Tag Archives: Tearoom

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The 茶筅 chasen is lifted and set beside the natsume.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leaping and fluttering, flapping and climbing.

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

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

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

Saying Goodbye to the Past

April has come and now wanes. The days seem to get gradually longer. The cold of Winter is now just a distant memory. The cherry blossoms hang heavy from their branches. The early blooms of dogwood explode against the deep blue sky. The buds wisteria and peonies swell. Spring has climbed to apex and, now, begins to close. The gradual shift to Summer comes slowly, yet, all around, it is palpable.

In the world of 茶の湯 chanoyu, the tea practitioner marks this with the closure of the 炉 ro. For the tea person, this moment, 炉塞 rofusagi, marks the end of the cold months, when heat needed to be conserved, and guests gathered closely to the sunken hearth. As with the shift of the seasons, this transformation is gradual, first with the hanging kettle (釣り釜 tsurigama) being suspended with a chain, later succeeded by kettles that may have a wide flange (透木釜 tsukigigama), held up by small wooden supports.

As the shape and style of each kettle changes, so too, do their relation to heat, becoming cooler as Winter’s chill fades. So loved is the ro, with its cozy, informal attitude, that poet and tea person 三味 Sanmi stated 「塞ぐ炉に五徳の痩もなつかしき」, “Even the naked trivet is missed when we close the ro”.

Now, in the final days of Spring, as the heat increases, one must decide when to close the ro all together, to begin the other half of the tea year. In saying goodbye to the ro, one says goodbye to the past.

While I do not have a ro, I bear all of this in mind. My attitude towards tea during the ro season is to keep things more 侘び wabi, more rustic, more understated. Rather than use my 風炉 furo, I opt for using an antique 火鉢 hibachi, one made of a single burl of 桐 kiri. Like the ro, the hibachi brings about a more relaxed feeling, one which favors simple austerity over refinery.

Early this morning I set up the hibachi under the window of my tearoom. Next to the charcoal, I place a small hand-shaped ball of 練香 nerikō into the ash, and set the iron kettle over the heat of the brazier for it to boil.

As the water warms, I begin to prepare for tea, sifting bright green 抹茶 matcha into a multi-color 若狭塗棗 Wakasanuri natsume. In my New York City kitchen, I wash a teabowl and wet a white linen 茶巾 chakin and 茶筅 chasen made of spotted bamboo. I bring these into my tearoom, right as the water begins to come to a boil.

As I prepare the wares for tea, I set them before me. A small teabowl made by contemporary potter 二階堂明弘 Nikaido Akihiro accompanies the Wakasanuri natsume, its deep purple interior and rough exterior, swathed in brushstrokes of carbonized lacquer, harmonize with the irregular patterns of polished lacquer of the tea container.

I cleanse the natsume. It sparkles like a jewel.

I shift my attention to the simple wooden wares set into the teabowl.

The 茶杓 chashaku of dark bamboo, which I set atop the lid of the natsume.

The chasen, which I warm and cleanse in the water drawn from my kettle.

The bowl dries unevenly. Tiny facets of sand shine, embedded in the clay.

I place three scoops of matcha into the center of the teabowl. With a light tap against the interior, I remove any excess tea dust from the tip of the chashaku.

I draw water from the kettle and pour half a ladle’s worth into the bowl. With this last ladle of water drawn from the kettle, what will I make? The last water warmed by the hearth of Winter. Half a year has come and gone. What has happened during this time? What will be left in the past?

I breathe deeply and bring the whisk into the water, mixing the tea as I begin to whip it into a fine foam. The scent of tea and the aroma from the nerikō meld together into a sweet, spicy, warm fragrance. The world around me feels quiet as my mind and body concentrate.

As I lift the chasen from the teabowl, a low peak of tea is formed. As I sit and turn to the informal hibachi, I join it, the stillness, and the sound of the water climbing back to a boil.

