Wavelets

A boat is an outstanding place to ponder, at least when not crouching in the bilge covered in oil. It is my idea of an artist colony for one. Similar to institutions that sponsor artists in stately old mansions high in the mountains or in the flinty woods of the northeast, allowing them pursue their work isolated from life’s mundane tasks.

Of course, on the boat I have provided myself with a grant to sit and look out of the pilothouse. No one has to recognize my talent, and I do not have to submit a portfolio for anonymous judges to review. Just sitting and looking is my preoccupation, and while on the water simple things become important. Things like the surface of the water.

Nestled in the harbor wavelets predominate my visual field. The lake requires attention to Mother Nature: wind, water, clouds and waves. It requires all my concentration for navigation and for monitoring the fickle weather. These tasks become the preoccupation when underway. There is seldom time for contemplation.

The harbor relieves me of such duties and allows me to think about smaller, dare I say more inconsequential details. A harbor is a refuge that tempers the weather and lulls us into complacency. This is lost on many new boaters, drawing them out into uncomfortable, even dangerous encounters with the lake.

In my early days of boating and occasionally even now, when passing the red and green towers demarcating the harbor from the lake; if the weather is foul a sick feeling in my gut brings the realization that I should have never ventured out in the first place. And to make matters worst, once out it can take an agonizingly long time to get safely back and snug in your slip. Believe me when I say this, it is from hard won experience.

My point here is the minutiae of every day life, the things that make up the environment we become habituated to. As I sit, absorbed in the scene at the end of a long boating season, the surface of the water is disturbed by steady droplets of rain, by diving gulls, alighting Canadian geese and preening mallards, and by the death throws of the last few remaining salmon.

Wavelets radiate out from the nidus of raindrops in two groups of perfect concentric circles. The circles interact with the other ringlets created by the chilling October rain and intersect with waves generated from strong northeast winds and from the wakes of the few craft that still reluctantly ply the increasingly cold water.

The infinite variation, mind boggling as it is, follows physical principle and I am sure a physics professor has written equations to explain the phenomena. For me the changing nature of the universe is reflected on the surface of the water. It makes plausible the cliché that monarchs flapping their wings in the Yucatan can change the path of a hurricane.

Because of my interest in Japanese culture, especially chanoyu the tea ceremony, I take for granted that all this detail is not to be taken for granted. Nothing is as simple as it appears and everyday, even every second, is our last never to be repeated.

If it were a bright and sunny day my musings would take on a different tone. But today with winter, and the isolation that it brings not far away, these ponderings open up a rich world of experience that is always at our backdoor, but usually ignored in favor of images provided by the travel channel.

It makes searching for paradise in far-flung places unnecessary and relieves me of the burden of expectations. Things are just what they are…glorious, whether sitting in the pilothouse on a cold raining fall day, shoveling snow in my alley on Talman Avenue or walking amongst the graves under a canopy of ancient cedars on Mt. Koya-san.

Aimlessness

The first task of the day, after a cup of cappuccino, is to round on patients in the hospital. For those of you who have ever had the misfortune of being in the hospital, whether as a patient or as a practitioner of the art of medicine, you know the seeming aimlessness of much that goes on within the confines.

Having worked and studied in many institutions over decades of training and practice, I still find myself in awe of the shear mindlessness of much that goes on. I chalk it up to corporate culture, each hospital steeped in its own tradition, carries on in its own way.

But I digress, in medical circles the students term for aimlessness is "scut work". Examples being never-ending histories and physicals, interminable note writing, fetching any thing from Swans-Granz catheters to donuts and coffee and the most annoying of all, didactic education in the form of morning report and lectures given throughout a day that is already seriously overbooked.

Years ago I read a famous book called Zen and the Art of Archery by Eugen Herrigel. This book, as I remember it, is basically a thesis on scut work and how the protagonist anguishes over the difference between his idealized concept of the teacher/master and the realities of his apprenticeship. There is much second-guessing by the main character that, without giving away too much of the story jeopardizes his relationship with his teacher.

The narrative is centered on his perceived privilege as a student. In medicine and I think in the Japanese sense of education, respect and privilege are reserved for teachers and earned by students. This contributes a vital link to the training process, producing confident, mature professionals that will some day replace their mentors.

Aimlessness is a fallacy for any serious student and thus the reason it is fought against so rigorously. But aimlessness, at least the way I think of it, is what teachers strive for. It is similar to the aphorism, knowledge for knowledge’s sake. I think of it as a koan: the more an idea is concentrated on, the less chance there is it of ever being understood; the less effort given to solving it, the more futile the attempt.

We have all spent hours, even days, memorizing our notes and taking exams, but as the hours pass it is difficult to remember what was so judiciously studied. Facts are memorized and forgotten, but concepts are absorbed and it is in this that aimlessness is invaluable.

In Chanoyu, the tea ceremony, there is a place, and I think an idea, called mizuya. It translates as kitchen or maybe pantry. It is the physical space where various utensils, and oneself, are readied for the preparation of tea.

For initiates and advanced students of tea much time is spent in the mizuya. The Thirteenth Grand Tea Master, Ennosai, wrote that the mizuya is the training ground for the tearoom. It was here engrossed in mundane tasks similar, in spirit; to the scut work performed by medical students that chado (the Way of Tea) began to infuse into my soul.

Students need to put time in, doing whatever work their teacher deems necessary. Of course there is no reason not to gripe. It is a fine tradition to be shared with your colleagues as long as you remember that the educational process, however chaotic, has been honed over hundreds of years and is probably the same training that your mentor endured and complained about.

It is the need to master commonplace tasks that makes chanoyu and medicine so hard to pass on superficially. Short cuts leave both student and teacher unfulfilled. The vast under estimation of just how much “blood, sweat and tears” goes into either pursuit is one of the main reasons that chanoyu and pre-med have such high attrition rates.

But one day if you persevere with your study, as you enter the mizuya the fragrance of damp cedar, bamboo and linen will become evident, it is a fragrance so infused into our minds that we would sense it even if it were not there. Once preparations are complete, tea is made and served as the earth takes another aimless spin around its axis.

White Noise

I write this sitting on the deck of my boat at the entrance of Montrose Harbor. It is a warm Sunday afternoon in August and I am trying to read. Out here in the sun there is a constant stream of watercraft passing before me, creating a monotonous din similar to the black boxes you can buy that produce white noise to help lull you to sleep.

As the day goes by transitioning through twilight and finally night, the boats are tucked into their slips, the boaters depart for where about unknown, the police chase the hangers-on out of the park and the sound of cars on Lake Shore Drive surface to replace the din of the passing vessels at the harbor mouth. It may be blasphemous to say, but noise emanating from the speeding vehicles on LSD is a good imitation of surf breaking against the pristine shores of Florida’s Panhandle or the barrier islands of the Carolina's.

During my recent trip to Japan I noted that the country is immersed in white noise. From the tinkling fountains just outside our room in the ryokan’s (traditional Japanese inn) we stayed in to the water streaming past every door in the quaint mountain town of Takayama or the rushing streams coursing through the metropolis of Kanasawa. There is some thing comforting and oddly motivating in the constant flow of cold mountain water in Japan’s cities and countryside as it searches for its final destination in the sea.

