Sunday, January 28, 2018
My coveted seat is to the left of the driver’s compartment and its window looks forward onto the tracks. For some perverse reason the designers placed this seat facing into the train. This means if anyone older than ten sits there they will get a stiff neck twisting to look out the window. Not that that stops anyone.
On the Brown Line the seat’s vantage point is especially fun because of all the twist and turns it takes on its trip from Kimball to Clark/Lake and back. Of course, when travelling south, the best part begins after the Merchandise Mart station when the train crosses the Chicago River and enters The Loop. The Brown Line’s course (or as it was known when I was a kid, the Ravenswood) would make a great Formula 1 racecourse.
Our now northbound train stopped at Southport, one of the twenty-seven stations served by this noisy squealing train. The doors opened and with it, a cold rush of air swept in two young boys with their mother in tow. In tandem, their voices rose to a falsetto as they sprinted to the seat despite it being occupied.
Their mother’s urging to slow down went unheeded. Joy emanated from their voices as they sped towards it and him. He immediately recognized his predicament. With a vigor that belied his age, he grabbed his briefcase and vacated the seat just as the boy’s knees landed on the thinly padded fiberglass.
The doors closed as their noses connected to the cold window just in time to witness the train’s departure. She looked at the man with a face that begged a combination of understanding and forgiveness. He smiled a knowing smile as he organized his kit and detrained a few stop later. I watched the boys transfixed by the speed, motion, and noise that only a train can make as it careens down the tracks.
The above incident reminded me of riding in the same seat with my young mother. The two of us were frequent travellers to and from the Loop. We would leave early Saturday morning and be back home for lunch. I would do my best to follow my energetic mother as she did her errands: Merle Norman for cosmetics, Stop and Shop for food, the mysterious safety deposit box for who knows what, and Marshall Fields just because it was Marshall Fields.
I also remember roasted Spanish peanuts and chocolate covered strawberries, grilled cheese sandwiches and Frango Mint ice cream, and a few small Matchbox cars and trains that I was occasionally gifted with. Every time I ride, please forgive the reminiscence, the Ravenswood train these memories are not far back in my consciousness. I still covet that seat . . . I do!
Friday, December 29, 2017
Coltrane’s My Favorite Things and Greensleeves were top forty hits, while the later work was derided. His music went from straight ahead jazz to straight out of the universe. A Love Supreme balances between tonal and atonal. Any listening will benefit from scholarly input and a historical perspective; in that way, it is similar to James Joyce’s Ulysses.
A Love Supreme is a four part suite. It is at the same time polished and raw. It was recorded by Rudy Van Gelder, the legendary recording engineer, and retains the excitement of a live performance. Minimal instructions were provided to the other three musicians and so, their genius shows through.
My interest here is in the fourth movement named Psalm. It has a vocal quality because he is chanting his poem, A Love Supreme, through the tenor saxophone. The poem can be read almost note for note as he plays. “Thank You God”, a three note phrase punctuates Psalm’s seven minutes nine times.
As I listened repeatedly to Psalm, I am reminded of the obscure Japanese music called Honkyoku. It is played on the shakuhachi, the venerable two or so foot long piece of bamboo that holds the distinction of being a meditative instrument that doubled as a weapon.
Honkyoku is solo and meditative. It is not considered music by some of its most adept adherents. The music is ancient, and is based on the sounds of nature and in some cases transcriptions of monks chanting. I admit that I cannot prevent myself from looking for structure within the music. The repertoire shares a vocabulary of short passages but as far as a beginning, middle, and end, well it is not obvious.
The music begins and ends without fanfare. It is as if it will go on forever with only the inhalation of breath to mark the passage of time. In this, it differs from Coltrane’s masterpiece, which has a beginning and end. I think this troubled him and his later work tried to address the infinite qualities of God’s love.
I spent decades hidden away trying to master the shakuhachi by playing doyo (children’s songs) and minyo (folk tunes). A few years ago, I came out of my shell to pursue lessons, and purchased a traditional Japanese instrument. Let me say that both the above required more of a learning curve then I would have thought.
But as with most things persistence pays off. Now with a newly tuned flute and a talented teacher I have made progress. I still cannot see the end of the tunnel, but I know that one exists. The one thing that my teacher instilled in me is not to fear the music. I often see this lack of fear in artists I admire. This lack of fear allows them the freedom to express the true nature of their work. Of course, it is no guarantee that it will be accepted or that it will be competent but that is irrelevant to the practice.
John Coltrane and Honkyoku’s inspiration relies on the true and unknowable nature of the universe: one with a secular concept, the other without any at all. So, for me, the notes on the page will remain just that until I can discover the truth within myself. And in that pursuit, I may be running out of time!
Thursday, December 07, 2017
His simple aphorism has plagued me and because of that, I have sidelined the study of flower arranging in my practice of chanoyu. It is only recently, now that I am more comfortable in my tea making skills that I have begun to contemplate flowers.
In the practice of chanoyu, seven exercises take chance into play. They are called kagetsu. A small paper pocket contains chits, which are randomly chosen by the five participants. These exercises put different aspects of chanoyu into play. One person brings the tea utensils in, the next makes a bowl of tea, the next drinks, all determined by chance. In one koicha (thick tea) is made, in another the charcoal is laid, and in another flowers are arranged.
There is no way, except to devote a life to the study of chanoyu, to prepare for kagetsu. A chit is picked, a task is done, and as the exercise progresses everyone moves into different position within the confines of the tearoom. In the basic exercise, only bowls of tea are made. And at the end, the participants do a military like march to regain their original seats.
It is quite fun, and engenders much giggling and consternation. Though it appeared to be a game, that is until I took part in it, and then, despite the giggles I realized it was deadly serious.
But this is a long introduction to my original thought about Chabana. I was never called upon to arrange flowers until I participated in one of the above exercises. It left me dumbfounded. There I knelt before the tokonoma with a small wooden tray beside me. A knife, a small watering can, and a mass of flowers and leaves rest impatiently on the tray. In front of me was a tall cylindrical vase.
I do not remember if the vase was bamboo, ceramic, or bronze. I do not remember the season or the type of flowers. All I can remember is my lack of inspiration. Kagetsu moves along. It is not meant to be contemplative. Complete the task competently and move on. I muddled through it fumbling with the flowers, littering the tatami mat with debris, and spilling water over the vase. Tea folk are considerate but I am sure I put their patience to the test.
Now thirty years later I still struggle to gain the artistic sensibility to follow Rikyu’s simple instruction and place the flowers naturally. To sit with a few flowers and leaves is to contemplate the vastness of the universe. A flower is on the face of it a simple transient thing, a thing that is in constant flux. Think of a way to arrange them and delay for a moment due to self doubt, and the flowers, as if sensing hesitancy will change, requiring another approach. It is a never ending circle.
Chabana is meant to bring the season into the tearoom. It is meant to represent the ephemeral nature of life. It is not meant to convey the style of the host or to bring beauty into the room. And because of this, it does exactly that, and one hopes in a selfless manner.
With a few flowers in a cracked and repaired bamboo vase, Rikyu conveyed his artistic vision of Chado. One so simple that it took me thirty years to recognize.
Tuesday, November 07, 2017
“Then They Came for Me” is from a speech written by Martin Neimöller, a Protestant pastor who spent seven years in a Nazi concentration camp due to his failure to keep quiet about his opposition to Hitler. The poem, as only poems can do, succinctly remarks on the silence the systematic disappearance of one group after another was met with, including his own disappearance.
William Butler Yeats, one of the 20th centuries most famous poets who was active in Irish politics, wrote “The Second Coming” in 1919 with WW I, the Russian Revolution, and Irish political tumult in mind. It is from the third line that “Things Fall Apart” is drawn. The poem paints a stunning and disturbing image of how he perceived the world around him. It is difficult to fathom the complexity of his imagery.
One poem is a simple statement of fact; the other is woven with biblical references. Both leave me heartsick and wondering about how I would react if I found myself in either situation, on either side. Would I go quietly . . . would I give or follow orders . . . would I have the courage of convictions or the complicity of a coward.