The teabowl is warm in my hands. The rough surface of its outer walls feel like bark on an old cypress tree. The uneven patination of its interior of deep purple contrasts against the bright green of tea. I take a sip, letting the warmth of the tea sink into my body. I sip again, filling my heart. I take one final sip, pulling up the last of the foam in one inhalation.

All that remains are the dregs.

I close the sitting by cleansing the wares once again. The chasen is wetted. The bowl is rinsed. The dust that clings to the chashaku is wiped away and brushed off into the 建水 kensui. Cool water is drawn from the 水指 mizusashi and mixed with the warm water of the 茶釜 chagama.

The tearoom becomes still again and in this silence I sit and meditate.

From the 床間 tokonoma, I bring out a small 織部焼き Oribeyaki 香合 kōgō by 松本鉄山 Matsumoto Tetsuzan.

Its rough shape and uneven application of glaze feels relaxed yet warm, comforting. Memories of the past Winter and early Spring, when new sprigs were bright green on the pine, when drifts of snow first came and last melted away. A sense of nowness melding with the bittersweet quality of the past. This is how memory works. It is joy tinged with sadness. What is gone shall never come back. When we see it again, what reappears shall be different, transformed.

I open the little kōgō to find two remaining hand-formed balls of nerikō. Their fragrance is soft, warm, spicy and relaxed. In time, this too will fade. Everything subtly, constantly, instance-over-instance, transforming, waxing and waning, until Winter turns to Spring, then Spring to Summer. In this, we are always saying goodbye. Saying goodbye to the past.

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Filed under Ceramics, Green Tea, 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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Clear and Bright

Looking out my tearoom window, the sky is clear and bright. Peering down upon my wooden tea table, the light casts long shadows. All around me, the world faces sickness and death. All around me, Spring is in full bloom.

On April 4th this year is 清明節 Qīngmíng jié, a day when families in China traditionally sweep the tombs of their ancestors and the day when green tea picking begins in earnest. While the world has been forced to adjust to the impact of a broad-sweeping pandemic, the traditional, as well as natural cycles still continue.

I offer incense in respect to the dead. I pour cool fresh water into my kettle and set it to boil. I bring together a vintage white porcelain 潮州茶盤 Cháozhōu chápán, 蓋碗 gàiwǎn, and four 品茗杯 pǐn mìng bēi.

The white porcelain is intended to enable the tea drinker to enjoy the unaltered color of the tea liqueur. Alas, in East Asia, white is often seen as the color of death and mourning. The four cups, too, infer this as the number four (四 ) in the Chinese language is a homonym for the word “death” (死 ).

This set up is not typical for me. Rarely do I use four cups. Rarely do I invite the notion of death to my tea table. Yet, it seems fitting. The world is in the grip of death, now seemingly more than ever. However, today is clear and bright. Both forces happening at the same time, not in opposition.

For tea, I bring forth a small handful of 碧螺春 Bì Luó Chūn. Made up of uniformly curled small leaf buds, this tea was harvested in March of 2019, a week prior to that year’s Qīngmíng festival. Picked this early means that the weather in the mountains surrounding 太湖 Tài Hú in southern 江蘇 Jiāngsū will still be cold.

The young tea buds will still be covered in a coating of silvery hairs (白毫 bái háo). If picked and processed correctly, the resulting flavor of this 清明前 Qīngmíng qián (pre-Qīngmíng) tea will be sweet, complex, and brighter than teas picked later in the year.

Now over a year old, I expect this tea to be a shadow of itself. However, in light of the current state of the world, it will be a taste of life before all of this happened. What will it taste like?

With the water boiled, I rinse the wares, warming them in preparation for making tea. Leaving the lid of the kettle open to allow it to cool down in order to properly brew this delicate tea, I wait and let the heat dissipate. As I wait, I open the window to my tearoom. The sound of birds. Breeze pushing the steam from the mouth of the kettle.

As the water cools, I begin to place the tiny tea leaves into the center of the warmed gàiwǎn, using a thin twig from a willow tree to arrange them evenly along the bottom of the porcelain vessel.