And the one thing I am most familiar with about Japan, chanoyu, the tea ceremony, has a multitude of sources for white noise. The sound present from numerous objects used during the preparation of tea: some natural, others man-made. I even think the faint hint of incense that lingers in the tearoom synergistically fosters the calming effect that white noise tends to produce.

There are several different schools of chanoyu and the Urasenke tradition, of which I am a member, has the largest presence outside of Japan. We visited the headquarters this year and took instruction in tea for two mornings from several gyotei sensei (professors). To better accommodate us, our group of thirty teachers and students is split into beginning and advance groups. The sessions are held in tearooms located in Urasenke's 400-year-old compound in Kyoto.

After being introduced to our instructors a short orientation is given and I settle in with my small class. I kneel as best I can in the tearoom listening intently and watching my fellow students perform the specific teas that were assigned to them. Though unable to see through the shoji screen walls, we are surrounded by an ancient manicured garden and the sounds of the garden, and the nature they represent, begin to filter in to my consciousness.

The quiet cacophony distracts me and I find it hard to concentrate on the lesson at hand, but I am not sure anyone else in the room notices my inattention or the sounds of the out side world. Voices identify themselves: birds, squirrels, insects and the rustling of the leaves from a warming spring breeze.

I am hearing, as water pours from the ladle into the chawan to start the purification process that begins the tea ceremony, a life and death drama begin and play out. A struggle between the magnificent crows that are ever-present in Japan and a mother squirrel protecting her off spring.

As I listen, matcha is whisked into hot water, placed on the tatami mat before a beautifully kimono-clad student and I have one of those full circle moments. Here, surrounded by the ultimate expression of human culture and sophistication, while just a breath away through paper-thin walls, nature in a raw expression of survival is playing out.

At that moment, as if on cue, the teacher abruptly slides the shoji screen open and the outside world rushes in. At once breaking the spell the sound has had on me and at the same time confirming my thoughts that we are rooted in the natural world and that for all our sophistication, we are not separate from nature and its consequences.

Words

Words come in many guises. They exist in a multitude of divergent images. Ancient cuneiform clay tablets and pixilated computer screens compete for our attention. But I am not concerned with grammar or meaning, more with symbols.

Oriental script is distilled pictographs, fractionated images from life. The first inkling of words I imagine as cave drawings that quickly became stylized. Our ancestor’s images and thus their thoughts are apparent. Images of their hands, the animal they hunt, their weapons and the gods they worship repeatedly appear. But when it comes to kanji, the Chinese alphabet, I find any attempt to casually decipher the characters futile.

I have recently tried to understand the different genre of Japanese script. Many years ago a friend, who spent half of the 80's teaching English in Japan and Korea and in the process became fluent in both languages, took an ad from a Japanese magazine and dissected it for me.

The complexity of the ad overwhelms me: hiragana, katakana, kanji and English are all combined to produce a visually stunning ad. We use many fonts in English, but a common script, whereas in Japan you are dealing with multiple alphabets.

While attending Southern Illinois University in the 1970's I became friends with a young women from Oman. She was working on a second master’s degree, this time in mathematics, trying to stave off an inevitable arranged marriage to her cousin.

In describing her path to SIU she related the political Diaspora her family traveled as they moved from Madagascar to India, finally settling in Oman. During her journey she learned French, English, Arabic and a smattering of other languages. I was very envious of her linguistic skills till one day she confided in me her difficulties forming thoughts.

I could not image why, she was very articulate. But to her, the lack of mastery of any one language confused her thoughts. She did not know what language to think in. Each language presented her with a different worldview.

Thoughts are made up of vocabulary, a lexicon of words and symbols. Which brings me back to cave drawings. How different our worldview would be if our alphabet were one of images as opposed to a series of straight and curved lines. It is the difference between Descartes and Gautama Buddha, between symphonic form and the ragas of India.

Perception within the same language is dicey; think of the bible or the constitution. Interpretations are constantly in flux. Now imagine transferring information between the east and the west. Many of us have experienced the translation of one kanji that can continue on for minutes to hours.

I regret my lack of language skills. I do not know if it is laziness or a lack of IQ, but I seem doomed to experiencing a culture without the ultimate inclusion of words. It separates me from the culture, but I try not to concern myself with this perceived deficit. The aphorism, one meeting/one time, behooves me to make the best of every moment. Life happens once, second by second. I do my best my best with the knowledge and skills I have and get on with the art of living.

We see, interpret and describe, reforming words as need be. Words are used to delve into the minds of the great apes. Once we have a common alphabet, composed of both words and images, it opens up their world to ours or maybe visa-versa. The popular press was shocked at how much humans and the great apes have in common. This use of words forced a reevaluation of the ethics involved with our interaction with these animals.

In a way, our Western language is once removed from the objects we describe. I think of the structure of DNA and wonder if the image of a double helix was known to the ancient Chinese what the kanji would look like. By the time we have a word we are several steps remove from the actual object. Somehow kanji seem more direct and thus contain more information, information that leads to speculation, interpretation and thought.

I will always cherish the memory of the pondering I naively initiated between Rev. and Minnie Kubose (my tea teacher) by simply asking what the scroll hanging in the tokonoma meant. The unintended consequence of which was I got to rest my knees for the twenty or so minutes it took to come to the conclusion that it would take another hour to really do justice to the topic.

So what is my point, for once I am not sure. I think I will just end with 言 (gen).

Ambiguity

One thing that fine art has in common is ambiguity. I cannot take credit for this idea. My teacher Darrin Hallowell, a fine sculptor, made this comment when looking at one of my little creations. We were discussing my latest sculpture at our end-of-semester critiquing session. I do not suppose that my art is fine but only comment how the work has evolved over the three years I have been taking his metal sculpture class at the Evanston Art Center.

I added a small detail to the edge of the base, an uncommon gesture in my pieces thus far. This seemingly insignificant addition, a small piece of scrap steel cut from another sculpture, drastically changed everyone’s impression of the work. #24 is the name of the sculpture, the twenty-fourth effort of my short career.

The addition changed the perspective, the form and how the eye relates to the structure. In other words, the whole is suddenly more than the sum of its parts. This is what ambiguity is all about. It is the itch you cannot scratch. Why this is so, well that is the question, isn't it?

Living in Chicago affords the opportunity to exercise one’s aesthetic sense. Every day on the commute home, while creeping in traffic, I look up to see Buckingham fountain and the skyline looming behind and think, what a wonderful place to be trapped. The majesty and power of the fountain and the skyline are juxtaposed by the raw nature of Lake Michigan.

Sitting in the car, I ponder of the Art Institute’s collection housed only a block away. My mind focused not on the famous impressionist works that have become so familiar, but the works of Klee, Kelly, Rothko and the Clarence Buckingham Japanese print collection.

What does this art mean? What is the artist trying to tell us? I plead ignorance. This ignorance, this uncertainty is what the human condition is all about, what religion and philosophy are all about. It is what makes them compelling.

The need for an inaccessible inner sanctum keeps us interested. Every religion and for that matter every social movement understands this. Think of the Kremlin and Lenin's tomb to see a modern day examples. To keep our interest the hidden knowledge can be accessible only to a chosen few, but the act of making art allows all of us a glimpse into that world. One of the first things a totalitarian state does is to suppress its artist to that end.

