way, I set down the chasen and offer up a bowl of tea to my partner, with no expectations, just to accept it and myself as we are. Perfectly imperfect.

For a moment she looks down into the bowl, a brief flash of trepidation before she accepts the tea. She then lifts the bowl, turns it slightly, and drinks from it. A thick trail of koicha pulls from the center pool across the inner wall of the teabowl. She returns the bowl to me with just enough left so I may have a hearty sip. I turn the bowl again and drink the remaining koicha. A second trail of tea runs along the inner wall of the teabowl. We take a moment to pause, to breathe, to meditate. The flavor of tea still present on both our palates.

Before I set into cleansing the wares, I admire the traces of tea upon them. The light dusting of tea coating the carved tip of chashaku.

The thick residue of lacquer-like koicha still clinging to the tines of the chasen.

The dregs of tea running back down into the center of the chawan.

I bow to my partner and prepare to close the tea sitting, cleansing the teawares once more. As I usually do, I offer up a simple 拝見 haiken as a chance to recall the moment had with tea. Each item, the chaire, the chashaku, the shifuku, like tracks of an unseen bull. We know the presence of tea. We can taste it in our mouths. Yet it no longer exists as it once did. It has been transformed into memory. We recall the actions as if it were in the past now.

We lift the lid of the chaire to look inside. We see only emptiness.

We lift the chashaku and imagine the weight of tea hanging on its hand-hewn tip, yet it feels as light as a feather.

We inspect the shifuku, made from a scrap of kimono fabric.

We imagine the body that it must have once been held close against. Perhaps this person is no longer alive.

The chaire, now emptied and cleansed, is wrapped up again. The knot of the o retied in the manner to show that tea no longer sits inside. It is left to be inspected once more atop the 香盆 kōban made of mulberry wood and then, it, too, is put back into storage.

The tea gathering closes as it began, with a silent bow. An exchange between two friends. A moment born, expired, transformed.

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A Pure Crystalline Sky. A Bowl of Tea for the Founder.

It’s early April. New York City seems like a ghost town. A surreal space, emptied of its occupants. Yet, while the streets are vacant, the flowers are in bloom. The 梅 ume blossoms of March cling to their branches. 桜 sakura burst and the scent of magnolia hangs sweet in the breeze. All above me, a pure crystalline sky. Clouds stretch onward in all directions. An effluence of life emerging in full vigor as Spring continues. Without the world bustling in its typical chaotic way, nature fills the void beautifully.

For me, life goes on within the confines of my New York City apartment, my partner and I adjusting to our new rhythms and daily patterns. Wake and meditate. Tea before a day’s work.

On April 2nd, I prepare for 宗徧忌 Sōhen-ki, the observance of the death of 江戸 Edo period (1603-1868) 茶の湯 chanoyu master and founder of 宗徧流 Sōhen-ryū, 山田宗徧 Yamada Sōhen (1627-1708). The process of setting up tea for this becomes a bit of a meditation. While I am a student of Sōhen-ryū, I feel as if I know very little of the founder of my school of tea, save for the anecdotes shared by my teacher; a sort of oral history.

While it is known that he was originally a pupil of 小堀遠州 Kobori Enshū (1579-1647), then (more famously) of 千宗旦 Sen Sōtan (1578–1658), my knowledge of the man remains foggy. Even in his own words, collected in his writings such as the 茶道便蒙抄 Chadō Benmōshō and 利休茶道具図絵 Rikyū Chadōgu Zue, I am left with little more than details. As such, to truly understand who Yamada Sōhen was, I must rely on my own tea practice: forms and philosophy passed down to me, from my teacher, a link to the lineage.

For the observance of Sōhen-ki, I decide to make a bowl of 濃茶 koicha for my partner and I to share. For this, I select a 海鼠釉天目茶碗 namako tenmoku chawan (“sea cucumber-glaze” tenmoku teabowl), which I set atop a wooden 天目台 tenmoku-dai. The attitude which I want to preserve is a sense of somber formality.

Paired with this, I select a 文琳茶入 “bunrinchaire, enrobed in a light blue and silver 仕服 shifuku. The color selection is intentional, in the hopes to harmonize the teaware with the bright blue sky outside my window.

In my 床間 tokonoma, a small flower plucked from a walk in my neighborhood, arranged in a bamboo 花入 hanaire. Yamada Sōhen was known for crafting bamboo flower containers.