Slowly I pour water along the inner edge of gàiwǎn so as not to directly touch the heap of tea, ensuring that it is able to cool slightly before coming in contact with the tea leaves. The tiny curls of Bì Luó Chūn lift upwards, buoyant for a moment as the water rises in the gàiwǎn.

As I finish pouring water from my kettle, the leaves slowly begin to cascade downwards, spinning and setting at the bottom of the porcelain vessel, occasionally rising and falling again. I leave the lid of the gàiwǎn off and watch this dance play out, admiring how the tiny buds writhe and open, releasing their pale green pigment into the warm water.

A few seconds later and I carefully place the lid atop the gàiwǎn and tilt the cup, pouring its contents from one cup to the next until all are full. I give the gàiwǎn a quick shake and return it back down upon the ceramic surface of the Cháozhōu chápán.

I lift the lid and let the leaves cool. As I place the lid down atop a jade archer’s thumb ring, I marvel in two tiny sprouts that have affixed themselves to the bottom of the lid. Two tiny artifacts from the previous year. Remnants of an early Spring. How much the world has changed since then. How much still remains the same.

I call for my partner to break from her weekend work and join me for cups of tea. The flavor is still vibrant, grassy, intoxicating. Having been stored away for a year, time has not had a dramatic effect on the tiny leaves.

The color of the tea liqueur is bright and clear. A pale green gold against the clean white porcelain. The aroma is sweet like the flowering fruit trees of Spring.

As we finish the first steeping, I continue to brew a second and third.

The leaves open further, unfurling and expanding, offering up a golden hue and lasting flavor.

Fourth and fifth steepings are sweeter, lighter.

Sixth and seventh are sublime and fleeting.

All that is left by the last brew are spent leaves and a fond memory.

As late morning turns to midday, the sun climbs high in the sky, the shadows shorten, the sky becomes clear and bright.

Birdsong beams through canyons of brick and concrete. Breezes bush through blossoms and trees. The scent of tea mingles with the sweet aroma of blooming flowers. Another stick of incense is lit in memory of the dead.

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Filed under Ceramics, China, Education, Green Tea, Incense, Meditation, Tea, Tea Tasting

Tea for the Dead. Tea for the Living.

On the March 28th, schools of 茶の湯 chanoyu observe the death of 16th century tea master 千利休Sen no Rikyū (1522-1591). Recognized as one of the primary figures to shape chanoyu, notably the aesthetic of 侘び茶 wabi-cha, Rikyū’s tea contained a strong emphasis on rusticity and austerity, framing tea as an expression of a moment’s evanescence. This philosophy lives on in the schools that continued Rikyū’s approach, passed down from teacher to student, tea master to countless generations.

On this day, 利休忌 Rikyūki, I am observing the tradition of formally offering tea, 供茶 kucha, to the memory of Rikyū. In light of the current events that have swept through our world, it seems only fitting to prepare a bowl of tea for the dead.

Entering my tearoom, the the light that filters through the windows is dull and grey. The sound of light rain melds with the low bubbling of the boiling water inside my iron 茶釜 chagama. The soft scent of incense rises from a ceramic incense burner set in the 床間 tokonoma. I carry with me a bowl and black lacquer 棗 natsume in the form favored by Rikyū. The teabowl is meant just for cleansing the 茶筅 chasen.

With my 袱紗 fukusa, I purify the natsume and 茶杓 chashaku.

With hot water, I wet the tea whisk and set the teabowl aside.

Next I bring forth a black 天目茶碗 tenmoku chawan set atop a wooden 天目台 tenmokudai.

Cleansing the bowl in hot water from my iron chagama, I place the teabowl back upon the wooden stand.

Rather than place tea into the chawan, I first ladle hot water into the bowl.

Next, I draw 抹茶 matcha from the black lacquer natsume and place this upon the surface of the hot water.