As a child attending Catholic school I sensed the sacredness of withheld knowledge and needed to get close to the mystery. This led me to become an altar boy and though I never mastered the Latin phrases, the mystery of the mass held my attention. Only when mass was turned around by the Vatican Consul in the 1960’s, expunged of Latin with the organ replaced by guitars, did I lose interest.

The ambiguity was replaced by cold hard reality and the art lost. So what does this have to do with anything remotely Japanese? I have often wondered what brought me to chanoyu, the tea ceremony and I think it is the need to recover lost ritual.

In my mind the Latin of the mass is replaced by Japanese; the chalice is replaced by a rough pottery tea bowl or chawan; the wine by the thin frothy tea called matcha; the host by the sweet served to guest prior to partaking the tea.

Of course you can draw the analogy just so far, but for me - though it took years to realize it - chanoyu fills the void left by the modernization of the Catholic ceremony. And what I find compelling is that chanoyu, though based on the principles of Zen Buddhism, is a secular discipline open to all.


The principles of wabi-sabi in chanoyu, rustic and elegant at the same time, contribute to the sense of mystery. What is it about thatched huts, rough earthen bowls and ephemeral flowers that hold such fascination? I will never know and that is how it should be.

Let physicist ponder the nature of the real universe. There is no need to unlock the nature of the artistic universe. The questions are unanswerable and should remain so. Let ambiguity prevail and steep your self in it, for it is part of the beauty.

Rikyuki 2005

Certain events focus our energy. In Japan for the first time, I am in Kyoto to attend Rikyuki, the 414th commemoration of the death of Sen no Rikyu, the founder of the Urasenke Tradition of Tea. I have been planning this trip for over a year and as with all trips time accelerates the nearer I get to lift off, leaving me sleep deprived for the first few days due to the all-night packing session I had promised not to put myself through.

Add to that jet lag, a fifty-year-old body that has some difficulty adapting to new sleeping arrangements and strange food, and despite all my efforts to focus on the upcoming events, I get lost in the minutiae of every day life. But as I approach the gathering point for Rikyuki at Urasenke headquarters, thousands of pastels colored kimonos suddenly appear and I am back on track again.

Being naive to the Japanese language, I take much of what is going to happen on faith. Before entering I am given a card with five perforated tickets denoting I know not what, but imagine five distinct events. This helps to focus my attention and gets me thinking about how long I will actually have to kneel, a major point of discussion during the planning stage of the trip.

It begins to rain and to the mix of spectacularly colorful participants, hundreds of umbrellas suddenly appear from nowhere. The background of earth tones and subtle shades of green enhance the color and design of the individual kimonos, no two alike.

We are guided through the Helmet Gate, the entrance of the Urasenke compound, the ultimate Japanese Tea house and garden. I think the rain, annoying as it is, heightens the experience. The fact that there are hundreds of people in front and behind us does not diminish splendor of it all.

A faint hint of incense is detected as we are lead into the main tearoom and see Zaboshi Oiemoto, the present Grand Tea Master, quietly pour hot water for tea. Behind him hangs a famous scroll with the image of Rikyu kneeing with fan in hand. This is the first of many priceless objects I am going to see, touch and be served tea in.

Rikyu and the subsequent 15 Grand Tea Masters have done much to diminish the ostentation of the original tea ceremony with the philosophy of wabi-sabi (rustic elegance) and have instead given us such icons as the Raku tea bowl and the thatch tea hut. For all the awe surrounding these objects, they are utilitarian and designed to be used. Chanoyu, the tea ceremony, means hot water for tea and the utensils are the vessels to achieve that end; no more, no less and there-in lies their greatness.

Once the ceremony for Rikyu is completed, the Grand Tea Master hands out certificates of achievement and the recipients are allowed to enter the shrine to Sen no Ryiku. As this is takes place the Chicago Association, who I have traveled to Japan with and I are directed to another room and receive the first gift of the day and the second ticket is collected.

After a short wait we move again and as the day goes by we use up all the tickets: one for table-style tea, one for lunch, one for tea given by the senior teachers and one for a final gift. It is a whirlwind of activity that passes quickly, so quickly that it is hard for me to recall the exact events.

I do recall having my own interpreter. He is an enlightened gentleman that quietly translates and guides me through the day’s events. I recall being served tea by the aunt of the present grand master and enjoying her informative explanation of the various utensils used to prepare tea. I recall being first guest at tea hosted by the senior teachers and drinking matcha from a 400-year-old chawan (tea bowl), and on and on.

When all the tickets are finally collected, I return to my hotel via one of Kyoto’s meticulous taxis driven by white-gloved cabbie. Urasenke is only three blocks from the hotel, but in kimono and zori walking would be a challenge.

Back in street cloths I wonder what I have done to warrant all the special attention paid to me this day. I think the teachers deserve the honors, not I. After all, what would we do without them to transmit the knowledge gained from 400 years of practicing tea?

Food

The staff of life for most of the world brings images of rolling waves of grain or terraced rice patties. In the western world wheat fulfills this role and for the east oryza sativa, rice predominates.

Go to any up-scale bakery you will find shelves of "artisan" bread. In fact, some of the best bread I have recently had was to be found in coastal northern Michigan catering to the well-heeled tourist on vacation.

Bread that is baked in brick ovens and raised with organic starters ; bread that is heavy enough to construct a bomb shelter with or so light and airy that it is a challenge to cut; bread that come in all sorts of shapes and hues that found with an almost infinite list of ingredients: any thing from cheese, nuts, seeds, fruit to all types of exotic grains. They beg to be devoured, being torn to pieces before ever reaching home.

But here I am thinking about Japanese food or at least my uninformed view of it, and as far as I can tell, bread has almost no part to play in Japanese cuisine. Coming from an Italian background, with its adoration of bread and the craftsmen that bake it, this is hard to fathom.

I am blessed with a mother who despite the fact that she worked, did the laundry and took care of the finances, always delivered to our table a wonderfully made meal in record time and did so night after night. She spoiled me and when it was time to start taking care of myself I just had to eat well and I seemed to know how to cook intuitively.

When I went away to college, I switched to a mainly vegetarian diet and started to discover different types of rice: fragrant basmati, nutty whole grain, silky long grain, gummy short grain and even Italian Arborio (I had not yet been exposed to sushi rice). Each one required different handling and at a time in my life when I had minimal expendable income, experimenting with all these variations of rice did a lot to keep me entertained.



Now I know what your thinking and you are correct, this is not the most exciting way to go through college, but over my years of higher education I made it a point to take time to cook a decent meal for myself every night. It was a time for reflection, relaxation and a time to concentrate on things other than biology, chemistry, anatomy and well, whatever –ology I happened to be cramming into my brain during the semester.

But I am straying from the topic. As a kid growing up in Chicago there was very little exposure to Japanese culture and none to the cuisine. When initially confronted by a bento box in the eighties, my first impression was of a Whitman sampler, a box of colorful candies. I did not know how to approach it, but thankfully had Japanese friends who were able to guide me through the maze of colors and shapes that constitute Japanese food.

The fact that all the food is cold struck me as odd. And then there is the problem of identification. It proved difficult to decipher the main course from the appetizers, the vegetables from the dessert.
The tastes are also confusing and to my uneducated pallet shifted from sweet to salty to sour. I was sure there were subtleties I was missing, but these were mainly lost to me at the time.

As time went by a few Japanese restaurants started to open in Chicago and one quite good one set up shop down the street from my home. The neighborhood I live in has yet to be gentrified, so when an interesting restaurant opens we go check it out.

