It’s November. Look around. What do you see? A world spinning, almost as if out of control. Firm forms feel frayed at their edges. Weathered and tattered against the cold. The old balance tilts and we are left wondering if it will ever be restored. Should it?
The march from Autumn to Winter can feel endless, but, assuredly, it begins as the first leaf changes color, as the first swift cold wind pushes its way beneath your coat, as the soil in the garden cools, as the first sign of decay becomes unavoidable. Decay comes in many forms, startling and sad. In the world of tea, one can’t help but to anticipate its arrival for once it is here, we cannot help but to welcome its presence into the tearoom.
In early Winter, this comes with the transition from the portable 風炉 furo (lit. “wind furnace”) to the 炉 ro (sunken hearth), bringing the heat of the hearth closer to the guests, a welcomed sight as the days and weeks grow ever-colder. Yet, even before this, for a brief moment, the stability of the tea space is shaken. The furo does not immediately disappear, but, instead, shifts to the center of the host’s mat (点前座 temaeza), and the 水指 mizusashi (fresh water jar) is placed further away from the guest. This arrangement (中置 nakaoki, lit. “center placement”) typically only occurs in October (although I tend to practice this throughout Winter), and, like an Autumn leaf which clings to the branch of a weathered tree, this captures the essence of the tenuous nature of the world before it, too, plunges headlong into a new form.
The observance of decay is core to the practice of tea. Indeed, it is the celebrated quality that defines 侘び寂び wabi-sabi, and that guides the aesthetic of 茶の湯 chanoyu towards the austere and rustic, the simple and imperfect, the modest and asymmetrical. The lack of balance that is everywhere in the world, which at times can create the sensation of a wild, tumbling free fall, is what drives chanoyu from moment to moment. Not static, but dynamic, by early Winter, this crashing is captured perfectly by the gentle sound of a sudden but brief rain (時雨 shigure), of the soft rustle of red 紅葉 momiji leaves that fall and curl against the cold earth, of the silence that arises when the first snowflakes dance across the grey November sky.
In my tea space, now weathered by the years, decay seems to become more apparent each time I open its door.
I can tell how often I have enjoyed its company by the steady growth of cobwebs that have been forming against its lone window, a gift from a spider I’ve befriended since late Summer. Her web, a silken shelter, kept warm by the thin walls of my makeshift tea hut, appears to me as a readymade art piece, which I choose to celebrate as much as the scroll or flower I set in my 床の間 tokonoma.
She, like the moss that grows on the roof and vine that creeps between the crack in the door, reminds me that even with decay there is vibrancy and life.
As I let my kettle boil and allow the temperature of the small room to rise, I arrange teawares beside it and enjoy the sound of the wind outside. The darkness of the tea space is broken by light reflecting off of lacquer and catching against the interior of a black teabowl.
The black lacquered 棗 natsume holds within it enough tea to entertain a party of guests, but today I practice alone. The image which adorns its shining surface of a gathered bundle of wood, an axe, and a gourd fashioned into a drinking vessel, all rendered in gold and silver dust by artist 田中平安 Tanaka Heian, feels in accordance with the world around it.
It represents a meager collection of what’s left over by the remainder of the year. Leaves cast about, brilliant in their sheen, but no longer secured atop their trees, are left to wither and rot. The axe, often emblematic of virility in the context of traditional Japanese symbolism, feels more utilitarian against the heaped and tied-up twigs.
A quick look out the window of my teahouse reveals a similar image as I have recently begun the closing of my garden for the Winter, all it’s missing is the 瓢箪 hyōtan gourd and its magical powers.
The teabowl, a 黒楽茶碗 kuro-raku chawan by famed ceramicist 佐々木松楽 Sasaki Shōraku III, feels cavernous in the dark space.
Unable to see to its bottom, it calls to mind the concept of 幽玄 yūgen, which evokes the feeling of the unknown within a dark and mysterious world. Into the concave I first pour hot water to cleanse and warm the bowl.
Then three scoops of tea.
A half ladle of hot water from the kettle…
…and then the tea and water concoction is whisked into a bright foam.
As I sit and peer down into the bowl, as I listen to the wind and sound of the steaming kettle…
…the din caught within this little world of tea feels as thin as the walls around me.
It’s hard to sit for tea when the world is seemingly spiraling out of control. Losing one’s center can feel uncomfortable. The sure thing one might have clung to, now gone, can feel destabilizing. Fear, sadness, and, at times, terror can arise.
But with decay comes the removal of superfluous forms. Trees without their leaves reveal the branches beneath, cold and bare.
The structures, once obscured, now can be examined for what they are.
Sometimes the mightiest of trees can appear spindly, more vulnerable once they have been stripped of their verdant garb. Huts, too, once decay sets in, let slip their secrets, weak points in walls, gaps where gusts of wind pour through, cracks in their foundation.
In observance of decay, I look to myself, to my hands, to the skin that wraps around these bones. How they hold each object for tea.
How they’ve practiced for almost twenty years to learn how to move and place the various wares in accordance to an oral tradition that stretches back for centuries.
I wonder how the movements they make have been maintained over time, and how the muscles in my body now know where to place each object.
I question if their eventual decay over time will mean the deterioration of my practice, as the body weakens and memory diminishes.
As I close the lid of the steaming kettle and of the cold water jar, I close my tea practice session with a final 拝見 haiken.
As I look upon the natsume once more, I see my hands, my body, my face reflected in the slick surface of its black lacquer.
In its mirror-like finish I can see myself.
I notice how my skin has changed with time, how my beard has grown.
I see someone who at this time last year was not yet a father and now sees himself as one.
I see the past and the present collide.
In my study of tea, I study myself. As I study myself, I see that which I’ve known as myself change and dissolve over time.
As that self changes, transforms, decays, it is eventually forgotten, actualized by the myriad of things that surround me in this chaotic world.
Body and mind, like leaves on a tree, drop away.
No trace of the old self, of the body, the mind, the tea, the lacquer container, the tree, the leaves, the world we knew remain.
Once fully decayed, everything gone, what continues on?