As I sit down to prepare a bowl of tea, I carry in the tenmoku chawan, placing it next to the chaire, which I had placed into the tearoom prior to my partner entering. Next, I carry in the 建水 kensui, 柄杓 hishaku and bamboo 蓋置 futaoki. I bow to my partner and I begin to arrange the teaware to prepare for cleansing. The chawan on its wooden stand is moved between the 茶釜 chagama and 水指 mizusashi.

The chaire is placed in front of the teabowl. I remove the silken shifuku from the chaire in a slow, methodical process.

The silk cord (緒 o) is untied and pulled.

The gathered silk cloth is loosened, and the two sides of the shifuku are pulled down, revealing the chaire inside.

Once removed, the shifuku is placed between the chagama and mizusashi. The chaire, still sitting before the chawan, is moved to sit in front of the mizusashi. Removed from the brocaded fabric, its modest earthen colors accentuate the quality of 侘び wabi, balancing an otherwise formal and refined arrangement.

The 茶杓 chashaku, formal (真 shin), is made of a single cut of cedar.

Once cleansed, it is placed atop the lid of the chaire.

The 茶筅 chasen, made specifically for whisking koicha, is wetted and warmed.

The tenmokudai is cleansed.

The tenmoku chawan is emptied with both hands into the kensui and is dried.

Peering deep into the center of the teabowl, I momentarily let my mind explore its inner surface. The uneven undulations of the unctuous glaze. The bright pools of blue and silver against a field of dark brown. In the center, a mirror-like image looking back at me.

I lift the chashaku and bow, offering my partner to have a sweet. From here, I begin to scoop tea from the chaire.

Once three scoops are placed into the center of the teabowl, I set the chashaku down atop the wide wooden flange of the tenmokudai.

The tip of the tea scoop covered in a fine dusting of green tea.

I finish by pouring the remaining 抹茶 matcha powder out of the chaire, offering the rest of the tea to be enjoyed.

The neat, tiny heap of tea now appears like a chaotic action captured on the canvas of the once empty vessel.

A small amount of hot water is drawn from the chagama and poured over the matcha powder. With the chasen, I slowly begin to knead the tea and water into a thick green paste. More water is added, pouring over the thick tines of the koicha chasen.

A minute later, I have slowly turned the concoction into something resembling a thick pool of lacquer.

Lifting the teabowl by the tenmokudai, I turn towards my partner and offer her the bowl of tea. We bow and she accepts the tea, taking the first sip of koicha. Afterwards, she returns the bowl to me and I finish the thick tea within it. Two trails of tea dregs radiating from the center of the bowl.

I cleanse the chasen with a separate teabowl and remove the remaining tea dust from the chashaku. The chagama is closed and so, too, is the mizusashi.

Finally, I prepare 拝見 haiken.

Without exchanging words, we examine the chaire. Its round shape and uneven brown glaze make it look like a small sparrow huddled against in a tree.

The chashaku, with its curved tip and red wood grain, appears pure, like a 如意 nyoi scepter of a Buddhist priest.

The shifuku, shimmering in the low light of the tearoom, appears like a treasure bag, voluminous in the manner preferred by Sōhen-ryū.

It dawns on me as I sit there peering down upon the assembled 茶道具 chadōgu. These “things”, these little objects. They represent something more than just what they are. They are all vessels of a particular Way. These actions, from the way the hand holds the tea scoop to the method of closing the chagama so to let the lid ring against the mouth of the kettle, producing a sound like a large temple bell, these, too, are part of a particular Way. They all have their origin. They all have a progenitor.

While time may have transformed these into what we see and experience today, there is a source. And yet this, too, is an empty vessel, a conduit through which something more has been transmitted. Is it a teaching through a teacher? Creativity through a person’s mind? Spirit through intention? When the earth slows down. When a pure crystalline sky appears. Clouds stretch onward in all directions. An effluence of life emerging in full vigor as Spring continues.

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EXCLUSIVE: History in a Bowl of Tea: Tea in the Song Period, Part II

Dearly Beloved Readers of Scotttea,

A little over a month ago I led the tea talk and interactive workshop “History in a Bowl of Tea: Tea in the Song Period”. As part of an ongoing series of tea talks I’ve been leading for over a decade, and a sequel to a talk I gave several years ago, this time I dove even deeper into tea’s history to investigate tea and tea culture during the 宋 Sòng period (960-1279). Now, as many of us find ourselves sequestered in our homes, under self-quarantine against COVID-19, I want to offer up the video from this tea talk, filmed live at Floating Mountain Tea House in Manhattan’s Upper West Side.