It was during one of these nights out that a friend told me Japanese food is all about textures, the technical term being mouth feel. I am still not sure if he is right, but when I think about the different types of rice, tofu, sashimi, etc., he may have a point.

My friend is a big fan of some of the odd types, at least to my mind, of sushi and sashimi. Uni has always been big favorite of his, but to me the color and texture are difficult. When I look at uni I think of the saffron robes of Hindu priest and the texture, well I cannot make it out. I admit that I have never tasted it; some how try as I may to muster up the courage, I am incapable convincing myself to eat it.

So I started my exploration of Japanese food with more generic types of dishes: California roll, tempura, udon and have pretty much stayed stuck in my ways, ordering the same type of food except for several times a year at tea related events.

The biggest event of the year is tatezome, the belated New Years celebration that our tea group, Urasenke Chicago Association holds every February. We commonly have sweets and matcha (thin tea) during the presentation of the tea ceremony, then some sake and a bento box for lunch.

I sit next to my teacher at these events and after cracking the lid of the bento box start asking questions. I identify the morsels, compartment by compartment, asking what the food is, if not immediately apparent, and what special significant each one has and how it relates to New Years.

Long life, prosperity and good health are common themes, but each food and each presentation has a tale to be told. I think life must have been very dire and tenuous for most to require so many talismans for good luck and long life.

Given my memory and the complexity of the topic, I wish I recorded the explanations given to me of the contents of the bento box and their significance. The bento box’s culinary heritage reminds me of the way chanoyu, the tea ceremony, encompasses Japanese’s culture heritage. I guess I will just have to show up again at tatezome with my tape recorder and hope that my questions will be tolerated.

Process

The sun is still below the horizon as I change into the loose garb commonly known as scrubs. It is the fourth year of my medical training and I am preparing for the first surgical case of the day. As I walk through the deserted hallways of the hospital, I rehearse tying knots, I recite the names of surgical instruments and I think through the process, the step-by-step order of the operating room (O.R.).

Upon reaching the threshold of the O.R., I shed my outer garment, swallow a couple of power bars and instead of removing my shoes, as in chanoyu the tea ceremony, cover them. Before entering I don a mask and once in, move toward the center of a room that is about the size of an eight mat tearoom.

Introducing myself to the staff, I select my gloves and in a very stylized way take them out of their package and place them in the sterile field without contaminating anything - hopefully. This is all done under the watchful eye of the much-wizened nurses who like their tea sensei counterparts have trained many an initiate.

The wide-eyed patient is wheeled in and I move to help secure them for the procedure. The anesthesiologist works to sedate the patient while I pull the overhead lights in place. Once all is secure, the surgeon walks out to scrub and I follow. Follow is what I have done a lot of these last four years.

Medicine is still an apprenticeship and the teacher, or attending surgeon as they are called, receives respect from the whole gaggle of students, interns and residents. We try to anticipate and follow their every move. This goes without saying, much like in chanoyu we learn by direct observation of our superiors. The Japanese respect for teachers holds true in medical training, even if it has been loss in the wider world.

Now I scrub with arms up as if offering praise. Finger tips first, then fingers, hands, and arms down to the elbow for a good 5 minutes. Soap and water dribble off my limbs into the sink and we all become quiet and introspective. A seemingly mundane procedure, but process is everything. The goal is forgotten. We concentrate on the steps, not missing any crevice. The surgeon is first to finish. Not because he the fastest but out of respect, all others continue till he has completed the task.

Once back in the O.R. a little dance commences. Like dressing in kimono, I have several layers on. I am eased into the outer garment and the circulating nurse secures it. With gloves on, I head for the patient and place my hands on the baby blue sterile field. As in tea, there are definite but at the same time somewhat obscure boundaries. This is the source of much consternation for new students of either discipline.

In tea, hours are spent on your knees in the mizuya (kitchen) practicing the movements and learning how to care for the utensils. In the O.R., hours are spent on your feet unable to scratch that itch or bent in some odd position for hours holding a retractor and finally in suturing, stapling, drilling or whatever the task may be.

Again it is step-by-step. There is a rhythm to it. Somewhere someone may have given me a lecture about it, but I found that watching and listening with an open mind provided the best lesson. One day when you are finally asked to perform, just maybe, if you have watched long enough you will do it without ever having done it before.

I do not think I really understood process before my experience with tea and the O.R. The way the four principles of tea; harmony, respect and purity lead to tranquility. I have always known these abstract concepts had a basis in the physical world because chanoyu is after all, hot water for tea. It is a physical process and all talk and studying is, in the end, valueless without doing. The O.R. has been a defining experience for me. It is the real world with real consequences and the principles and practice of chanoyu fit in effortlessly.

Physicality

Chanoyu, the tea ceremony, is not often thought of as a physically challenging discipline. Unlike the other "-do", such as kendo, aikido, and judo, tea is thought to be a cerebral discipline. Granted it is not aerobically challenging, but the dance-like nature of tea requires much of the physical dexterity and coordination as the above-mentioned pursuits.

The study of tea comes full circle. As you begin training your concentration is limited by the length of time it takes for your feet to go painfully numb. Then an epiphany occurs, one day you realize that you have been sitting for an hour, concentrating and not worrying about when you will get to stand and stretch your legs. Your commitment deepens.

Years go by and despite that fact there is so much more to learn, your physical limitation become apparent. Unlike the start of training there is not much hope of overcoming aches and pains. You simply have to manage them and go on.

Slavishly you go through the motions, trying to get through all the steps in an elegant manner and widened your repertoire. Maturity and experience allow some time for contemplation, so your study takes on a new dimension. You see this in the best entertainers; Frank Sinatra and Tony Bennett come to mind. Over the years they lost some of their range and clarity, but their art became more profound.

Tea has made concessions to age, disability and Westerners with the development of ryurei, the tabletop service, in the late 19th century by the 11th Generation Grand Tea Master Gengensai. Ryurei, though somewhat limited in scope, nonetheless provides an opportunity for continued participation in practice despite infirmities and makes the introduction of tea much less intimidating.

Tea in many ways resembles a small theatrical production. It requires setting the stage before each serving and depending on the situation, shoji screens, tatami mats, iron furo (brazier) and kama (kettle) and a multitude of other gear are needed.

For me this gear represents five of the basic elements: water, fire, wood, iron and earth. The iron furo with the crackling wood fire resting on wood ash, the iron kama filled with hot water, the earthen ware mizushashi containing cold replenishing water are but a few things that need to be brought in and set up before tea can commence.

During tea many of these vessels are manipulated and though the ancient founders of tea had impeccable artistic credentials, ergonomics was not one of their strong suits. I worry about my compromised back every time I lean forward to lift the iron water-filled kama from its perch.

For Westerners and I think many Japanese, the fact that anyone can kneel for an extended period of time, do tea and remain placid is an Olympian feat. Envy and marvel fill me as I watch our older members kneel with ease as I sit and squirm. At my best I was probably comfortable kneeling for slightly less than an hour.

The Japanese have a variety of small seats, to put it charitably, to help relieve the stress on their feet and legs. Unfortunately for larger frames these seats do little to stave off distress. I have gone so far as to design and construct my own. A brutish design made out of particleboard but it will work in a pinch.