These questions are impossible to answer. Life is made up of chance, and if things turn out well it is considered luck and if not, misfortune. I do have the free will to make decisions, but if they come to get me or things fall apart will I ever have a chance.
As an example, my Viet Nam era draft lottery number was in the high two hundreds. It was my get out of jail card. Luck had intervened on my behalf. I relaxed and got on with my life, but now watching the war’s carnage unfold on LEDs rather than a cathode ray tube I wonder if I could or should have done more to protest.
In 2006, I was asked to participate in the Field Museum’s Cultural Connections Program called Connecting Cultures Through Kimono and Sari (http://www.discovernikkei.org/en/journal/2006/11/18/voices-of-chicago/).
A male was needed to demonstrate the intricacies of wearing a kimono. Because of my involvement with Chado, the Way of Tea, I have many occasions to wear kimono, so that made sense. I respectfully played my role but after all these years, I still feel uncomfortable with the historical circumstances that lead to me being asked.
As part of the program, the Chicago Japanese American Historical Society requested that I write an article describing the event. In doing the research for the article, I was confronted by the harm the forcible incarceration of over 100,000 Japanese Americans had caused. I was shocked by my unfamiliarity with the extent of this tragedy.
The exhibit and documentary, no matter how painful, bring long hidden communities out into the open. The arresting images force an internal dialog, which is why I think both titles were derived from poems. What better medium to cut through the ambiguity, and that is truly momentous.
Saturday, September 30, 2017
Lobstermen and women seem the perfect foils for country western songs. Many are scruffy with cigarettes dangling from their mouths. They exude the machismo of total disregard for their health. But this cannot be the total truth, for many come from deeply religious backgrounds and have a legacy of fishing that goes back to great grandfathers.
For the indigenous, training can start as early as five years old. Knowledge handed down from grandfathers and fathers is priceless. In a local bookstore, I asked if there was a lobster fishing textbook that would be used in a community college course titled Lobstering 101. I received a puzzled look and was directed to the shelf labeled Maine.
There I found a skinny book written by a young woman who fished with her father and grandfather, and then went on to earn a higher degree. She does a good job of explaining a life spent on the water, particular customs and superstitions, the biology of lobsters, and the rational behind many of the practices we watched as we cruised through miles of lobster buoys.
But I imagine much of what is done is instinctual. I gained an understanding of cruising on the Great Lakes: the weather, the waves, the lee and weather coasts, and the peculiarities of harbors by putting in thousands of hours. From what I have witnessed here, these lobstermen earn a lifetime of experience before they are thirty.
Despite what I have stated above many of the harbors are both working and recreational. Lobster boats intermingle with cruising boats and in many places distinctive one design sailboats raced by the local yacht club. If there is a dock at all, there are often working and recreational sides.
Lobster boats come in many sizes. Most are in the mid 30 foot range. They have powerful engines and large four bladed props that enable the captains to muscle the boats around. I sat in the pilothouse and watched them maneuver to and from the docks. They did it with aplomb.
If I cut off Carrie Rose’s salon, she could certainly go fishing, so watching them is instructive. The only thing I lack is the self confidence to use the power available to me. But that said piloting Carrie Rose is becoming instinctive. I end up in tight places without much thought and only afterwards try to dissect how I got there.
I compartmentalize my fears and in doing so keep my options open. For me it is the only way to keep cruising. To keep throwing us into new situations and not fall back on familiar territory, this requires a certain recklessness and a willingness to take risks. And with that comes the responsibility to minimize those risks.
That is the fine art of cruising, which I suppose, for superstitious reasons it is not talked about much. Each person has their own perception of these risks and that perspective changes, one way or another, with experience. This is the foundation for an interesting life, even if not recognized.
It is a valuable lesson to learn at the helm of a cruising or lobster boat, and maybe it will create a wormhole between the two. I’ll be thinking of this next year while steering through the multitude of buoys placed by those lobstermen from the other universe, and hope that the experience gained will keep a buoy from wrapping around the prop!
Monday, September 11, 2017
For someone who has spent an inordinate amount of his life looking at boats, Maine is a treasure. It is like finding Eldorado. In Pulpit Harbor, North Haven Island, one of the premier anchorages on Maine, one sailboat after another came to roost. Most were larger than Carrie Rose, some close to 100 feet.
Now Carrie Rose is further Down East and the boats are no less classic but of a more manageable scale. Of course, this excludes the schooner fleet we just left behind at Camden. We swing in a mooring field surrounded by a multitude of Herreshoff 12 ½’s, Concordia yawls, and other beauties of unknown design but all of wood with varnished topsides and painted white hulls.
The fiberglass boats are also vintage good old boats. There is even a boat Charlotte and I coveted before turning to power, a Hallberg-Rassy 32. Our beloved Lenore was of an older vintage from this Swedish builder of wood lined ocean ready sailboats.
It was a twenty mile cruise today from Camden to Castine. The seas were calm and though cloudy, the rain held off until almost into the harbor. It was turning into an uneventful day (if that can ever be said about a day spent on the waters of Maine) when I noticed the bilge pump’s red light flicker on and off.
Of course, this light should not be flickering. Charlotte took the helm and slowed us a bit. We informed our cruising companions of what was taking place and I began to investigate. First, I looked at the engine gauges. All was well, nothing overheating. Then, with flashlight in hand, I skipped down the three stairs into the saloon and took the floor panel off.
The bilge pump was cycling on and off as the water rose and fell. The propeller shaft was turning and its seal was intact. The various other potential leaks were also intact, so I replaced the floor and focused my attention to the engine room. Back up the stairs, I removed the port side pilothouse floor. Noise and heat and crankcase fumes filled the space.
Clear water was lapping under the main engine. I pointed the flashlight around, stopping at each possible water source. All looked undamaged. The search was narrowing. The water was clear so it was not engine coolant. The raw water valves and hoses that bring in cooling water for both engines were dry. I quickly moved to the starboard side.
Charlotte had to move to the far right, so I could slide that floor panel over. Using the high beam, I started the next inventory when I saw it. The cold water hose for the water heater was spewing like a garden hose. I turned the water pressure pump switch off and the leak ceased.
Now imagine if you can a 6 cylinder 220 HP turbo diesel and a 2 cylinder 23 HP diesel running side by side in a narrow compartment in a boat mid channel on East Penobscot Bay with Islesboro Island on one side and Resolute Island on the other with the heat, noise, noxious fumes, and the intermingled fumes that reside in the bilge despite all my attempts to eradicate them . . . well, it is not the kind of place to lightly crawl into.
I procured the few tools I needed and lowered myself on to the battery box, wedged into a space confined by the thumping main engine and the waste holding tank. Careful not to scorch my right arm and shoulder, I reconnected the hose. It was not complicated, just loosening and tightening a hose clamp.
By now, the bilge was dry and we informed Sir Tugley Blue that we were coming back up to speed. Forty five minutes later at the dock of the Castine Yacht Club, we replaced the seventy gallons of water that had emptied into the bilge. In another thirty minutes we were attached to mooring “3” in 68 feet of water at low tide on the Bagaduce River.
Charlotte made lunch and I did something I rarely do, took a nap. As I lay across the pilothouse bench, covered in a cotton blanket I took a last glance at the nice boats Carrie Rose was privilege to be part of on this rainy eventful day, and faded off with dreams of varnish and wood shavings, expectant of the next Eldorado.
Wednesday, August 02, 2017
We left Cape May, NJ in the early morning’s calm, and the wind and waves have slowly increased. So now, Carrie Rose has to contend with a SE facing inlet, 15 knot NE wind waves, and the 3 foot swell that has been pushing us along for the last few hours. Though I did not realize it, Charlotte has been dutifully studying Navionics, a tide and current app on her iPhone. She quietly mentions that at this moment, minutes away from turning into the fray, there is a full ebb tidal current racing out of the inlet’s opening and running head first into the above wind and waves.