Only two hours long, consider this video a crash course in ancient tea history as we discuss how tea developed from ancient medicine to lofty beverage, enjoyed by scholars, monks and emperors alike. Using ancient Sòng, as well as antique and contemporary reproductions of Sòng teawares, we’ll go into great detail of how tea during the Song period was prepared.

All 抹茶 mǒchá, unless stated otherwise, was hand-produced and hand-ground in the manner detailed in Sòng period texts, to approximate as closely the look, feel and flavor from this time. For reference, I have provided a list of what we tasted.

• First Tea: Hand-ground semi-wild 白茶 báichá from Fuding, Fujian, China.

• Second “Tea”: Powdered mugwort leaves grown and produced in South Korea.

• Third Tea: Hand-ground 碧螺春 Bì Luó Chūn grown in the Dongting mountains near Lake Tai, Suzhou, Jiangsu, China.

• Fourth Tea: Whole leaf 碧螺春 Bì Luó Chūn (brewed for comparative purposes).

• Fifth Tea: Fresh-ground 抹茶 matcha from Uji, Kyōto prefecture, Japan.

For additional insights on this topic, I have linked previous blog posts that discuss tea during the Sòng period:

“Everything for the First Time”

“A Large Whisk and a Long History: Evolution of the Tea Whisk”

“Celebrating Qīxī with Tea Made in the Song Style”

“EXCLUSIVE: History in a Bowl of Tea: Tea in the Song Period”


To view “History in a Bowl of Tea: Tea in the Song Period, Part II”, follow the link above.

For the first talk I delivered on tea in the Song period, please follow this link provided below:

If you are interested in attending or scheduling this tea talk or tea talks like this, please email me at scottttea888@gmail.com.

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Like Spring, History Slowly Reveals Itself

img_5473The first days of February have come and gone and with it so too have the first vital days of Spring. While February 4th officially marked the beginning of Spring with 立春 Risshun (Lì Chūn in Mandarin), little evidence of Spring’s arrival exists. Even for what was a rather mild Winter in New York City, frost still collects in puddles and birds still hold on to their thick down. Yet, Spring has begun, slowly, creeping into the psyche of city dwellers and tea people alike.

Frigid rain has replaced the chance of snow and the red buds of 梅 ume blossoms plump in neat rows along the branches of once barren plum trees. In cold nights they burst open, revealing their bright, pale hue in the electric moonlight.

In accordance with this, I draw inspiration for a morning’s sitting with tea. Caught for weeks in my own research on the preparation of 抹茶 mǒchá (matcha in Japanese) during the 宋 Sòng period (960-1279), of which I will be presenting on later this week, I decide to take what I’ve learned and apply it to making a special bowl of tea.

What is known about the preparation of mǒchá is hazy. As a researcher and tea person, I rely upon an ever increasing variety of texts and images to work off of. Documents like 蔡襄 Cài Xiāng’s 茶錄 Chá Lù (“Record of Tea”, 1049) or Emperor 宋徽宗 Sòng Huīzōng’s 大觀茶論 Dàguān Chá Lùn (“Treatise on Tea”, 1107) may discuss the finer points of whisking-up a bowl of mǒcha in the 點茶 diǎn chá fashion, though these omit aspects such as the “between steps” that may dictate how a tea cloth is folded, the exact motion of the whisk, or the way the hand should lift something so mundane yet important as a tea scoop. Juxtaposing this research to my own tea practice of 茶の湯 chanoyu, more often than not, I am left to “fill in the blanks” and make “educated guesses” as to how some of the more minute actions of Sòng tea preparation would have occurred.

With each year I study this approach to tea, however, the deeper my knowledge develops. Looking back at the previous year and the year before that when I first began to hone my skills in hand-grinding white tea to get an approximation of what would have been made during the Sòng period, I can see that I’ve made strides. Still, though, it has been a slow accumulation of knowledge, one akin to walking out in a heavy mist. Over time, one will become fully-saturated, drenched to the core. Yet something as boundless and as equally intangible as tea during the Sòng period (no known tea cakes from this time survive nor does the tea powder), what I feel that I’ve been chasing is a bit of a phantom. And yet, in practice, this specter of history begins to reveal itself.