For a moment, I watch the tea powder float upon the still water. Steam and small wave-like patterns of tea powder swirl until, slowly, the tea beings to sink below the water’s surface. Not a commonly performed 点前 temae, the strange sight of tea floating and then falling sparks something inside me.

A pang of sadness washes over me as I stand up with teabowl in hand to place it in the tokonoma, set beside an offering of a sweet, flowers found along a path in my neighborhood, a candle and incense. I bow and realize that this bowl is not just meant as an offering for a dead tea master but for all those who have been cut down prematurely by the current pandemic.

I return to sit before the chagama and produce a single 黒楽茶碗 kuroRaku chawan; again, a form favored by Rikyū. As I cleanse this bowl, one which I will serve to my partner, I cannot help but to feel the futility in this act. Certainly, tea was seen as a medicine for so many centuries, yet will this bowl of tea be enough to save ourselves?

I warm the whisk and wipe the bowl.

It’s surface sparkles back, dark, black.

Into the deep void of the bowl I cast scoops of tea, creating a deeper indentation into the mound of matcha inside the black lacquer natsume.

I return the tea container back and set the chashaku atop its mirror-like lid. Pockmarked with tiny black 胡麻 goma speckles, the pattern resembles the light shower of raindrops outside my tearoom window.

I add water to the teabowl and whisk the tea into a fine foam.

I lift the bowl and set it beside me for my partner to accept.

We smile to one another. We feel alive. She lifts the bowl and turns it so as not to drink from its 正面 shōmen. She smiles and sips the tea.

In the tokonoma, the candlelight flickers against the grey light and casts shadows against the wall. A soft scent of incense wanes. The sound of the kettle humming. The final slurp of tea is audible.

The black Raku bowl is returned to me with a bright remaining mound of foam sitting in its center. Fleeting residual evidence of a peaceful moment, of a time shared with someone I love. A bowl of tea for the living shared with a bowl of tea for the dead.

I cleanse the bowl and pass it back to my partner and we take a moment to examine its 高台 kōdai.

A carved curl in the clay made by 楽焼 Rakuyaki master 佐々木松楽 Sasaki Shōraku III. His stamp set beside the foot ring of the bowl. His lasting legacy imprinted in clay and glaze. Fragile. Light in the hands.

Afterwards, I put together a final informal 拝見 haiken. The plain black lacquer natsume is set beside the chashaku.

We lift the lid to examine the tea inside its glossy interior.

We look upon the chashaku. A rounded scoop. Its speckled skin. The countless marks upon its surface. What was its life before it came to us? What did your face look like before your parents were born? What will life bring? Where will so many deaths take us?

My partner and I sit in the tearoom, thinking about the flavor of tea, the sound of the rain, the lingering scent of incense. We talk about life. We talk about death. We grieve for those who have been lost. About those we don’t even know. About the inevitability of death. About the chance happening of love. There’s a bowl of tea in the alcove for a dead tea master. There’s an empty bowl of tea shared by two friends.

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Crossing the Divide of Spring

As the weather warms and Spring continues to emerge in the Northern Hemisphere, we’re given a moment to pause briefly and appreciate the transition that is brought about by the vernal equinox. Even as the world finds itself in the grip of a terrible pandemic, the view from my window echoes the many ancient and timeless shifts that the equinox heralds.

The crocus have pushed up through the dark earth. The 梅 ume plum blossoms have opened and are now being scattered in the wind. The first magnolias of the year are beginning to peek from their velvetine jackets, in vibrant bursts of white, pink and pale yellow. The 連翹 rengyō (liánqiáo in Mandarin, Forsythia in English) look like thousands of tiny golden bells ringing in the breeze. Even on a morning after the rain, the world seems bright, alive and full of energy.

The vernal equinox holds with it another meaning too. As the natural world comes to life, in Japan, practitioners of Buddhism in and 茶の湯 chanoyu alike observe 彼岸 Higan. Similar to the 盆 Bon, which is celebrated during the Autumn equinox, Higan is a moment to reflect upon the transitory nature of life, the passing of the dead, and the movement from a world of delusion to one of awakening and enlightenment.