There is no aggressive physicality in tea, no adversary to compete against, to motivate, to drive you on. It is an intimate study even when fellow students, teachers and guests, surround you. The physical nature of tea is an outward expression of an inner world of harmony, respect, purity and tranquility. Now if I can only get my feet to cooperate.

Sacred space

What is it about the architecture of the Japanese tearoom, the chashitsu, that makes it such a sacred space? The building itself is unprepossessing and rustic. It is how it interacts with its surroundings and how it is used that sanctifies this simple hut.

Sacred spaces have something in common, some thing almost too corny to talk about. They create in us a feeling of oneness with the environment. You feel it in the pit of your stomach, like a moving piece of music.

I have been privy to a few sacred spaces in my life. Sacred as defined by my own secular vernacular. Mather Point in the Grand Canyon, the Bahia Temple in Wilmette Illinois, the Tuileries garden in Paris, ancient summer cabins in the mountains of Norway, the end of the rainbow while traveling up to Mt. Rainer, amongst the rollers in a reefed down sailboat in Lake Michigan, deep in the Sinai desert on the summit of Mt. Moses, standing in the charred remains of the devastated forest on Mt. St. Helens, reaching the foothills of the Rocky mountains, walking through the Jaffa Gate in Jerusalem, standing with the Slaves while looking toward Michelangelo’s David, the smoky valleys of the Tuscan hills. All of these spaces conspire to mold your vision of the world, as does the chashitsu.

You cannot just get into the chashitsu. You have to take a journey first. You have to go through rights of purification. You have to traverse imaginary boundaries. You look out to distant mountains and cleanse yourself in a still pond. You sit and wait patiently to be summoned. The deep woods sink into your soul.

Then you are allowed to crawl through the chashitsu’s small guest opening (nijiri-guchi) into another world. Only then can the space be appreciated. The room is dim. Not lit by the glow of halogen lights we have become accustom to. There is a hint of incense and if you are lucky there will be a small crackling fire in the furo (hearth).

There is an almost imperceptible ringing, bell like, as the water simmers in the kama, the cast iron kettle. There are tiny flashes of color from the flowers and utensils but mostly you are surrounded by subdued earthen tones.

There is rustling as the guests slide about the room. It is the sound of tabi and silk kimonos gliding on straw tatami mats. Again there is a respite and the space sinks deeper into your soul; wood slides on wood as the shoji screen opens and chanoyu, the tea ceremony begins.

When the tea ceremony is over the host or hostess bows one more time and leaves while the guests are still in the chashitsu. The guests are once again left in silence to contemplate the nature of their surroundings and what has just taken place. They exit the chashitsu and retrace their steps, slowly acclimatizing into the real world.

It is not that the chashitsu is not the real world; it is just a finely crafted representation. It allows one to focus life’s experience on the head of a pin. The chashitsu represents thousands of years of Japan’s cultural development. And for some thing with such cultural weight it has little substantial structure. It would not take much to blow or burn a chashitsu down.

The longer I live the more I realize the impermanence of things: war, floods, earthquakes and fire, natural and manmade disasters. Everything changes. But I do not despair. It is the threat of impermanence that motivates us to retain, foster and pass on culture to our children and students.

This keeps bringing me back to the concept of ichigo, ichie (one time, one meeting). As ritualistic as tea is, you can never expect to repeat your experience. You get what you get out of each experience and do not look back.

Ultimately it is the next generation’s decision whether these constructs of the human hand and mind, these sacred spaces, are retained or discarded. One hopes that they have the fore thought and the comfort of a peaceful world to make the proper choices. But after all it is we that have trained them. We can either take comfort or be anxious about the consequences of the knowledge we have transferred to them.

So in fear of sounding corny again, let me state the obvious, get your children and students out to these sacred spaces. Get them the experience first hand, not virtually. The experience can never be passed on by high definition TV.

Formality

Recently while paging through the Japanese portion of the Chicago Shimpo, a small picture of the leaders of industrialized world caught my eye. They are standing in their suit coats, neckties off and collars open. Though they have different features, the one thing they all have in common is that none of them appear very comfortable with this lack of formality.

My guess is that this picture was staged, by a consensus of their publicist, to show that they are just good old boys having a good old time. Like old friends getting together to have a glass of wine, sake or vodka, smoke a couple of cigars and maybe play a game of poker using the various economies of the world as chips. This started me thinking about the levels of formality in chanoyu, the tea ceremony.

Tea deals with formality in many different ways. Utensils, dress, types of tea, sweets and flowers, as well as the specific procedures performed; all combine to create the appropriate level of formality needed.

One of the many things that surprised me when I first started studying tea was the practice, early in training, of using the daisu. The daisu is a stand used to display chawans (tea bowl) in formal tea services, some of which would only be performed to serve tea to the emperor.

Why teach this level of formality to lowly beginners who in their wildest dreams will never be asked to perform at such events. I think it is done to represent a world that we will never experience but should know exists. It helps to build a foundation and to test our skill in the manipulation of the daisu and the chawan resting upon it. But I have to admit I am only speculating, I am no scholar just an interested layman in the study of tea.

I always try to bring a little light heartedness to any discussion of tea. Tea is generally thought to be a very serious, even stern discipline. I think most people place tea at the level of formality of the Catholic mass. I try to explain to the uninitiated that tea can be as simple as inviting friends over for coffee or as formal as serving tea to an emperor.

During the informal preparations of tea, a sweet and then usucha (thin tea) is served in an atmosphere of congeniality with banter between guests encouraged. The conversation is kept to tea related topics. Gossip and politics are saved for the world outside the chasitsu (tea hut).

This contrasts with more formal ceremonies, where the serious and contemplative nature of tea is represented. The tea served is koicha, a thick mixture of tea and water that is shared in turn by all guests. The dialog is very scripted and reserved for only the host and first guest.

Formality in tea seems directly related to the Japanese sincere respect for teachers. As far as I can tell the lines between relationships are drawn very close in Japan. We in America tend to be a bit more flippant when it comes to our dealings between teachers and students.

A certain level of formality is necessary for the smooth running of tea and well, the world. In my own experience as a physician, formality helps me do a job that at times of dire circumstances requires authority and trust. Formality helps to codify relationships between doctor and patient, teacher and student.

Formality exists to help in the transmission of knowledge. It starts from the Grand Tea Master and works it way down to beginning students. Similarly in medical training where there is nothing more derided than third year medical students new to the hospital floors. All the scut or menial jobs are reserved for them. But these students and the students new to tea are the foundation for the structures above them.

Not much seen on television about the medical profession is valid but for the level of hierarchy depicted; the grumpy senior physician followed by his hand picked fellow, the senior resident down to the intern and then to the medical students. There are well-defined borders to each role and in this way medical training is similar to tea.

You never truly know how much you know or do not know till exposed to followers at differing levels of whatever discipline you practice. I am amazed at how much I have learned from the students I am supposedly teaching. They certainly keep you honest.

So next time you are watching the tea ceremony or for that matter sitting talking with your doctor, think about the formality imposed upon the relationship and see if you think it adds any value. See if you can imagine the experience without the boundaries imposed by our culture.

This brings me back to the world leaders and the formality they inherit with their position. Not only do they, with their open collars, look uncomfortable but also this disquieting feeling is passed on to the viewer. Formality is innate and built into every human endeavor. The structure of tea takes this into account and allows for respect and tranquility, two of the tenets of chanoyu, to take root.