I hear this above the din and bile rises into my throat. This is a good time to take a few deep breaths. I turn into the inlet and push the throttle forward a few extra hundred RPMs. Suddenly we are in a weird combination of broadside breakers, a following swell, 4 to 5 foot vertical waves standing straight up in the air, their curly little edges defying gravity.
The next moment the sea is oily flat with various eddies and whirlpools, then it erupts into sharp little wavelets that remind me of the meringue on a lemon cream pie. I can feel the stern rise as a trough opens up before me. The swell twists the hull to the port, so I turn the rudder starboard. Of course, I over correct and struggle to spin wheel over to the port.
Remember the little boats transiting the inlet, well they are coming and going amongst the waves. Some obviously frolicking while others twist and turn trying to compensate for the melee. One disappears into the swell ahead and pops out within a second.
Since this is not the first time we have been through an inlet (though this is the most extreme) we quietly talk to each other and make sure that Carrie Rose is between the red and green markers. All 220hp are engaged. The extra power makes us more responsive and stable. It also has the added effect of creating an imposing bow wave that keeps the squirrely-ist power boaters thinking twice before getting in our way.
That said the Barnegat Bay boating community seems to be a full-throttle-all-the -time crowd. It does not matter how shallow, narrow, winding, or crowded a channel is, this is a take no prisoner boating environment. I thought about getting a “Baby Seal On Board” sign for Carrie Rose but realized that that would only encourage them to go faster and get closer. The odd thing is once out of the inlet most of these boats stop about a mile off shore to try to catch whatever pelagic creatures that wander by.
We decided to ignore the maelstrom and keep on task, which once through the inlet is no less daunting. Since the inlet and the area a few miles west are always changing, the charts are unreliable. I looked ahead and saw boats everywhere but where I thought they should be. Granted there was a large red buoy to port, which I would have aimed for but it was close to the shore and lighthouse. I pulled back the throttle to idled.
The usually reliable cruising guide’s only comment on Barnegat Bay was, “Use Local Knowledge, call on channel 16”. I ponder this and wondered whom I would call when on our port side I saw a Sea Tow rescue towboat. I picked up the radio’s microphone and called, “Sea Tow, Sea Tow, Sea Tow this is Carrie Rose, the trawler behind you.” He responded and I tried to sound calm when I asked, “I am new to the bay and I am confused about how to proceed, can you help direct me”.
In a comforting voice, he instructed me to follow him and then mentioned a shortcut across what was land on our charts. Charlotte groaned, I kept quiet and turned in behind him. Boats streamed passed us both ways. At one point, one large speedboat got so close to him that the spray flying off the bow splashed the Sea Tow captain. Five minutes into this the radio crackled, “Captain just follow the large markers on in and watch out at buoy 37, it gets shallow and tricky there”, and off he went.
I looked ahead, saw a nun (red) and a can (green) silhouetted in the sun and spray, and headed between them. In another 10 minutes we were out in the bay and in 15 minutes more Spencer at Spencer’s Marina caught our lines. He graciously welcomed us. I slowed my breathing and tried to answer the questions the crowd on the dock peppered us with: where did you come from; how long are you staying; do you need to borrow a car; Chicago, how the hell did you get here from Chicago.
For the first time in weeks I slept soundly, woke at five and nudged Charlotte, “We gotta get out of here, sooner is better”. Charlotte made coffee for the thermos, we took quick showers, pumped the head, and then headed east to exit the inlet.
It was obvious that most of the bay’s fishermen go to church on Saturday evening because they again streamed passed us. Other than the ruckus, it turned out to be helpful. We followed their wakes out and by 7:50 were on the North Atlantic. As a fitting send off, the largest boat encounter thus far blew passed us creating such a large wake that it spirited us out of the channel and pointed us north.
Autopilot on, heading 014 degrees, coffee, banana, and a peanut butter sandwich for breakfast, we settled in for the 7 hour cruise to Great Kills on Staten Island. The NYC skyline slowly emerged from the curvature of the earth. We rounded Sandy Hook and saw the first large grouping of sailboats since Annapolis, and what I assumed to be New Yorker’s sunning themselves on the beach. Carrie Rose cut across both St. Ambrose and Cherry Hill Ship Channels while heading into another ebb current. I spied a boat flying a “Don’t Thread On Me” flag ahead of us and followed it into the large Great Kills Harbor basin. Ah, home, for a week . . .
Friday, May 19, 2017
And since I cannot control nature, I ponder the more mundane, like how do I feel first thing in the morning particularly before my first caffeine fix. Am I upbeat and positive, brimming over with joy for what the day will bring, or just the opposite, dower and pessimistic, dreading the day ahead of me. If I am truthful, it is a bit of both, though I tend to favor the positive side of the equation.
The way I lean on a particular day affects, in most cases, only my wife and I, but let us say I was someone with power (as I used to be) it could effect tens if not hundreds. Was I aware of this at the time, not really? It is only with time and introspection that I realize this. So, if I woke as a hateful brat or a beaming pixy that is what I spread.
I wonder why people choose the hateful side. It does not matter if they are Christian, Buddhist, Muslim, Jew, or atheist. This love-hate balance is not predicated on religious doctrine, or the lack of it. It is quite easy to promote hate while singing the praises of whatever god or philosophy is believed.
The love versus hate I talk of here is not only meant to be personal. In the broader sense, it represents our interaction with the natural world, all the species, plants and minerals, the atmosphere and the ocean, the rivers and lakes, the mountains and valleys. What benefit is derived from being callous and not gracious?
I understand the lure of short-term gain and the power that goes along with it. But that said, if the choices presented, no matter how tenuous the tread, are ones of affliction or well-being, why not error on the well side of things.
I grew up with several examples of this: automobile companies fighting against safety and environmental standards, and the tobacco companies covering up the detrimental effects of cigarettes.
Even as a kid I thought, why not put seat belts in cars, improve the emissions, and then charge more for the cars. Why fight it, it is progress in the end, the cars are better products, and since the company is devoted to making millions of cars a year for the indefinite future what do they have to lose in the end. For the same amount of effort put into fighting every improvement, put that energy into engineering. The money will be spent anyway. Is it better to spend it on lawyers and lawmakers, or engineers and designers. If the former is chosen it might delay the process but eventually the latter will win out, nothing is stagnant.
When I became of car buying age, the American cars verged on the ridiculous compared with their German and Japanese counterparts. Now after two humungous bailouts, American cars have reached parity with imports but the delay cost much goodwill not to mention market share and jobs. If your life is building cars, why not just build them better.
And then there is the tobacco industry. I spent my career in healthcare and in that context delivered the devastating news of emphysema, lung and throat cancer on a regular basis. I always felt like the judge, jury, and executioner. The tobacco companies with the help of the medical establishment and governmental agencies fought to cover up the truth, a hopeless task. How many of our fathers, mothers, uncles, and aunts had to die in front of us before it was obvious that cigarettes kill.
Of course, there are differences between cars and cigarettes. A car can be improved but cigarettes just need to be abandoned. Each generation needs to make its own decision here, and as I see it tobacco stocks are still doing well despite the increase cost and enlarged font size of the warnings on each pack.
If we wake up with hate in our hearts even while preaching the good word what have we done to better the world. Why not error on the side of a better outcome. What do we gain by denying that the climate has changed, that the earth is billions of years old, that vaccines have prevented millions of premature deaths and that all people should have equal opportunities.
I have the benefit of a comprehensive education. It was not indoctrination. There was value in what I learned, and there was value in learning the process of learning. It is not infallible but helps cut through much of the intentionally fog. And it helps to have a bit of that indefinable entity, common sense.
When I started this essay, it was with the name of Hate, but I tempered it and changed its name to Duality. An error I think. There is only one reason to ignore the other half, love, so completely and that is to give in to hate. A cataclysm if I have ever seen one.