Higan literally means “the other shore”, referring to crossing from a shore of suffering to the other shore of nirvana. 彼岸会 Higan-e are the series of rituals that are conducted in Japanese Buddhist temples during this time, done to aid in the removal of suffering and delusion for all sentient beings and those who have passed. Graves are cleansed. Altars are tidied. Flowers are offered. Sweets of pounded rice covered in red bean jelly are enjoyed (牡丹餅 botamochi). Tea is offered as well.

In my tearoom, I sit and listen to the gentle bubbling heating water inside my antique 茶釜 chagama.

As I wait for the water to boil, I set out a 黒楽茶碗 kuro Raku chawan by ceramics master 佐々木松楽 Sasaki Shōraku III.

I pair with it a 若狭塗棗 Wakasanuri natsume, the multitude of colors upon its surface nodding to the five colors in Buddhism (panchavarna in Sanskrit), each of which refers to five buddhas and the transformation of delusions into awakenings.

With the kettle at a full boil, I begin to cleanse the tea objects to prepare a bowl of 薄茶 usucha. The sun shining through the grey clouds outside my window casts long shadows against the wooden floor beams. The natsume with the 茶杓 chashaku made of mottled bamboo set atop its lid sitting side-by-side the 茶筅 chasen.

A wooden 木魚 mokugyo.

A copper bell and book of Zen chants.

A ladle’s-worth of hot water from my iron kettle is poured into the chawan and I cleanse the chasen, warming the bowl as I do this.

I pause briefly after drying the bowl, only to move to distribute 抹茶 matcha into it. Three scoops and a gentle tap of the chashaku against the teabowl interior, shaking off the remaining tea dust.

Cool water from my 水指 mizusashi is drawn and mixed with the hot water inside the chagama; balance before creation. A half-ladle’s-worth of water is poured into the chawan, the remainders returned to the kettle; just enough to make a bowl of tea. With chasen lightly held in my right hand, I whisk the tea into a fine foam.

For a moment I sit to enjoy the colors. The blush-hued central node upon the bamboo stalk that makes the handle to my 柄杓 hishaku.

The bright electric green of the matcha radiating from a jet-black bowl. The shimmering gold, green, black, red and silver lacquer of the natsume. The swirling and smoky pattern upon the surface of the chashaku.

So easy it can be to get lost in this material world. In the refinement of objects. In the sensations that keep us bound to our bodies and the pleasures of the mundane. Yet what do pleasures and desires create? A veil? A mighty weight? From the same source of joy too brings suffering. To cross from one mind to the next. Is there a river to ford? One shore leading to another?

I look deep into the center of the chawan, a perfect plane of foam, a vast ocean of tea. My life submerged in this. Fragrant. Delicious. Satiated.

And yet as I drink this down to its final dregs, my mind still wanders. A bowl of tea made to mark the vernal equinox, to quell the cold in hope for warm months ahead. To abate delusion and awaken the mind. To build a bridge from suffering. To ebb desire that laps against the other shore.

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Tea in Time of Turmoil

For the past months, the world has seemed to grow increasingly more tense. In January, we saw the US and Iran lock horns in an episode that briefly saw both nations mobilize and perform acts of violent retaliation. Years of civil war in Yemen continues to spiral into a bloody quagmire. Protests in Hong Kong, France, Chile, Palestine, India, and Northern Syria are just a sampling of the ongoing and ever-worsening environment of instability. Even on a biological level, with the outbreak and worldwide spread of the Coronavirus COVID-19 (2019-nCoV), the fragility of our little world seems to be evermore at the whims and caprice of unforeseen and uncontrollable forces.

In such a situation, how can one even think of tea? Yet, perhaps it is at this very moment that tea is most needed. For the bulk of two decades now I have practiced 茶の湯 chanoyu, an art that has its origins in meditative self-cultivation of 禪 Zen Buddhism and collaborative arts like 連歌 renga and 香道 kōdō.