As I sit down, kettle coming to a steady boil, I recognize that the water is ready for tea not by any modern technology but by the sound of bubbles breaking the surface. By the Sòng period, the allusion of “wind rushing through the pines” would have been a staple to any well-seasoned tea person’s practice.

img_5585-1From my shelf, I pull forth a collection of teawares, all of which are Japanese in origin, yet are explicitly crafted to replicate Sòng wares.

5ee310dc-e57c-4281-8bcc-11241795863bFor a tea caddy, I use a small 京焼茶入 Kyō-yaki chaire, enrobed in a blue and silver silk brocaded 仕服 shifuku.

32eaf6e3-63ee-49d3-8a50-270a33ea83dfRemoved from its pouch, it reveals a shape that would have been common to both tea practitioners and apothecaries of the Sòng period.

468cb4a2-31c4-4537-8a11-1bdf3b8814a1For a tea scoop, I opt for a more 真 shin (“formal”) 茶杓 chashaku. While crafted out of a single length of cedar, the slender, uninterrupted form with a curved tip harkens back to scoops of the Sòng period which were made out of gold, silver or ivory.

fd0f92ae-270d-4948-8351-917a817e9750The whisk is a modified Japanese 茶筅 chasen, one in which I have straightened the many thin bamboo tines to reproduce the style depicted in 審安老人 Shěn Ān Lǎorén’s 茶具圖贊 Chájù Zàn (“Pictorial of Tea”, 1269).

1b7bc3ef-3693-4833-bf77-bac628240ce6Once emptied of its contents, the interior of the teabowl is exposed, revealing a dappled pattern with a scattered plum blossom motif. The style on display, called 黑釉剪紙貼花 hēi yòu jiǎnzhǐ tiē huā (“black glaze paper-cut appliqué”), was made famous by the 吉州窯 Jízhōu yáo kilns during the Sòng period.

img_5486This particular pattern is now considered to be quite formal in Japanese tea ceremony and, as it depicts ume blossoms, is only used at this time of year.

img_5489Warming the bowl and softening the whisk readies each of the implements to prepare a bowl of mǒchá. Practiced in chanoyu, these steps were originally noted during the Sòng period; the hot water softened the whisk, making it more flexible, and it purportedly allowed the tea powder to rise more easily off of the surface of the teabowl (to aid in the creation of a thick foam).

c8e8b905-a96c-4ba3-a0e8-284eae506b9bLifting the chashaku and chaire, I draw out six scoops of white tea I had hand-ground and sieved earlier that day.

img_5542-1Placed in the center of the teabowl, I pour a small amount of water along the inside edge of the ceramic vessel, allowing it to run down and under the mound of tea powder.

1425d03f-8fe2-491e-aff0-445ad3a8dd5fWhisk in hand, I begin to slowly knead the powdered tea and water into a thick paste.

img_5544Next, I gently pour water around the inside rim of the bowl, allowing it, again, to gently run down and mix into the thick concoction of tea and water. As this occurs, I begin to quicken the speed of whisking, loosening my wrist and allowing the whisk to move in broader strokes. Soon a soft, light foam begins to arise.

img_5547Again I issue water into the teabowl and, again, I whisk, further mixing the tea. The foam begins to mound.

img_5549A fourth pulse of water is issued, and again I whisk. The foam tightens, becoming finer, brighter in color and complexion.

img_5550A fifth round of water is poured into the teabowl and the foam rises higher, with an appearance akin to freshly fallen snow.

img_5552A sixth pouring of water and I begin to slow the pace of my whisking, causing the foam to become gentle and even.

img_5554Finally, a seventh gust of hot water is issued into the teabowl, and I finish whisking with a final circular motion around the circumference of the bowl’s interior, exited from the center of the foamy surface, resulting in a delicate peak.