Wednesday, May 10, 2017
Parts of a chaji can seem strange in a world with the transportation and communication options available to us. Just responding to an invitation requires training and an advisor to help ferret out the etiquette. The first question to answer is what type of chaji is it: formal or informal, a few guests or a large gathering, the time of day, and the purpose.
No time should elapse in the response. As stated in Chado by Soshitsu Sen, the then 15th generation grand tea master and now the retired Daisosho Hounsai Sen Genshitsu, the guest should pay a visit to the host to accept the invitation, see the physical location of the chaji, and make sure of the amount of time it will take to arrive there on the allotted day. It is important in tea to be 15 minutes early so as not to cause any bother for the host.
I suppose the next dilemma is what to wear. And here I will say, if you have a suitable kimono, wear it. If not, wear loose conservative clothing. Other things to bring are a folding fan for greetings and for entering and leaving the tea room, two silk napkins for various functions: kofukusa and a fukusa, a small folded pad of white paper, another small linen cloth for wiping the tea bowl, and finally a wooden pick to eat the sweet with.
But with that let me start to describe the actual event. When guests arrive, they wait in a room where they can organized themselves, view the room’s decorations and have a bowl of warm water served by the host’s assistant. Once the guests are ready, they move into the garden to a sheltering structure called the machiai. Here they wait until the host comes to greet them and initiates the move to the chashitsu (tea house).
On the way, they pass through another gate into the inner garden, and there they purify their hand and mouth with water from a small basin. Now they are ready to enter the chashitsu (tearoom). The first guest will remove their sandals, open a low door in the side of the chashitsu, place their fan in, and then enter the tearoom. The other guests follow.
In the tearoom hangs a scroll and vase with a flower arrangement. These are viewed, as is the brazier. This is a time to appreciate the room and what the host has done to make it interesting and comfortable.
Once everyone is seated, the host enters and greets the guests with a bow. There is a short discussion about the garden, the scrolls and the flowers, and then a light (kaiseki) meal is served. The host serves the meal but does not partake in it. The meal and the entire event are for the guests so the host does what they can to care for them.
A kaiseki meal is quite a treat. It begins with rice, miso soup, and a small dish of foods to be eaten with sake. Several courses follow including a nimono (cooked delicacies in broth), yakimono (grilled fish, poultry, meat or vegetables) served with the second offering of sake, hashiarai (a light broth), and hassun (one food from the mountains and one from the sea). The meal ends with Japanese pickles and crisp rice served in hot water.
Now you are probably wondering when we are going to have tea. Be patient it is coming, but first there are a few other things to be done. Depending on the time of year and if actual charcoal is used (a rarity) to heat the water the host will lay more charcoal into the already simmering fire. This is quite a procedure, so I will leave the description of it for another time.
In preparation for koicha (thick tea) the guest are served a moist sweet out of stacked lacquered wooden boxes (fuchidaka). There is a short break after this and the guests leave the chashitsu to allow the host to prepare the room for making tea. The sounding of the gong signals the guests to return to the tearoom. As before, the room is viewed. A flower arrangement replaces the scroll and several utensils for making tea have been placed in the tearoom.
A solemn preparation of koicha begins. There is little conversation between the first guest and the host. The motions are studied and deliberate. This is the focal point of the chaji. A sense of seriousness pervades the tearoom as the guests share tea from the same bowl, becoming one.
But the guests need to return to their daily lives and to make the transition easier usucha (thin tea) is served. The host replenishes the charcoal, brings in a tray of dry sweets, and begins to make each guest a bowl of tea. The atmosphere is relaxed and if a guest chooses more than one bowl can be had. Now the making of tea is complete, the utensils are cleaned and removed from the room.
The host reappears to humbly thank them for being so understanding. The first guest thanks the host for their effort, and explains it will not be necessary to see them out. The host bows and slides shut the shoji screen. The room is viewed one last time and the guests leave the way they came in.
As they walk down the inner garden’s path, the host comes to the door of the chashitsu to watch them leave. They bow to the host with the realization that this chaji, now just a memory, was a confluence of ideas and events that will never be repeated.
Friday, March 24, 2017
The table he designed, the Tenchaban, is elegant with a black lacquered top, four bamboo legs, and a lower shelf of unfinished cedar. A sumitori rests on the lower shelf. It is a container with what is needed for sumidemae, the charcoal laying process.
There are other types of tables but Tenchaban is the only one that can be used for a chaji, a formal tea gathering. The Tenchaban is suitable for both Western rooms and on tatami.
Misonodana or Imperial Garden Stand is another table. Tantansai Mugensai Sekiso (1893-1964), the 14th Urasenke iemoto, developed it in 1952. It is often used when tea is performed outdoors along with a large picturesque red umbrella, and it is used indoors as our Chicago Urasenke Association did recently for tatezome, our New Years celebration. It consist of two tables joined by a central shelve and is garnished with red cords tied in elaborate knots.
Tantansai’s wife Kayoko designed the first room built for table style tea. It is called Yushin, the Shelter of Newness Refreshed. The floor is tile rather than tatami mats. Kayoko used it to commemorate Tantansai’s 60th birthday.
There is yet another table called Washindana. This was designed by the present 16th Urasenke iemoto, Zabosai Genmoku Soshi Soshitsu. It is three nesting tables that when placed into each other can be used as a side table. There are three styles: a circle, a triangle, and a square. Any of them will seamlessly fit into a modern room and support a lamp, a clock, or a vase.
Each of the above Urasenke iemotos has faced the challenges of a changing world. Gengensai, the introduction of western culture; Tantansai, the disruption of World War II; and Zabosai, the rapid change brought on by social media. They have responded not by isolating themselves but by taking steps to retain the inclusiveness and the beauty of tea.
As translated by Gretchen Mittwer in Rikyu’s Hundred Verses, the founder of tea said, “If unexpected guests come, do temae for them with your heart easygoing but your technical performance of temae prudent”. The three Urasenke iemoto have taken his words to heart and produced beautiful, practical solutions to the world they find themselves in.
Saturday, February 25, 2017
The book is an absorbing tale about his life in music and about the different violins he has played. A CD of him playing the Partita #2 in 1966 and in 2006 is included with the book. These recordings not only show how his interpretation changed over forty years but also just how different violins can sound.
The 1966 violin is high pitched and sonorous. The high and low notes sing out as if they are vying for position. While the 2006 violin is somber, verging on guttural. Its notes blend and merge into each other. There is no competition here just virtuosity favoring the baritone as opposed to the first violins tenor.
I have listened to the recordings many times but I cannot say whether I prefer 1966 or 2006. One is full of youthful exuberance and hesitancy. The other is deliberate; each note is thought out and mined for meaning.
Bach’s Chaconne is considered the pinnacle of music written for solo violin. It has been transcribed for many other instruments: piano, organ, harpsichord, flute, orchestra, and famously by Segovia for guitar. All these are compelling but I think the violin is topmost.
It is 64 variations on a theme presented in the first four measures. I was curious what the sheet music would look like, so I went to the library and checked out the score. I can barely read music but if I concentrate, I can follow along with it. The partita is divided into five sections each based on a dance: Allemande, Courante, Sarabande, Gigue, and Chaconne.
The Chaconne is almost as long as the other four sections. From my reading, there is a consensus that it was written after Bach returned from a trip only to find his 35 year old wife had died. As I listened to it, there are points where it shifts from solemn to gay and back again. The score reveals that the key changes from D Minor to D Major and back to D Minor: from sorrow to joy and again to sorrow.
The music is unrelenting and somehow accompanies itself. Believe me, listening to it is twelve minutes well spent. There are joyous moments and passages that will cause your heart to ache. I find it hard to contemplate the composing and playing skills involved. The Chaconne is well suited to the solitude of February when there is time to let it soak in undisturbed by a warm summer breeze.
Monday, January 30, 2017
I try to keep these concepts in mind while practicing tea: when cleaning the tatami with a damp rag, when rinsing and filling the kama to prepare it to heat the water, or when my leg muscles refuse to obey the command to stand.