Yet, especially during times like we see today, I remain ever-aware that chanoyu was also an art appropriated and practiced by the warrior class of medieval Japan. Developed during an age of chaotic extremes, what today we call chanoyu emerged during the 戦国時代 Sengoku Jidai, “Age of Warring States” (c. 1467 – c. 1615). In a period which saw endless military, political and social strife wreak havoc in all corners of the Japanese archipelago, the Way of Tea (茶道 chadō) was not merely a means to escape into a world of quietude, it was also a way to reclaim space and time, defiantly, if need be, against the pale of constant violence and upheaval.

While the current situation surrounding the COVID-19 virus may not be as violent, it is quite jarring. People are suffering and many have died. The word I knew a month ago is not the world I live in today. Governments at large seem to offer little guidance in this moment and, instead, the response has been largely grassroots. For the while, all we can do is remain in self isolation, hoping for the worst to pass and that our mere presence does not adversely affect those around us.

During this last week, as mandatory social distancing and quarantine swiftly became the new norm, I found myself far from my little tea room in New York City, instead lodged-up alone in a friend’s vacated and empty home in rural upstate New York. As I knew I would be here for a while, I managed to bring with me a small collection of teaware, just enough to make a bowl of 抹茶 matcha during my sequestering, made portable through the means of packing the tea objects away in an old vintage metal tool box.

As I sat in the sparsely furnished attic of my friend’s house, spent a morning I arranging a small setting for tea. In lieu of 畳 tatami, I used a broad stretch of woven indigo cloth to define the impromptu tea space. Setting the tool box at the upper end of this cloth, I undid its mechanical latch, opening its machine-hewn lid, and pulling forth a simple 黒瀬戸茶碗 KuroSeto chawan, 茶筅 chasen, and 茶杓 chashaku. For a tea caddy, I opted to keep the matcha in the metal tin it came in, it seemingly harmonizing well with the old tool box.

Lacking any proper brazier or traditional iron kettle, I made due with a small mass-produced kettle. Wanting to keep everything together and self contained, I placed the kettle atop the old tool box, itself becoming something like an improvised shelf for a modified 点前 temae I hoped to perform.

Setting the teaware before me, I began to make a solitary bowl of tea. As I began, I could sense my mind shift from the din of world events to the silence of the tea space. The wares before set before me, having travelled in the small metal tool box, seemed smaller than before, as if they were all that remained of a life I left back in the bustling, chaotic city.

The black lacquered tea tin is cleansed with my folded 袱紗 fukusa and then is placed atop the old tool box.

Next, I turned my gaze to the chawan and assorted wares collected within it. I purified the chashaku.

I warmed the whisk. I waited and watched it sigh heavily, observing its submerged tines expand outward in the in the warm water collected within the teabowl.

I arrange each object, shifting from their place of rest into action and back to rest again. Where they had once begun, they since moved, ready to perform.

The bowl, now a vacant void, is ready to receive the matcha.

Scooping out three small portions of tea powder, I place each into the center of the chawan, creating a small heap in the vessel’s center.

Placing the chasen over the tiny mound, I then pour water over the thin bamboo blades, producing a delicate cascade and evenly distributing the liquid over the tea. As with every time before, the result of the hot water mixing with the freshly-ground green tea produced an effluence of bright, intense aroma. However, for some unknown reason, my response to this feels different. A sense of distance, of detachment from the world outside my window fills me, a feeling of longing for home yet not quite being able to locate where that is.

As I whisk the tea into a thick foam, my mind lingers on this thought, it floating buoyant amidst my otherwise focused mind which keeps in step with my task at hand. I sit back to appreciate the bowl of tea, first as it is set before me and then, again, as I place it against the wide expanse of woven indigo cloth.

The bowl and my mind seem to be adrift, caught upon an endless sea. I pause and take the first sip.