21a45a98-3244-4223-9166-5135a905ee55For a brief moment I sit before the assembled collection of teaware. For a moment I ponder if what I’ve created is, indeed, what would have been enjoyed by literati, monks, emperors and skilled 鬥茶 dòuchá (“tea battle”) competitors of 建安 Jiàn’ān.

img_5556For a moment longer I wait to see if the foam holds, noting its edge against the dark glaze of the Jízhōu yáo-style teabowl. A minute passes and still it holds. A minute more and I cannot wait longer to drink the foamy concoction I’ve made.

img_5558Lifting the teabowl with the aid of a wooden 天目台 tenmokudai, I accept the bowl of tea in the formal manner I’ve learned from my tea teacher. Such formality is rather rare in modern tea practice, saved for when tea is served in ancient-styled wares, the origins of which are from Sòng period China.

This link is not lost on me as I realize that perhaps there remains within these motions the echoes of a practice not recorded by the essayists of the tenth, eleventh, twelfth and thirteenth centuries. These motions I had to learn. I had to turn teachings into muscle memory. Even the scribbled notes and scant recordings I have cannot inform me enough to know how to conduct myself at this moment. This cannot be recorded by any medium save for the mind. Once forgotten, these will be gone. Over years, and by way of my teacher and his teacher and teacher’s teacher, it has taken centuries to transmit this knowledge. History, like Spring, is slow to reveal itself; to be fully realized.

As I lift the bowl to my lips, I sip and savor the sweet, floral flavors of this creation. It is unlike any other kind of tea I’ve had. As I finish the bowl of tea, I am mindful not to drink the last dregs. As I have hand-ground the tea, the process is still rough, resulting in a small amount of tea grit to remain at the bottom of the bowl.

img_5569However, since I am using a Sòng-style 天目 tiānmù (tenmoku in Japanese) shaped bowl, there is a articulated indentation that runs along the inner rim of the teabowl. This indentation collects the final particles that remain, keeping them from being consumed. This simple form was the genius of the Sòng period potter, still practiced by ceramicists of this chawan style today.

img_5582As I finish cleansing the teabowl and wares, I finish today’s sitting with a final 拝見 haiken. Arranging the caddy, scoop and silk shifuku on a 香盆 kōban, I meditate on how history can sometimes, quite literally, shape the world we live in.

img_5573Objects for tea, beautiful and, at times mundane, contain within them volumes of stories, many of which still remain untold.

img_5574As my ability to read old texts continues to improve, will my appreciation of these forms deepen? Is it through the reading of ancient treatises that I will come to some greater realization? Or, perhaps, will it be through the actions they inspire?

img_5575Will this quest to recreate an ancient bowl of whisked tea become my practice? What will I learn by doing? What will be learned through this direct experience with the material world? An accumulation of knowledge? Of mist until I’m drenched? Of dust until I’m weighed down? A Spring slowly emerging. A history slowly revealing itself. A plum blossom bursting open to the light of the full moon.

 

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Everything for the First Time

With the beginning of the year, there is a sense of renewal and potential for firsts. The first rays of sunlight cascading over the horizon on New Year’s morning. The first flecks of snow dancing in the grey skies of January’s Winter. The first moment we enjoy time with close friends. The first opportunity we have to truly sit in silence.

In the practice of 茶の湯 chanoyu, the first gathering for tea is often heralded as a celebratory occasion, as everything from a bowl of tea, a flower in the 床間 tokonoma, the scent of incense wafting in the air is greeted with a renewed sense of freshness, as if the year itself was unfolding before one’s eyes.

For the first gathering, known in chanoyu as 初釜 hatsugama, literally “first kettle”, an atmosphere of freshness is emphasized. Sprigs of new pine often greet the guests as they wait. In the tearoom, long arching branches of green willow rise from a single tube of freshly cut bamboo, tied into a single circular knot, representing the commitment to togetherness and camaraderie in the year to come. For teabowls, often two are offered, one of gold and one of silver, together poetically called 島台 shima-dai, the Isle of Eternal Youth.

For my own hatsugama, I chose not to be so ostentatious. For me, a single black 天目茶碗 tenmoku chawan would do. Serving this atop a wooden 天目台 tenmokudai, I would offer up a single bowl of 濃茶 koicha to my partner, a formal 感謝 kansha, an offering of deep gratitude.

Echoing yet another first, this would be the first time that I would prepare tea in such a manner after a series of focused trainings that I had conducted with my tea teacher. During these sessions, he had meticulously drilled into me the precision of form required to prepare tea with a tenmoku chawan and tenmokudai.