Of course, there are a multitude of such moments in the chanoyu, the tea ceremony. They a joy and a frustration, and they are what keep chanoyu fresh even after decades of study. From the first lesson I took, tea began to permeate my life. It caught me by surprise.
Why was I walking this way, why was I wringing the wash rag that way, why did I look before entering a room or handle ceramics in a certain way. Why am I always 15 minutes early, and why do I send multiple email and stamped thank you notes after every event, why…
It is because I have spent thirty years in and around tea, and tea exist in the real world not separate from it. The reason to do tea is to interact with the world not to shy away from it. To do tea is to expose your true nature to your guest. This makes tea a little scary even for people who have studied for years. There is nothing to hide behind.
I did not realize this when I first began to study; just as I did not understand that chanoyu is not about my performance but about the guest’s comfort and tranquility.
The founding principles that I thought were there for me are in truth there for the guest. In my self-centered way, I imagined that if I practiced harmony, respect, purity, then I would find tranquility. I had it backwards. It is my guest that will find tranquility.
And I think that this is why Diashosho has such a loving following. He has travelled the world, baring his soul, to try to help create a peaceful world one bowl at a time. This is also something that took me many years to understand.
So what I am trying to say, in a long-winded way, is to let the essence of tea permeate your life, no matter if you practice or not.
Saturday, December 24, 2016
Blow straight across and get the designated note, tilt your head down and the note flattens, tilt your head up or back and the note sharpens. This along with partially covered holes allows a shakuhachi to achieve about two and a half octaves on a good day.
There are other ways to manipulate the sound. Change the embouchure, blow harder and softer, purse or relax the lips, move the head side to side, exhaling quick and strong before settling in on a note, striking a hole between sounding the same note, all these and more alter the sound.
Often when moving between octaves the note will disappear. I can attest that this is vexing. It took many months when I first started to play to get a note to sound and so, to lose one is frustrating. I wonder where did it go and why can I not get it back.
Once, while visiting Kyoto for a tea ceremony event I sought out a shakuhachi maker. It was a long walk to get there and once there, we (I dragged Charlotte with me) could not find the address. I looked and looked; there was no one to ask even if I could speak Japanese. Finally, when just about to give up, I saw the only two characters in Japanese that I know — Shaku-Hachi on a small sign outside what looked like a private home.
We walked in from the street down a long pathway and were confronted by a shoji screen sliding door. There were no markings or doorbell. I summoned the courage to open the door and a bell sounded. It was the correct place; there were a few shakuhachi stored in a cabinet.
To make a long story short, the beneficent owner came out to greet us. I explained that I was not sure why I was there but I felt I should be. He stood up, walked out of the room, and returned with an armful of beautifully crafted shakuhachi.
He beckoned me to play one. I knew there was no turning back, so I picked one up but could not get a sound out of it. My face turned bright red — I started to hyperventilate — It was all over. Taking pity on me, a short lesson followed, I made a few squeaks, thanked him profusely, and bid farewell.
Once out on the street, I could not understand what happened and then I thought about stalling a small aircraft. In 1976, after I finished ground school I logged 22 hours in a Cessna 150, a small single engine airplane. At the time, for about fifty dollars (including the instructor’s fees) I could fly around the Southside of Chicago for an hour. This was when Midway Airport was in limbo. There were no commercial flights and so the airport was populated with flight training schools, small charter airlines, and private pilots.
It was interesting to takeoff and land on Midway’s long runways with this tiny plane. Even now as a passenger, I think about landing that runt of a plane while watching the approach out the window of a large passenger jet. The few hours I spent in the air taught me many important lessons about piloting everything from motorcycles to boats. There is a strategy to flying that readily translates into other modes of transport.
Stalling and recovering the aircraft was practiced each time I flew. This is done in two different modes. One is with full take off power, and the other in slow flight as when landing. These maneuvers are practiced with enough altitude to ensure that there is time to recover, for when a plane stalls it drops like a rock.
What makes the plane stall is the lack of air flow over the wings. Once the airflow is disrupted there is no longer any lift to support the weight of the plane and down it goes. No amount of prior discussion or study prepared me for feeling of helplessness as the plane suddenly dropped twisting out of the sky, but that is what flight instructors are for. After a few hours of stalling — I was no Captain Scully — I could recover and go on to finish the lesson without much anxiety.
A shakuhachi has a similar trait. When in inexperienced hands it is easy to stall the airflow across the mouthpiece. It is common for beginning players to take weeks just to obtain and sustain a note. Due to the peculiarities of the angled mouthpiece, transitioning from one octave to the next, whether up or down the scale can make a note drop out of the sky. The flow of air becomes chaotic and stalls, leaving one in the same position as a toddlers trying to blow bubbles for the first time.
Listen to a virtuoso and hear how they use this seeming flaw to their advantage. It is what gives the shakuhachi its characteristic sound: serene but with an underlying anxiety, always on the verge of disaster. In the hands of skilled players, the chaos is controlled to convey the message that beautiful sounds still live in a natural world.
This footing in the natural, dare I say primordial, world is what draws us into the sound. It is what compels a player to continue to play despite the stalled notes, the breathless light-headedness, the hours of learning the its odd tablature. So next time, when listening to a shakuhachi, listen with intent to the breath’s flow and not only the music…therein rests its magic.
Sunday, November 20, 2016
The World Series is over and none too soon. It felt like home arrest, trapped in front of the TV. I could barely watch the vicissitudes. Talk about stress.
Though I did not frequent my local cemetery the night they won, I envision it aglow with the risen souls of Cub fans. I imagine my father was one of them. He was a sweet man who was most demonstrative while watching the Cubs. Every foible or strength brought a yelp from the backroom.
When the going got tough and breathless journalists asked one player or another why they lost and what was their plan to change the momentum, they said it's a game we love to play, especially with each other, and we are going to enjoy ourselves and see what happens. What could be more “Zen-ish” than that!
The 2016 Cubs certainly demand kei/respect. Their love for each other was palpable. The exuberance of youth eventually overcame every error. It made me think, have the collective “we” been enjoying ourselves this past year. I think not. Everyday brought another outrage whether it was significant or not.
My way of dealing was to turn it off but unless I sequestered myself to a mountain refuge out of sight of satellites and radio waves it was near impossible. It has also been necessary to isolate myself from many people. There is a sense of mania out there. Just say hello to a neighbor and suddenly the proselytizing began. I kept thinking, isn’t there something else to focus on.
What was it that Karl Marx said about the opium of the masses; he was referring to religion but more about oppression and our reaction to it. So, does oppression let us off the hook or gives us free rein to disrespect whomever we find in our way. I know I am asking many questions but I find myself baffled.
Respect is a lost concept. Hubris has replaced it. Now instead of giving respect, respect is demanded whether earned or not. And if not provided the consequences can be dire.
Fame and money have always been corrupting. But it seems that money is not as strong a motivator as it once was. Fame for nothing in particular is measured in likes and dislikes. A click here or there is the driving force for most of the mischief.
Chado, The Way of Tea, has a few things to say about this. It took me years of practice and study to realize that tea is about respecting and making your guest comfortable. This is done in the oddest ways.
The utensils used in chanoyu (such as the chashaku/tea scoop and natsume/tea container) are placed specifically, so when the guest views them the scene is coherent and settled.
The way the utensils are handled is another. Sen Riyku, the founder of chanoyu, instructed the host to carry heavy objects as if they are light, and light objects as if they are heavy.
And then there is the movement within the chashitsu/tea room. The host always turns towards the guests unless they are carrying the kensui/waste water container. The list goes on.
Kei/Respect is one of the four guiding principles of Chado, the others being Wa/Harmony, Sei/Purity, and Jaku/Tranquility. The reason for chanoyu is to make tea and share it with friends. It is such a simple concept that it is almost impossible to accomplish well. That is the whole point of the guiding principles. If done with the above it is almost impossible not to do it well.