Chado In steel

Please bear with my convoluted story. Back in 1985 I drew a small line drawing called Fjord. After pondering it, I thought it would make a great backyard sculpture. Now understand I have no training in the fine or the not-so-fine arts, but I stashed it away in a crevice in my mind for future consideration. I also had no backyard at the time to put it in.

Another thing stashed away in my mind was a desire to learn how to weld. Don’t ask me why, but I think it might have something to do with a life long fascination with large metal objects: push boats on the Mississippi, tugs, oceangoing freighters, and locomotives. Well you get the idea and I have always wanted to own my own steel boat after living on a wreck of a metal sailboat in my early twenties.

One day I received a flyer from the Evanston Arts Center. Instead of throwing it out as I usually do with these catalogs, I paged through it and noted a metal sculpture class. I have been intrigued by sculpture ever since first seeing the Picasso down on Daley Center. So here was a class offering to satisfy several of my fantasies: welding and art.

Who knew what to expect from a class like this; left brain/right brain, blue collar/white collar, macho/effeminate, dainty/monumental, stuck-up or down to earth. Not knowing any artists or being part of any arts scene I was entering new territory. On top of that, all I really want to do is build a metal boat, so what could I expect to learn from this class. I paid my money and got a slot after trying for about a year to get in and showed up with wimpy gloves, blue jeans, a flannel shirt and my trusty Swiss Army knife.

It turned out that the class was populated with a group of repeating students and a few new faces that were all very talented, helpful and from every walk of life: a house restorer, an architect, an engineer, a real estate broker, a vice president of a metal fabricating company, a graphic artist; a fun and diverse group. The teacher is a practicing sculpture born and raised on an island in Maine; you couldn’t get more down-to-earth.

We all got right into it; he could barely drag us away from the torches to give any instruction. Nobody even practiced, once he showed us the first thing, how to use an oxy-acetylene torch, everyone just started on his or her project. It was as if these people, like myself, had had these projects in mind for years and now finally given the chance to do something about it; well nothing was going to hold them back.

The most telling moment for me was when we had our class on using the arch welder. An arch welder entails every thing your mother ever told you not to do. You are informed very early on never to look into the sun, stick a knife into the toaster or a bobby pin into an electrical socket. You are also reminded to avoid stepping on the third rail (this being graphically reinforced on the nightly news several times a year), never play with fire and not to stand out in a field in a thunderstorm.

The arch welder epitomizes all of the above. Any device where you need to wear quarter inch thick leather gloves, a leather jacket that covers from your neck to below your waist, a mask that your can’t even see out of till you actually start welding and a respirator so you don’t breath in toxic fumes should give you and your mother cause for concern.

It is plugged into a 220V line and fuses steel with an arch of fire 10,000 degrees as the welding rod splatters molten steel that is 2700 degrees. The arch welder does something that you are never supposed to do - create an electrical short. It is something to be prevented at all cost. Needless to say it is an intimidating thing to try and learn how to use. I noticed that a few people never returned to class after using it. Though I had big plans for a sculpture, I wasn’t sure I wanted to include the arch welder after my first exposure to it.

The first way we had learned to work with metal was with an oxy-acetylene torch. There is something elegant about its setup. Everything is made of bronze with all kinds of beautiful little valves and intriguing dials. It has an interesting smell, sort of like the way gas leaking in your house smells. There is a beautiful blue flame within a flame when adjusted properly. And since it is much less rambunctious you don’t need most of the body armor that is required with the arch welder. So I decided that this was the tool for me.

The only problem was that I had gone off and bought 1/4” plate steel for my project and was fruitlessly trying to weld it with the torch. One of my fellow classmates, who had much more experience than I, informed me that if I was ever going to accomplish anything in this class I needed to go use the arch welder with such thick plate steel. With my tail between my legs I went into the room, drew the curtain that protects the rest of the class from the harmful rays and tried to weld my first two pieces of steel with the arch welder.

Now remember you can’t see what your doing at first. Before you start to weld you have to flip the helmet down which basically blinds you till the lightening starts. The rod that does the welding is about a foot long, as big around as a thick piece of spaghetti and is off on the end of this holder wobbling around. One gets ready, set, aims, flips the helmet down and strikes an arch. Usually instead of welding the pieces, the rod sticks and welds itself to whatever you are trying to join together. When this happens you start hearing an ominous buzz coming from the welder. You have connected the circuit and the circuit does not want to be connected. Things start to heat up and one-way or another you have to disconnect, usually by breaking the rod off. But I am nothing if not persistent, so I just kept at it till eventually I got the hang of it.

Pay attention to the steps, reveled in the process, respect your tools and have the humility to listen to your teachers and fellow students opinion about your work. Not a whole lot different than the practice of Tea. Measured, cut, grind and weld for two semesters and end up with three seven foot tall, one hundred and fifty pound sculptures called Fjord, #3 and Chado. What a way to spend the winter.

Details

I have spent much of my professional life looking at X-rays. X-rays mainly of the spine but also of the extremities: hips, knees, shoulders, elbows, wrists, and hands. All the articulating parts that make us function so beautifully. If there is one thing that I have learned, it is that everything on an x-ray is significant. X-rays are but shadows of the human form and every telltale smudge reveals something of the history of the skin surrounding the bones.

Attention to detail is the hardest part of interpreting x-rays to pass on to medical students. At first they are completely overwhelmed by the grayish glow that emanates off the viewing box; searching for some detail to see if the x-ray is even right side up. X-rays have different contrasts: air, water, fat and metal. These are made apparent by a finely gradated gray scale like the blacks, whites and grays in the majestic landscape photographs by Ansel Adams.

The first tendency when viewing a radiograph is to get very close and immediately try to home in on all the details. But actually just the opposite is most appropriate and therefore most efficient. Sit back, take a deep breath, relax and gander over the film as if you are looking out over the hills of Tuscany. Out onto the smoky landscape that Leonardo di Vinci depicted in his paintings. It is then that the subtle abnormalities in the x-ray start to show up and require closer inspection.

But my purpose here is to talk about attention to detail in chanoyu, the tea ceremony. In some respects tea is just the opposite of reading x-rays. The attention to detail comes before viewing the landscape. It seems sometimes that the only purpose of serving tea is to provide an excuse to immerse yourself in the details.

The steps become the compelling part of the whole process. Steps figuratively and literally. Despite my decades old involvement in tea I can never remember which foot goes first when stepping into the chasitsu (tea room) and which way to turn when coming towards or going away from the tokonoma (alcove). For some reason though, I remember never to step on any of the seams between the tatami mats. That is something at least.

There are the details of viewing tea utensils and the order they are displayed in. Is the chashaku (tea scoop) or the natsume (tea caddy) placed first or is it visa-versa. When do you bow in thanks to the host for making tea and when do you bow to the host to either asks for another bowl or say, please finish. Do you bow before accepting a tray of food or after accepting it during a chaji?

And during kagetsu, the ultimate in nerve-racking tea practices, where one draws little bamboo tiles to see who out of the five participants will make tea, place the sumi (charcoal), arrange the flowers or ultimately drink from the chawan (tea bowl). When does one take a tile out and which tile is it exchanged for. Where is the tile container placed when you go to retrieve the tea bowl.