From the way the teabowl is carried into the tearoom to the way that the hand glides over the wide rim of the wooden flange of the three-section tenmokudai when setting it beside the 茶入 chaire, to the cadence adopted between each motion; each have been subtly changed and adjusted, following the instruction of my teacher. As these movements slowly become muscle memory, they open my mind again, as if for the first time, to the great expanse that is the creativity and endless meditation of tea practice.

Uncovering the 茄子 nasu (eggplant-shaped) tea container from its brocaded 仕服 shifuku pouch felt like opening the New Year’s potential.

Once the silken cord was loosened, a weight seemed to have been lifted, a burden unbound.

What emerged was a humble jewel made of mottled ceramic containing just enough tea to share.

Once purified, I set about to cleanse the other tea implements. The 茶杓 chashaku, fashioned out of a piece of 檜 hinoki cypress, was cleansed with my 袱紗 fukusa and placed atop the lid of the chaire. Hot water was pulled forth from my antique iron kettle and poured into the chawan. The 茶筅 chasen was placed into this and allowed to warm.

The tenmokudai was then purified, running the folded edge of my purple silk fukusa first along the rim of the 酸漿 hōzuki (uppermost supporting cup), and then upon the top surface of the wooden flange (羽 hane).

The bowl, itself, was as black as a starless night, save for an oily splash of glaze on its outer surface and for a rim framed in metal. Once clean, it stared up at me like a mirror, like a void.

Into its center, like a crucible, I issued the first scoops of bright green 抹茶 matcha powder.

Next, setting the chashaku upon the flange of the wooden tenmokudai, I emptied the remaining tea into the teabowl.

Tilting the chaire, the matcha cascades downward, collecting into a free-form mound.

Closing the emptied chaire, I place it beside the chasen and set the chashaku once again atop its lid.

Pouring a small amount of hot water atop the tea, I begin to slowly and meticulously knead the concoction of water and powdered tea into a thick paste. Adding an additional measure of water into the bowl, I hold the chasen at an angle with my left hand so as not to let it touch the rim of the teabowl.

This, like many of the silent motions performed in this 点前 temae are a show of deep respect to both the honored guest and to the teaware itself.

Once fully mixed, the tea becomes a flat, opaque material; it, too, mirror-like in its appearance.

Pausing for a brief moment, I allow myself to breathe before I offer the bowl of tea to my partner. For a moment, we both peer upon the collected wares. Together, we wait for one another to respond. I break this pause as my hands meet to lightly grip the right and left edges of the hane of the tenmokudai. Lifting it up and setting it down closer between myself and my guest, I then turn my body to face my partner. Lifting the bowl atop the tenmokudai once more, I set it before my partner and we exchange bows. In this instance, I offer this bowl of koicha completely for her.

Offered in the formal manner using the tenmoku and tenmokudai, it harkens back to an earlier form once practiced during the 宗 Song period (969-1279), when tea was served to scholars, nobles and individuals of high honor atop lacquered stands. In this approach, the bowl is elevated above the dust and clutter of the world and was presented as an offering to one’s longevity, as tea was considered as a healthy elixir. As I offered this bowl of koicha to my partner, the first of the new year, I did so as an offering to her good health and continued vitality.

Finishing the tea, the residue of remaining koicha in the black expanse of the tenmoku chawan’s center appeared as a mere imprint of the passing moment.

As we finished our final pause before closing the early morning gathering, and before we both would part to begin our day of work, I arranged a simple 拝見 haiken of the 茶道具 chadōgu. A tea container in the shape of a small, round eggplant. A tea scoop fashioned from a portion of red-grained hinoki wood. A brocaded silk pouch decorated with chrysanthemums and pine needles. All arranged along the center of an old wooden tray for incense.

And in the alcove, a celadon 香合 kōgō made in the image of a glimmering moon, a reminder of the lunar eclipse, another first for the year.

In a singular moment such as this, we are offered the opportunity to enjoy something as if it were bestowed upon us for the very first time. The heat rising from the kettle. The soft, gentle sound of boiling water contrasting with the gusts of wind pressing through the trees. The bittersweet taste of tea still lingering in one’s senses.

As these moments come and fade, we are reminded that all time is like this. Constantly arising and constantly dying, one moment after the next. What we perceive to be future and past are merely shadows and echoes of what we know as now. One continuous moment. This first kettle for the year. The last dregs of tea. The beginner’s mind found when learning a new and ancient form. Everything for the first time, all the time.