This is as it was for the Cubs to win the World Series after 108 years. They did it with aplomb, all the while respecting their opponent’s ability. So let us follow the Cubs — and Chado’s — example in how to live a life with kei/respect . . . Go Cubs, Go!
Monday, October 24, 2016
The one service consisted of the Kaddish, the Jewish mourner’s prayer for the death, and then an afternoon of sitting Shiva. Surrounded by family and friends, and considering the long fruitful life of the deceased it was far from a somber gathering. Her time was right, something that she realized and lobbied for.
The second service was different. There was joy in the remembrances but there was the realization that this was death come too soon. The visitation line at the wake never lessened and the church was overflowing to standing room only. One person after another came to the pulpit and spoke glowingly, and steadfastly refused to say goodbye even while doing so.
It was tragic and inspirational. Tears flowed followed by hardy laughs. The pastor who knew him best was profane in describing their relationship obviously shocked that he no longer had his beloved parishioner and friend to kid around with.
Throughout the service, our departed friend’s first grandbaby made a ruckus. It made a deep impression, a loving grandfather gone replaced by a dear child who will only know her exuberant grandfather through reminiscences and images. It is the way of the world but that does not make it fair, easy, or tolerable.
Sitting in the pew, listening to the gathered group of Lutherans sing their hearts out, my parents came to mind. My father died quickly. There was barely time to comprehend what was happening before it happened. And even though I spent much of my life in healthcare, I cannot understand how someone so present could just disappear.
My mother was a different story. Her disappearance took three years. At the end, she was not aware enough to continue her wish for death, so we took up the banner. The thing she and I did was sit next to each other, outside if possible, and talk. She carried on with many of the same stories year after year, and I listened quietly year after year.
I would often hold her hands as I listened, and study them. She worked all her life, even more after she retired. Strong of mind and body it was hard to watch her change and especially to watch her hands. Born in America of Sicilian parents, when she allowed herself to become tan, she would take on an earthy bronze. Mainly this was evident on her hands, tanned from working in the garden.
Skin is a marvelous organ. It provides us with protection, sensation, and embarrassing social moments. The look of skin provides a barometer to a person’s health. Pink, yellow and grey are some of the hues that offer clues. There is also another characteristic, transparency, which often escapes notice.
As I watched my mother fade, her hands became translucent. My knowledge of anatomy almost overpowered the awe of what I was watching, identifying structures as opposed to seeing the glow. Towards the end of her life, her skin was like that of the little aquarium fish that light passes straight through.
September was sobering. When the leaves begin to change color this fall and the garden dies back, it will be difficult not to think of the one thing that cannot change, we are born and will die. And that there will be exuberance and tragedy, and in many ways, the two will be comingled.
I am not a religion person but I think this is what the Lutherans, Methodist, and Jews exposed me to this September, and what, in my secular understanding, my mother’s hands revealed.
Tuesday, September 27, 2016
Details missed if driving become apparent while walking, such as topography. I have lived here much of my life and never realized why the Hilltop Restaurant on California and Foster is called the Hilltop Restaurant. Well, because it is on a hilltop.
It is a long slog south to the summit at Foster from Peterson and California. Then it’s downhill to Lincoln Square at Lawrence and Western. The hill is steeper when walking back north. For anyone who lives in a mildly undulating area this hill would be a joke, but then that is not where I live, so I relish this hillock.
The trip east to Andersonville is devoid of altitude changes. I often cut through Rosehill cemetery; it has special meaning for me. My wife’s family on her dad’s side is buried there, and it was the site of my first job. During the summers between 7th and 8th grade, and 8th grade and high school I cut its grass eight hours a day five days a week.
Valuable life lessons were learned as I mowed the lawn around the graves. I labored with seasonal workers from Appalachia. Their accents were thick. It took me weeks to decipher their dialect. They were good for about a half days work. Lunch was eaten at a local tavern along with multiple Old Styles. They wore bib overalls and returned from lunch with stubby beer bottles tucked into every pocket. I was promoted to supervisor within the first two weeks, and along with the promotion came a larger mower. More importantly, it was self-driven.
This was a sobering time in America. The Vietnam War was raging and every large city seemed to suffer devastating race riots. Several times per week, we would turn the mower’s engine off, and stand in respect for a fallen soldier’s burial. At the gravesite, the military honor guard fired three rifle shots as the family grieved. I will never forget this. Some years later, when it was time for me to register for the draft the war had escalated and continued for many more years.
Pardon the reverie. The walk east towards Andersonville is flat. There is a slight decline in elevation as the lake is approached but so minimally as not to exist. The trek to Andersonville is a little longer than the walk to Lincoln Square, so the energy expended averages out.
Several weeks ago while coming back from Lincoln Square, in Rob Blagojevich’s old neighborhood, there was a sign for a house sale. House sales are hard to resist. Most of them contain the accumulated possessions of the newly departed. When I looked around, my childhood flashed before me; dinnerware, small appliances, long out of fashion clothes and shoes, yellowing books, odd record albums, and out dated tools. I searched for a find and in 50 years of looking have found a few. Mainly it makes me reflect on my inability to discard my collection of junk.
I cannot deny the melancholy of rummaging in someone else’s life. That said, on this occasion I purchased three 25 cent cigar boxes. They were constructed of wood permeated by the sweet bouquet of Cuban tobacco. One box was bare wood and the other two were covered in impeccably embossed glossy white paper. Each was festooned with tax stamps, and shiny holograms attesting to their true Cuban origin.
Charlotte tolerated the diversion and did not ask why I was buying the three empty boxes. By now she has figured out that there is often method to my madness, and my madness on this particular day was thoughts of making a cigar box guitar (CBG).
A friend in NYC started me down this path when he texted me a picture of his recently built CBG. He had alluded to making one but I had not paid much attention. I was taken aback when I saw the image. I like to think I am not competitive but this certainly got my juices flowing. Of course, the Internet provided numerous examples, and YouTube has an endless stream of accomplished CBG players rattling off blues riffs.
My basement, though less clutter than in the past, still contains much of the raw materials needed to make a guitar. There was a chunk of cherry left over from a never realized table, and several large containers of nuts and bolts. As far as tools, they were waiting to be used, and as far as expertise, I haven’t been messing about in my basement for 25 years without picking up a few woodworking skills.
A blueprint was needed. Pertinent websites were bookmarked. The list grew with no end in sight. A decision had to be made and so I went with a YouTube video. This was a first; to build a complex structure with no paper plans or books to refer to. The video was approximately 25 minutes long and the presenter was a charismatic character. If he was selling the Brooklyn Bridge, I might have bought it.
I watched it once, twice, three times, took a few rudimentary notes, and then got to work. As the video said, “Let’s do this!” There is a saying, measure twice and cut once. I took this to heart but wished I had been more attentive when ordering the various accouterments such as strings, tuners, etc. In the end, not much money was wasted.
The guitar came together quickly. As I waited for the strings to arrive in the mail a funny feeling crept over me. I realized I did not know what to do with the lovely little instrument. It was back to YouTube!
So, next time I go for a walk I will endeavor to keep my eyes from the various signs posted on fences, light poles and trees. I will keep my heart rate at a therapeutic level, and hustle over hill and dale. And if you believe that, I have a great deal on a bridge!
September 23, 2016
Tuesday, August 30, 2016
The stories that come from a one-off are not customarily staged. The person could have gone on a journey whether or not a publisher gave them an advance. When the non-writer left, they were not a writer but must they have become a writer, otherwise nothing would have been written.
Is this silly to even discuss. To be human is to experience and be reflective. If we do not, does this mean we are not human? These are awkward questions to answer with the intellect. Maybe the questions need to be simplified to, what allows me to ask the question, or the inverse, what allows me to expect an answer. In this, the inverse seems the ultimate conceit.
I was trained in the biological sciences: from the basic molecular building blocks to the circuitry of the brain. Along the way, I dissected multiple species, teasing out their intimate details. I understand, at least conceptually, the chemical nature of a neuron’s function. But none of this gives me a clue about how to answer the above questions.