My eyes gaze upwards to exposed wooden beams that cut laterally across the apex of the attic’s ceiling.

I take another sip and my eyes settle upon a wound-up ball of hempen rope, its appearance reminiscent of the rope-bound 止め石 tomeishi that mark a closed path within the 露地 roji.

I finish the final dregs matcha and set the bowl back before me, appreciating the remnants of foam that cling to the inner walls of the black-glazed chawan. In this moment of meditation, I am reminded of the stories of the early warrior tea practitioners.

During the height of the “tea craze” that swept through Japan’s elite classes during the 16th century, it was not uncommon for high-ranking samurai to accept a bowl of tea before heading out to face battle. Often was the case that this would be their last. The notions of ephemerality and impermanence that permeates chanoyu was, in many ways, the very essence of these individuals whose lives were marked by endless martial conflict.

Words we now may casually admire upon a scroll such as 一期一会 ichigo ichie, were brutally realized by many in their own, often short lifetimes. Now facing these uncertain times, will I, too, or those near and dear to me come to realize this with the passing of their own lives? To avoid such realities is itself a delusion.

In tea, we practice recognizing the evanescence of all things that come and go. A season. A flower. A moment. A life. There is an uneasiness when we try to hold on to something that must, in truth, pass. We all feel this. To ignore it is a delusion as well. To sit with it, however, to meditate upon what it means and how it feels, perhaps this is the way.

As I cleanse the teabowl once again, I wipe away the remaining residue of tea from the ceramic vessel. Traces of green collect in the woven fabric of the white linen 茶巾 chakin. I brush off the remaining tea dust that clings to the chashaku, and shake this off into the 建水 kensui.

I place the objects back to rest, their purpose being met. I sit back once more and admire the wares.

The small kettle. The old tool box. The array of teawares of ceramic, bamboo, tin and cloth. All to be packed up again, collected into a box. Ready to make a move. Ready for action. Ready to create a space for tea and for time at any moment.

I remember looking up to the window peeking out the gabled roof. What world resides out on the other side? What world will that be tomorrow?

Now back in New York City, days since this bowl of tea, the moment long since faded, these questions still have no resolution. The tomorrow I had envisioned in the past never came. Something else, entirely unknown and unexpected, has come in its place. Yet the broad expanse of sky that I peered out upon back then is the same that I see today. What change will come?

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The Fragility of Spring

With the first few true days of Spring upon us here in the Northern Hemisphere, the world feels fresh, the air crisp and easy. While trees still appear barren from Winter’s icy grip, upon closer inspection, each branch is laden with tiny buds, waiting to burst into leaf or flower at any moment. The pines stand with their new needles clumped together in their bright electric green. The 梅 ume plum blossoms are deep sanguineous red. The magnolia flowers still remain wrapped in their thick and fuzzy sheaths. Below, the new shoots of bright green grass push up through the soil and a light Spring shower brings earthworms to the surface, frogs to the full creeks.

There exists a sense of newness everywhere. Yet, as with every moment we encounter, early Spring holds with it a sense of fragility. The season is not yet at its full apex. Its energy, while rising, presents itself through the most delicate of means. The ume plum blossoms can be pulled down by the slightest of breezes. The shoots of grass are thin and pliable. The pine needles are soft to the touch. On the warmer days, butterflies come out and dance on the early blooming flowers. Both blossoms’ petals and butterflies’ wings are translucent and transient, gone by season’s end.

In Japan, early March is marked with a number of observances that reflect the evanescence of life. On March 3rd, 雛祭り Hinamatsuri, “Dolls Festival” or “Girls’ Day” is celebrated. In ancient times, as is still done now, dolls made of fine paper and brocade depicting the ancient imperial court are arranged in celebration of childhood. Traditionally, dolls were also placed on small grass boats and sent down the river (流し雛 nagashibina) as a means to rid oneself of potentially dangerous impurities.