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In the Longest Night, Tea by Candlelight

The arrival of the Winter solstice in the Northern Hemisphere marks the middle of the cold season and a foreshadowing of the year’s close. In the ancient twenty four term lunisolar calendar of East Asia, the Winter Solstice is the twenty second term, 冬至 Dōngzhì (Tōji in Japanese, 동지 Dongji in Korea), literally meaning “Winter’s Extreme”. While this may not represent the coldest moment of Winter (that usually arrives in the middle of January), it does define the extreme point in which the Sun’s rays recede, producing the shortest day and longest of the year.

In celebration of this, my partner and I have decided to hold a small gathering of friends. As the darkness of night begins to roll across the evening sky, we finish our gathering and friend part ways. My partner and I remain and decide to finish the evening with a bowl of 抹茶 matcha which we will share.

Arranging a small setting for tea in our tearoom, we keep things simple: a single 黒瀬戸茶碗 Kuro-Seto chawan, a small 肩衝茶入 katatsuki chaire (“shouldered” tea container) wrapped in a brocaded silk 仕服 shifuku pouch, a 茶杓 chashaku and 茶筅 chasen carved by the Nara-based master craftsperson 谷村丹後 Tanimura Tango.

Gathering in our small tearoom, we are accompanied by the light of one burning candle, set between host and guest. The light it casts creates curious shadows across the serpentine grain of my wooden tea table, producing dynamic bands of light and darkness.

In the shadows, the figures of Silk Road travelers rendered in vibrant golds and purples upon the brocaded shifuku are obscured.

So, too, are the thin tines of the chasen as they descend into the dark abyss of the deep chawan.

Warm wooden tones sit side-by-side the slick surfaces of ceramic glaze. The sudden flicker of the candle sends shadows shifting and scattering, settling once again. Inside the tearoom, silence and sound vacillate as I move through the methodical actions for making tea. The low hiss of the old iron kettle coming to a boil. The movement of water from 柄杓 hishaku to teabowl to 建水 kensui. The cleansing of the chawan to prepare a boil of 濃茶 koicha.

I pause and offer my partner a tea sweet made of tart citrus rind wrapped in 餅mochi, atop which ice-like flecks of crystalline sugar glisten in the candle’s light.

Next, I set about preparing a bowl of koicha. I first draw three scoops of powdered tea from the chaire, followed by pouring the remaining contents out into the teabowl.

A small measure of hot water is issued into the teabowl and I slowly begin to knead the tea into a thick paste. More water is added and I continue to mix water and tea until it reaches just the right consistency.

In the low light of the candle-lit tearoom, one can barely make out the deep emerald green of the koicha against the black of the Kuro-Seto teabowl. I pass the bowl to my partner for her to enjoy the first few sips. She then passes the bowl back to me and I finish the remaining tea.

I take a moment to cleanse the bowl once more so we can admire its form, its dark glaze and its carved 高台 kōdai. Peering into its interior, the pebbled and pocked surface of the teabowl catches every stray beam of light, illuminating the center 茶溜まり chadamari where once a small mound of matcha had once been set.

Turned over, the carved name of the artist appears outlined in shadows.

My partner and I pause once more, enjoying the view of the ink-black sky outside our window, before I begin preparing a final 拝見 haiken.

Set beneath the flickering candlelight, we enjoy what may be the last moment of the year these objects will be seen. In the week in which the Winter Solstice comes and goes, we, too, enter a period of darkness. The days feel short yet each day is filled with activity. We cannot wait for moments when we can find ourselves around those we love, whether they be distant or near.

As with every closing of a tea gathering, we bid farewell to the honored teaware. All that remains is the solitary candle, the light of which too dims with morning’s arrival.

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A Solitary Maple Tree: A Burst of Color in Winter

November is a month of surprises. As Winter takes hold of the northern hemisphere, plants and animals begin to retire into hibernation, save for those who will brave the cold. The colors of Autumn fade into drab greys and browns. In the ever-increasing rush towards the holiday season and the year’s end, it can sometimes be difficult to stop and appreciate the few colorful standouts of early Winter.

As I went walking through my neighborhood in preparation for a small tea gathering, I came across a glorious Japanese maple tree, still bearing bright crimson and gold leaves. Delighted, I quickened my pace homeward, inspired to bring an element of this moment back into my tearoom.