Several years ago I decided that instead of buying new books I would strive to read the books I already have. With this in mind, I reached for a book that has spent decades patiently waiting to be noticed. It is a compact volume expertly printed in Japan by The Hokuseido Press. I have the first printing from 1966 but alas, not its jacket. It is Volume Four of R.H. Blyth’s series Zen and Zen Classics titled Mumonkan.
I was unprepared as I flippantly flipped through its pages for how thoroughly it would grab my attention and relate to the above dilemma. Even though it is a sequential record of 48 “Cases”, I cannot read it page for page. I jump from the preface to multiple cases and then back to the introduction, which only lead me to the index in a vain attempt to make sense of what I am reading.
This thesis on the teaching and transmission of Zen was first published in 1229. Mumon, the compiler, gathered the content from many different sources. Each case is presented in a similar format but I am uncertain if that was the wish of Mumon or R.H. Blyth. There is the title, a discussion of the protagonists, the case is stated followed by commentary and finally a verse.
It is a curious book, for Blyth uses both the translation of the cases (presented in the form of a koan), and an interactive style of pithy comments and illustrative examples from western writers to help explain Zen’s universality within its intangibility.
Blyth has strong opinions and though he is enamored of Buddhism, especially Zen, it does not prevent him from harsh criticism. In Case XXXII, Buddha and the Non-Buddhist, he writes that he has “warm friendly feelings” for Christ but only “coldness” for the Buddha. In this case the Non-Buddhist says to the Buddha, “I do not ask for words; I do not ask for silence.” And then when there is no reply he states that the Buddha’s compassion “has enabled me to enter on the Way.” and departs.
A discussion begins between the Buddha and his disciple Ananda about what the Non-Buddhist understood and if I read it correctly, the Non-Buddhist comprehends the encounter better than Buddha’s disciple. The commentary continues. There is talk of a horse and a whip, and of balancing on the edge of a sword, and since I am not a Buddhist scholar, I suggest you read it for yourself. It is on page 223.
The discourse has my mind doing cartwheels. The mental gymnastics leads me back to my original question: when does a non-writer become a writer? I realize that my “simplified” version — Is it possible to ask an intangible question with the expectation of a tangible answer — adds more complexity.
I stop, take a deep breath, and find that I have broken into a fine sweat. It is August after all, and the air is thick with moisture and the sound of unseen cicadas. Time to move on. The delight is that each individual, whether Buddhist or not, must work this out for him or herself. With the male life expectancy in the USA approaching 80 years, I have seventeen years left to find an answer. That is if my intangible intellect holds out!
Saturday, July 23, 2016
I have been a vegetarian since 1978, and because the definition of a vegetarian has been corrupted the past few years, I will add of the ovo-lacto variety. There are times when I will succumb to a serving of fish. Famously, the three times I visited Japan I gave up and ate whatever sea creature was placed in front of me. I felt it was psychically easier than any benefit I might derive from not eating fish for a couple of weeks.
And then there are the times like this when I find myself in an area of the country where fishing is their lifeblood. So, while waiting for a deep fried rockfish sandwich with fries and tartar sauce, I found myself reading the placemat. This starts me thinking about how diverse a country I live in, and how a city dweller like me can feel unrelated to a village dweller like the folk in Rock Hall.
The placemat contains thirty ads of varying sizes but all are square or rectangular. It is printed in two colors not to my liking. One is a pukey green, the other a kind of varicose vein maroon. I, who used to be a printer, am thinking the printers had two half used cans they wanted to get rid of, but then there is no accounting for taste.
As I read the ads, I realize that some of them would never be seen on a Chicago placemat. An obvious one is the ad for cover crops with the catchy slogan of “Tap Into It”, whatever that means. I doubt the average person on a Chicago street will even know what a cover crop is.
Another is for a pile driving company that proudly states, “Four Generations of Marine Construction”. They will drive pilings for piers, boathouses, duck blinds, etc., etc., and they never cut off the old post, they pull them out.
There are ads for fishing charters, for a marine railway, and a motel that recommends reservations during hunting season. There is an oil heating specialist, a sail maker, and a towboat company with unlimited membership for just $158 per year.
I find myself smiling. On recent trips across the Great Plains, and up and over various eastern mountains, the just-off-the-interstate world has looked amazingly similar. The same architects, restaurant and retail consultants, and dare I say, the same politicians that approve of the former’s plans and designs must move from interchange to interchange.
It was refreshing to be in a place so unrelated to my place. It made me want to stick my head into every nook and cranny, to talk to everyone I saw, to drive down country back roads; I guess it made me want to explore the U.S.A. again. For as unrelated as we may seem, we are here in this greatest of melting pots because of our or our ancestor’s drive for a better life.
And for this insight, I have to thank Waterman’s Crab House of Rock Hall, MD for luring me back to visit their splendid town, and of course, for the best fried rockfish sandwich and fries.
Wednesday, June 29, 2016
Another change has been the recurrence of crows. In the past, there were large flocks, which hung out on the tops of the largest maples. There are only a few now but they definitely shake up the neighborhood. They stalk (and eat) the small birds and baby squirrels, and in return are stalked by the local red tailed hawk. I will hear cawing and look up to see several crows dive bombing the gently soaring hawk as it winds its way across my small piece of the sky.
Of course, there are the chattering families of sparrows who chased away the dainty goldfinches and there are a few starlings. An occasional woodpecker shows up to do some woodwork but they never seem to stick around. There used to be wrens in the shrubs but no more, and there is the rare hummingbird.
This year the most visible drama has been the robins. Robins seem to be appearing earlier and earlier each year. The snow — what there was of it — had barely disappeared when I saw the first of them hunting their prey in the backyard’s frozen ground.
For the first time a pair of robins decided to build a nest on one of our yard’s metal sculptures. It hangs just below the eave in the center of the garage that faces the house. It started with a few strands of dried straw and ended with a substantial mud reinforced basin.
To my surprise, after it was completed the mother robin deserted it. It could be that it was unstable or that the entrance to the garage was only about six feet away. She had started it while we were away visiting and so, she had the backyard to herself for the first few days of the construction. I waited for her to come back. She never did. I took the nest down and mixed it in with the other rotting plant life in the compost bin.
That was in April and now it is the end of May, and though I cannot be sure it is the same robin, she is back with her baby in tow. Mom looks a bit worse for wear. Her baby hides in the lower branches of our large blue spruce. Baby can only fly a few feet off the ground at this point, which is perfect for hiding in the lower branches. Her hiding place is given away by a loud intrepid chripping. It is annoying and I suppose that is the point. As much as mom tries to ignore it, she cannot.
The pattern seems to be that mom forages for herself for a while as the chirping increases in volume and repetition, and then, grub in beak she seek out baby’s open gullet and feeds her. On occasion baby comes out of hiding and chases after mom, not being able to resist the tasty morsel.
A robin is a meticulous forager. Standing erect, they move about 6 or 8 inches at a time, once stopped their heads will tilt to one side or the other. I had assumed (never a good idea) that they were looking into the grass and they may be, but realize now that they must be listening. They start to dig with quick jabbing motions of their head and beak until a juicy white grub appears between their beaks — gulp!
She then moves the next 6 inches, and the next, and on and on. It starts before I wake up and ends as the sun goes down. Earlier in the season, the big bright males were fighting for dominance. I do not see them anymore. They must have moved on to populate other regions, leaving the mothers and babies to fend for themselves.
I am not an ornithologist, so I may be getting some of the details wrong, but the gist of this article is that it got me thinking about Buddha nature. I have read the books, and tried to emulate it in the practice of chanoyu and in playing the shakuhachi. I can safely say that none of the above has gotten me any closer, but watching the lives of the robins play out in my backyard has provided me with a valuable lesson.
I can tell that they do not complicate their lives with introspection and expectations. They live it as it comes. If the first nest does not work, they move on to the next. If there is no grub in the first 6 inches, then there may be one in the next. If the big black crow gets the first blue egg, they lay another one.