And when should the first guest begin to ask question about the scroll and the flowers in the tokonoma. And, and, and…so many little moments, so many little ways to trip up. But, as I have found with many things, the mistake usually add up to something positive. The glaring errors usually become legend and do not detract from the overall impression.

Chanoyu is a flow of details. If you have ever been in the mountains, hiking in the wilderness and come upon a wild river, I think you have a sense of the flow of tea. Rocks, boulders, fallen trees, sharp bends obstruct the waters flow but flow on it does. These multitude of details all combine to make the vibrant river a collective despite all the imperfections in the riverbed.

I think of tea in the same way, as a continual flow of details from 400 years ago to the present. When making tea you might error in some of the details, but if you allow the flow to continue there is nowhere to lay the blame.

In fact I think Rikyu, the founder of the tradition of tea, anticipates this in his writings. He covers so many specific details within his aphorisms that tea becomes not just a simple procedure to memorize, but a process. A process that even with a lifetime of study may never live up to Sen-no-Rikyu expectations.

But Rikyu’s expectations should not be considered onerous. I find comfort in the fact that try as I may perfection is probably unattainable and so it gives me something to attain to. To be perfectly prepared is to never do tea. I think this may be part of the wabi sensibility that permeates chanoyu.

I recently purchased a book called Chado: The Way of Tea by Sasaki Sanmi. It is a 700-page tome packed with nothing but details. The book is broken down into months, and within the months, categories of foods, sweets, flowers, utensils and words that are most appropriate for each month are listed. The digestion of just one section, of one month seems impossible, let alone understanding a years worth of details.

In trying to get my hands around the ancient Japanese culture, I realize that without a little knowledge of the Japanese language, I can never hope to fully understand. But I will keep my up pitiful struggle and consider myself blessed whenever I manage to grasp a new detail to add my knowledge base.

Details, it all comes down to details in the end. Pay attention to the steps and your end goal will be realized. Whether that goal is interpreting x-rays or using hot water for tea.

Texture

One aspect of chanoyu, the tea ceremony, which is seldom discussed, is texture. From the moment you slide into the tearoom you are surrounded by multiple surfaces and will in the course of taking tea handle many objects. Of course this is an everyday occurrence, one that is so common we hardly ever pay attention to the different spaces we enter and the different objects we encounter throughout the day, except if they distinguish themselves in the extreme.

But tea alters consciousness. When preparing to make tea, once all the utensils are in place, there is a moment when the host stops to collect his or her thoughts. The room becomes quiet as the guest along with the host mentally prepare for the upcoming ceremony. At this moment you are transported to a higher level of awareness.

A similar moment occurs with the symphony when the conductor stands at the podium for a moment, with baton raised, before the concert begins. You can feel the focused concentration of the orchestra emanate from the stage. Then the world changes till the baton is lowered.

Ichigo, ichie (one time, one meeting), a basic tenet of tea, contributes to this heightened sensibility. This moment, with all the surroundings, is to be appreciated for what it is - nothing more, nothing less.

So what about texture, the first thing encountered when entering a tearoom is dim light shinning through the white frosted pane of a shoji screen as you touch the unfinished wood of the door. Most of the wood in the tearoom is unfinished. There is even, in some tearooms, a thick branch with the bark left on, vertically delineating the boundary of the alcove (tokonoma).

The walls have a fine earthen quality about them and the ceiling is made up of multiple layers of wood, thatch, and bamboo. The floor is a finely woven, cloth bordered reed mat, kind of hard usually; a characteristic that also alters your consciousness, focusing it to your aching feet the longer you kneel.

Once the preparation of tea begins your eye is drawn to dark gray iron, patinated bronze, lacquered wood, raw bamboo, finely painted ceramics and rough glazed pottery. White linen cloth is used to clean and dry utensils and the dyed silk napkin (fukusa), that is used so prominently to ritualistically purify the tea scoop (chashaku), is visible.

There are hard surfaces providing textures and then there are the powders and liquids: foamy green tea, a little mountain of green tea carefully placed in the tea caddy (natsume), the light grey ash placed in the brazier which is dusted with pure white ash.

Obviously water makes up a big part of tea. The vessels that hold water vary from wrought iron, bronze, bamboo to clay. The water differs from a cool-calm reflective layer reminiscent of an alpine lake to the hot bubbling surface of a hot spring. And these change as water is drawn from and replenished throughout the preparation of tea. There

even is the milky pool of wastewater left after rinsing the used tea bowl. Thus the tea hut is a microcosm of the outside world - separate but not isolated.

But tea would not be tea without people. An unused tea hut is a lifeless thing. I have been to plenty of museums with beautiful displays that just sit and I stand there wondering why Chicago does not have one of these perfect little tearooms. As the guests enter another set of textures flow in. Garments made of cotton, silk, and wool, either somber or exuberantly decorated depending on ones age, gender or rank adorn the participants.

The kimono is made up of multiple layers and accessories. The cotton inner layer only the wearer experiences, followed by a thin silk kimono that peaks out at the collar top and then the more substantial outer layer of silk or wool. Various strips of stiff fabric and cloth belts hold these layers together, girdling the wearer and concealing the human textures behind a beautiful cloak.

Finally, at least for now, there is the texture of the flower and the scroll placed in the alcove (tokonoma). How such a sense of greenery can flow from a small grouping of flowers, leaves and twigs I will never understand. As you kneel and bow before the flower arrangement (chabana) you can almost smell the chlorophyll and then the mustiness of the scrolls old paper becomes apparent as you turn to honor the words.

The old crinkly paper comes alive with black brush strokes and fire engine red stamps. These manipulations alter the texture of the rustic paper as it sits framed by finely woven fabrics. Two short ties hang from the top as a reminder that this scroll is only a temporary inhabitant, soon to be placed in a fitted wooden box to ride out most of its life protected from the sun.

Thus texture becomes part of the process that permeated the experience of tea. I think we realize this on a subconscious level and it becomes comforting. Almost like the little blanket with the silk edging we all carried around with us as children. Clutching it till it became so worn out that our mothers conveniently lost it one day.

Legacy

The Urasenke Chicago Chapter has been active for over forty years in the Chicagoland area; studying, practicing and demonstrating chanoyu, the tea ceremony. This has been and continues to be accomplished by the good will and self-sacrifice of many former and present teachers and students.

A lump forms in my throat whenever I ponder all the work and commitment shown by these folk over decades and I begin to wonder about the future of our organization. Where is the next generation of devotees come from and if they do come will they get here in time to continue the legacy.

More so than the devotees, where are the next teachers coming from and will there be students for them to teach. Now I know I am not alone in my concern for the future. Every church, temple, fraternal organization and recently even the Chicago Symphony Orchestra has had to consider what if they threw a party and nobody came.

Tea is a physically and intellectually challenging art. Over the years many interested people attend our functions only to be disappointed when there is no way to participate other than becoming a student. Watching and reading alone is not satisfying in the long run.

I believe that tea (chanoyu) and the philosophy it entails (chado) cannot be understood without the sitting, whisking, cleaning and listening that goes on during the practice of tea. Bookwork in itself will not cut it. Hand’s on practice is needed to reveal the truth behind tea, but ultimately even with all the hard work there is no guarantee of enlightenment.

Though I have never practiced zazen, I have spent the better part of my adult life reading and thinking about it. At some point I realized that study is futile without practice and tea is as close as I have personally gotten to the practice of Zen.