Older, still, was the practice of 曲水の宴 kyokusuinoen, where courtiers would float cups of wine down a winding river, sending them to other scholars downstream who, upon collecting and imbibing the contents, would compose an impromptu poem. Older than this, March 3rd was celebrated by the ancients as 桃の節句 Momo no Sekku, “Peach Festival”, marking the moment when the delicate peach blossoms would emerge.

With all this activity in early March, the days can feel full, a new page turning with every day that passes. For the tea practitioner, the emerging of Spring feels all the more palpable as each moment had with tea brings new opportunities to reflect upon the newest developments and those soon to come. For myself, I find this activity to drive me to wanting quietude and time in nature. While I have been planning a trip up the Hudson River, I find myself restless, still caught in New York City. With talk of a spreading international pandemic and the ever-swirling political environment of the United States churning, the sense of fragility seems all the more present in my mind.

Settling down in my tearoom, I find my 取り合わせ toriawase to be a mirror onto this moment. Rather than sit with my old bronze brazier, I bring forth my small ceramic 涼炉 ryōro, atop which I place a white clay ボーフラ bōfura kettle.

Equally informal, I pair this with a lacquered 盆 bon. For a teabowl, I use a blush-colored vintage 萩焼茶碗 Hagiyaki chawan.

For a tea container, I improvise with an antique Chinese enameled cloisonné box, decorated with a bright butterfly and flowers motif against a black background.

Removing teabowl and tea container from the bon, I go through the process of initially cleansing each item.

Wiping the surface of the tea caddy with the 袱紗 fukusa, I lift its lid to inspect the mound of 抹茶 matcha powder held within.

After cleansing the 茶杓 chashaku, I turn my attention to the 茶筅 chasen and teabowl, rinsing each with the warm water from the small clay kettle.

Once purified, I scoop matcha into the warm chawan. In the warm light of the day, the color of the Hagiyaki glaze glows, reminiscent of the pale hue of a peach blossom.

The color of the bright matcha beaming like a fresh leaf.

The remaining tea residue against the dark bamboo, bright like fine moss against a branch. Each ware, a celebration of this brief moment caught within the season.

Fully whisked, the tea looks inviting, as relaxing as a Spring day. Its aroma pungent and fresh. Its flavor full of vigor and vitality.

Lifting the bowl to my lips, I sip the tea down to its last dregs, enjoying the remnants of tea that still clings to the chawan’s interior.

Turning the bowl over, I enjoy its shape in my hand and the unctuous glaze that had collected along the edge of the exposed clay around the 高台 kōdai.

I sit and let this moment wash over me. The sound of a cardinal outside my window. The tinkling of the clay kettle chattering as it boils. The lingering warmth held within the walls of the teabowl’s clay. Each of these moments exist only for this one time and then vanish, never to return again as they are.

Seasons cycle and recycle themselves constantly. What you might expect to arise again upon Spring’s return comes later than supposed and emerges differently. What forms you once thought were unbreakable are in fact fragile. A teabowl. A butterfly’s wing. One’s childhood. One’s parents. All float down the river, we catch them if we can, compose thoughts that come to us, and send them on their way. Towards the river’s end. The ocean’s beginning. To the end of a moment. To its point of no return as we once knew it. Tea affords the practitioner a view into this dynamic, yet this, too, is fleeting.

I finish my time with tea by cleansing the wares once more. Wetting and whisking and wiping away the residue of the past until each object rests again pristine upon the round lacquered tray.

Uncharacteristically to this informal setting, I decide to arrange a small 拝見 haiken. Having just practiced 香道 kōdō earlier that morning, I pull out the old wooden 香盆 kōbon tray to double as a surface to present the wares upon. The improvised tea container is set beside the chashaku.

I open it to inspect the mound of matcha as I had when I first sat down to make a bowl of tea.

Its surface is marked now by the removal of three scoops. It is marked by the memory of a bowl of tea.

The chashaku, with the small node of a new bamboo shoot pressing out of its 節 fushi. A memory, too, of life, of time, of a moment of newness, of the fragility of Spring.

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