There is a certain truth in the robin’s way of life and that truth has always existed even if the robins and my backyard have not, and even if I am not here to notice it. I guess this is about as close as I am ever going to get to comprehend Buddha nature, and I have the birds in my backyard to thank.
Saturday, May 21, 2016
It is not that I worry much. To my knowledge, I have only missed one deadline and that was out of the shear silliness of retiring. I failed to recognize that time had taken on a new rhythm. Missing the deadline was more confusion than delinquency. But I am in the rhythm now. I do not need to be inspired to write, just focused. I need to give my mind permission to roam. And that is what it is doing as I write this — roaming.
For reasons unknown to me, one of our two bedrooms has been deemed mine. I do not sleep there but use the closet and most of the shelves in the floor-to-ceiling bookcases that line one wall. It is my library.
The books on the shelves reflect my interests, some as far back as high school. There are many stories of small sailboat adventurers. There are health related books including chiropractic, homeopathic, acupuncture, osteopathy, and mainstream medicine. There are probably more books than I need on bread and wine, and of course, there are the books about Japan. These cover poetry, architecture, art, history, and chanoyu, the tea ceremony.
Most of the books were collected before the Internet and many have been with me for fifty years. Some of them took years of searching in one used bookstore after another. Nowadays the Internet provides an efficient but much less fun search. To find a book after years of searching is like discovering a golden nugget.
The used bookstores are owned by some of the most colorful people I have met, and most have an aloof but beloved cat lurking in the stacks. A well run used bookstore offers possibilities that unlike Amazon are not driven by algorithms but rather by chance. I never know what new interest will be kindled (pardon the pun) as I comb through the rows of books.
My library feels like these bookstores. The books are loosely organized into topics but there are outliers. I am literally on my toes when searching for a specific title. It is a good stretching exercise. As I look over the titles, many that I have never gotten around to reading, a new passion for the topic flares. I have to concentrate not to get distracted from the task.
So, when I am writing and need to do research, I can walk the few feet to my library. I rely on my paperbound resources more than Wikipedia, and have developed long relationships with many of the books. I trust them. Their presence is comforting.
I have a suggestion for this years graduating class, despite the sexiness of electronic gadgets, start your own “brick and mortar” library. Become familiar with it. Take joy in the books even as you pack and unpack them for the umpteenth move. Fill them with notes, highlight them, make them dog-eared; make them your own.
A personal library can be an inspiration, and a good tool whether rushing to make a deadline or when inspired to write late on a Monday night.
Monday, April 25, 2016
Rikyu and Oribe were caught up in the momentous cultural and political changes. There are three main characters in the unification of Japan: Oda Nobunaga, Toyotomi Hideyoshi, and Tokugawa Ieyasu. It occurs in the Azuchi-Momoyama Period (1568-1600), and is an amazing story of shifting alliances, conquering armies, remorseless murder of vassals and their families, and the complication of foreign powers in both a mercantile and religious sense.
Oribe was unorthodox. Unlike Rikyu — a townsman and a merchant — Oribe was a samurai and a daimyo. He was one of Rikyu’s Seven Sages that carried on chanoyu after Rikyu’s death and became tea master to the Hideyoshi.
A sure way to get a rise out of demure tea folk is to use a piece of tea ware that is based on Oribe’s design. They have a distinctive look. The chawan will be deformed in some way, usually with purposeful indentation in the rim of the bowl. The color scheme is flamboyant with spattering of bright matcha green over a dirty white glaze with obscure markings in brown or black. It is as refreshing as it is distinctive.
Rikyu is celebrated for his restrained sensibility. A Raku chawan is like fashion’s “Little Black Dress”, elegant and refined. But Oribe took license with the form. He innovated and broke with tradition. Not only in tea ware but also in how he used tea spaces, mixing soan (the thatch hut) with shoin (reception rooms), and introduced the display of both calligraphy scrolls and flowers in the tearoom.
Most of the books I consulted on Japanese history made scant mention of Rikyu and did not address Oribe’s role. Oribe was a student of Rikyu (an inept one if I read correctly) and as I stated above, one of the Seven Sages (all military men) that Rikyu anointed to carry on tea after his death. He became tea master in all but name to Hideyoshi. When Hideyoshi died, he then became Ieyasu’s (the 2nd Shogun) tea master, and eventually the tea teacher to the third Shogun, Hidetada.
Oribe, a renowned military leader and a supporter of Tokugawa Shogunate, miscalculated the effect of his communication with the opposing side during the siege of the Osaka Castle. Tokugawa Ieyasu ordered him to commit suicide, and then had Oribe’s family and thus his lineage destroyed. This made me think how valued that Sen Rikyu’s family must have been to Hideyoshi that it was banished and not decimated after Rikyu’s death, and then quickly rehabilitated.
Kumakura Isao, in an article he wrote in Tea in Japan: Essays on the History of Chanoyu, quotes a five-line verse that describes the tea of four tea masters from the Tokugawa period. The first line of the verse is “Oribe is disputatious…”. It is a rarely used word meaning argumentative, awkward, and contrary.
It is my contention that Oribe is remembered, out of the many tea men that came after Rikyu’s death, not just because of his unique utensils but also because of his contrary genius. May we all be so daring!
Sunday, April 03, 2016
What is an auteur? I reach for the dictionary on my phone, read the definition, and realize that I have always wanted to be one. An auteur is an artist that has a distinctive style. I am not sure why Mike Nichols denied the label. It does not sound like a put down but maybe in the film world it is a derogatory term.
I wondered what my style would be when I first started to write. Did I need to invent one? Then one day I realized I had a style when I decided it needed to be changed. Does everything we do need to be innovative or is it okay to leave our distinctive stamp on it.
I mean a Rothko is a Rothko. Maybe his earlier works look different but not his later paintings. To the uninitiated, they are hard to tell apart. His studies of color are worth tens of millions. I wonder would he be upset at being called an auteur.
We all have a style, something that distinguishes us. The poor souls in my neighborhood that spend their lives outdoors have style. It could be their carts or their collection of bags or a stooped walk. I have learned to spot them wandering as I wander my north side bastion of Chicago. Few individuals have no style or distinction.
Of course, much time and effort is devoted to trying to stand out. Hair color, tattoos, garrulous cloths, enormous watches, 8 inch heels; I know, I know I am jealous. I am just too conservative and frugal to devote the time and money that it would take. An artist friend of mine, though dressed in black, always has a slightly quirky pair of eyeglasses on. In fact, I look forward to meeting him just to see what the new pair (for there is always a new pair) will reveal about him.
Whenever I get new glasses, I am determined to emulate him but fail. I suppose that is what makes us different. I cannot force myself out of my middle class rut to splash a little color or distinctive design somewhere on my body.
But then I am not completely without distinction, in my role as president of Urasenke Chicago Association (a group dedicated to chanoyu, the tea ceremony) I wear a kimono. This certainly puts me in the minority of Chicago males and maybe of most males in Japan. A kimono certainly makes me stand out in a crowd even if the kimono I am allowed to wear is a dower affair. It is like the pin striped suits that bankers and funeral directors wear.
Though, through none of my own doing, my obi stands out. An obi is a sash that is worn around the waist to keep the kimono intact. It was presented to me as a gift from a gifted tea master. I would have never thought to buy it. It is flamboyant with its gold ground and multiple pastel colors. One side has a linear design while the other is fleur de lis. But I enjoy wearing it and will never go back to the drab brown or navy blues of the past.
And I enjoy the attention I receive because of it. The black transparent jacket that is also part of the outfit shrouds it. Some attention to detail is required to see it. This means that I am being watched and so it reminds me to pay attention to my posture and my behavior. It is a good lesson in humility that a piece of fabric can and does take precedence over the whole of my personality.
Mike Nichols could wear only black. His brilliance drew people to him. He needed no outward affectation. For me though, I am grateful for my showy obi. It keeps me working for the day when I can fling it into space confident of my asteurism.