As I prepared for my guest’s arrival, I put together the elements for the 茶事 chaji. The first of two teas I planned to offer was a freshly ground 濃茶 koicha from Uji. To serve this, I decided to let inspiration take hold, selecting a brightly colored 天目茶碗 tenmoku chawan, which I would serve atop a wooden 天目台 tenmoku-dai. For the tea container, I selected a small 茄子 nasu (eggplant-shaped) 茶入 chaire, enrobed in a pine and chrysanthemum motif 仕服 shifuku.

With tea sifted and placed into the ceramic container, and kettle at a rising boil, I was ready to accept my guest into the tearoom. Upon arrival, they were greeted by the light scent of incense paired with a cup of hot water to offer respite from the cold. As they waited in the tearoom, they were given the opportunity to pause and inspect the hanging scroll.

Rather than serve a formal meal, I offered a simple bowl of お茶漬 ochazuke, rice with tea poured onto it. Afterwards, warm barley tea was offered in lieu of sake.

Once finished, I gave my guest the chance to relax in my sitting room, enjoying the view of the forest outside my window. In this short period of time, I set up the tearoom to serve koicha, replacing the scroll with a flower and bringing in the 水指 mizusashi and setting the chaire before it. The effect of this transformed the small space of my tearoom, ready and refreshed for the guest’s return, purposefully arranged for the preparation of a single bowl of thick tea.

Closing the door behind me, both host and guest sit alone in the intimate space of the tearoom. The light of the day has grown dim, covered by a gauzy blanket of clouds. As I set the chawan down, balanced atop the wooden teabowl stand, I steady my breath and focus my mind.

Placing the chaire in front of the teabowl, I proceed to remove it from its silken shifuku pouch, pulling the twisted purple cord and peeling it out from the cloth.

Once removed, the little ceramic tea container glows like a small, mysterious jewel, inside which exists a treasure.

Turning my focus to the teabowl and tea implements, I begin to cleanse each, rearranging them into new positions. The 茶杓 chashaku to rest atop the lid of the chaire.

The 茶筅 chasen to sit beside the chaire.

Taking the chashaku with my right hand, I bow and invite my guest to enjoy a sweet. Taking the chaire with my left hand, I remove the lid and pull three scoops of tea from it. Setting the chashaku down across the rim of the chawan, I begin to pour out the remaining tea from the chaire.

The fine bright green powder begins to cascade in a thin stream out of the ceramic container, producing small plumes of tea dust as it falls into the chawan.

Once settled, the tea rests in brilliant contrast against the iridescent red and gold interior of the tenmoku chawan.

Adding a small amount of boiling water into the teabowl instantly awakens the intense aroma of the 抹茶 matcha powder.

From this, I begin the process of methodically kneading the tea powder into a thick, lacquer-like paste, enjoying the small vignette of dark green tea collecting on the thin tines of the bamboo chasen.

Adding an additional portion of hot water to the concoction, I finish preparing the bowl of koicha.

For a moment, both host and guest enjoy the silence of the tearoom and the vista within the teabowl.

Lifting the teabowl with the wooden tenmokudai, I set it in front of my guest. We bow and my guest enjoys the bowl of koicha at their own pace.

Returning the bowl back to me, all that remains is the thick residue of koicha, an echo of an action, a record written in tea.

I finish the offering of tea by cleansing the teabowl and setting the implements within its concave hollow.

I set the chaire beside it.

Curious to learn more about the arrangement, I prepare an informal 拝見 haiken for my guest.

Silently we inspect the teaware together.

They ask about the maker, the origin, the reasoning why I might select one object over another.

Why would an eggplant-shaped chaire be fit for November?

Why a teascoop carved from a section of cedar be appropriate?

Why invoke a pine tree and chrysanthemum, stitched within the fine brocade of a silk shifuku pouch? In tea these are all 公案 kōan. Questions without any logical answer.

When asked what the name of the teabowl was, I answer “暈け Boke”. When then they ask for what reason I have named it thus, all I can reply is “It reminded a photographer of the blurring and obscuring of fine details in a photograph. Today it is the many leaves of the 紅葉 momiji. Tomorrow, who knows.”

We bow again and I set the objects aside. In the quiet of the tearoom, the kettle begins to boil again, the clouds begin to lift, and the day wanes towards mid-afternoon. Perhaps it is time to enjoy looking upon the forest outside my window again, to return for a final bowl of 薄茶 usucha.

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