This is one case where the whole is not greater than the sum of its parts. Quite the contrary, the parts are what count. The truth is in the details. I think this is what Mies van der Rohe, the famous Chicago architect, meant when he said, “god is in the details.”

It led me to surmise that chanoyu, simply hot water for tea, came before chado, the way of tea. But this is a suspect statement, even if in the practical world it seems to be the only possible truth. Therein lies the paradox. It is the stuff of koans. An absolute truth revealed by a boldfaced lie.

So what is my point, how do you pass on such a study in a world based on credit, celebrity and spin, where one obtains notoriety by outlandish acts rather than work? I am just not sure.

Least I get too depressing; I realize that our parents had the same concerns about my generation. I grew up riding my bike down to Grant Park to watch the yippies invade the city prior to the 1968 Democratic convention. My parents watched in horror as I sprouted more and more hair and espoused radical philosophies, but I ended up in a respectable profession and most of my cloths now bear the moniker of Brook’s Brothers.

At work, my partners and I have similar conversations about the upcoming members of our profession. We have decided to continue the legacy of our practice and share our very patience patients with third and fourth year medical students to help them experience the practice of medicine first hand.

Some days can be exacerbating with all the whining and complaining that goes on amongst them about things that to me seem trivial when compared to the problems presented in each of our examining rooms. But then students appear that make me envious with their knowledge, communication skills and compassion and they make the extra time and energy devoted to teaching worthwhile.

So I guess if we believe that chanoyu has something to offer to the world, which we do, it will survive and like-minded people will discover tea as I did twenty-one years ago.

With this in mind, I would like to extend an invitation to the young Japanese American community with an interest in rediscovering their heritage to investigate the role that chanoyu can contribute to that end. Chanoyu has allowed me the privilege to participate in another culture and through that culture pursue a direct spiritual path and through that, truth.

Rikyuki 2004

Sen no Rikyu passed in 1591 by his own hand, being ordered to do so by Togotomi Hideyoshi, the military dictator who unified Japan and for whom he served. The reasons for his death are many but I believe come down to power and politics.

Rikyu was the head tea master for Hideyoshi, something akin to being a cultural minister. It is also believed that he managed Hideyoshi’s personal affairs. Rikyu’s popularity began to out shine that of Hideyoshi’s and Rikyu’s commitment to his rustic style of tea, despite the wishes of his ultimate ruler, led to the order to commit ritual suicide (seppuku). Once dead Hideyoshi is said to have anguished over his death and for many months refused to appoint a successor.

Rikyuki is the commemoration of the 413th anniversary of Rikyu’s death. We, the students of the Urasenke tradition of tea, commemorate his death because he is the founder of our disciple of chanoyu and the developer of soan-chanoyu or tea ceremony in a thatched hut. Tea in the wabi sensibility. I like to think of wabi as rustic elegance, as opposed to the tea of the Golden Pavilion that was a vehicle to display one’s power and stature.

Rikyu was himself the product of several tea masters who had preceded him. They would attempt to change the corrupted practice of tea in the early 16th century and ultimately succeed, but not without the tragedy of Rikyu’s death. Tea at that time was centered on the use of Chinese objects rather than the use of Japanese utensils for the practice of tea. Japanese crafts being considered inferior to their Chinese counterparts.

Juko (1422-1502) who is considered the father of the tea ceremony is attributed to have said, I have no taste for the full moon; feeling that the moon half hidden by clouds is more moving than its full round image. He started the idea that tea, centered on the appreciation Chinese objects should be supplanted by tea based on Japanese utensils from the provinces. He led the rediscovery of art objects that are not completely perfect or ideal. Okakura Tenshin in The Book of Tea describes this as “a worship of the imperfect.” Juko also instituted the tradition of using a 4.5 mat room for chanoyu. Later this practice is built upon by another tea master known as Takeno Jo-o (1502-1555) who becomes Rikyu’s teacher.

Jo-o altered the 4.5 mat rooms to include the plain clay walls, bamboo-lattice ceiling and the use of unfinished wood for the tokonoma (alcove) that we are familiar with today. Jo-o brought tea from a formal (shin) style to reveal the informal beauty of the natural world.

Sen no Rikyu was the son of an affluent merchant who went on to study tea and meeting Jo-o in 1541 became his disciple. Rikyu’s style, deriving from both Juko and Jo-o was in opposition to the gaudy tea practices at that time. He changed tea to reflect the natural environment as opposed to the cosmopolitan one that had influenced tea before and during the 16th century.

Rikyu further refined his style of tea and in the 1580’s collaborated with other artisans to produce the first red and then the first black Raku tea bowls. He also created tearooms smaller than 4.5 mats. These rooms, being impractical spaces, had no other purpose than tea.

The tiny tearooms incorporated a crawl-in entrance (nijiriguchi) that forced the participants, no matter how distinguished, to bow low and crawl into the tearoom. Rikyu was molding chanoyu into a spiritual practice and the idea of a small interior space precluded the tearoom from ordinary use. Passing through the nijiriguchi further separated the participants from the ordinary world.

Once in the tearoom, one is left to contemplate the relationship between the practice of tea, your fellow participants and the utensils used. Because of your entrance into this other world you are free to appreciate the subtleties of sound, smell, movement and taste that would be overwhelmed by the outside world.

The world that Rikyu and his predecessors created, exist today every time we practice tea or perform tea for the public. Whether we are in a secluded natural setting or a large conference room. The phrase, One Time, One Meeting (ichigo, ichie) expresses the ideal of the way of tea. It refers to making the most of the current moment regardless of the circumstances.

Without Rikyu none of this would have existed, at least not in the form we see it today. His sons and today the present 16th generation Grand Tea Master, Zabosai Oiemoto, carry on the tradition of tea he started.

Rikyu left the following verse at his death:

A life of seventy years,
Strength spent to the very last,
With this, My jeweled sword,
I kill both patriarchs and buddhas.

I yet carry
One article I had gained,
The long sword
That now at the moment
I hurl to the heavens.

The Quality of Teaching

I have had a few memorable teachers in my life. First my parents who taught mainly by example, day-to-day stuff, unrelentingly stable and consistent. A high school music teacher whose intense love of the music overcame all his personal oddities. And a series of older men with whom I worked with at various jobs as a teenager who passed on their sadness due to failed expectations with the admonishment to live life now, in the present. There was no pie-in-the-sky for these men whose lost opportunities were palpable.

I use this as an introduction to my memories of Minnie Kubose a remarkable teacher who was my second teacher in the Urasenke Tradition of Tea. Minnie was involved with her church, community, students and with her own personal study of Tea. She was committed to passing on to her students her love and knowledge of Tea.

Even though she seemed delicate, she was fierce in her pursuit of truth through the practice of Tea. There was no room for compromise and to that end she devoted herself not only to tireless study but also collecting the multitude of objects needed for her students to practice.

Many times when I thought it would be perfectly okay to give in on some seemingly small point, I knew it would never happen. As I knelt in the tearoom making my case, my legs getting numb, I usually wished I’d never challenged her vast knowledge and artistic sense of Tea.

I do a bit of teaching myself, about a subject of which I am passionate and I am always treading the line between inspiration and alienation. Often I find myself tending more toward the latter of the two. But not Minnie, she somehow managed to juggle many of the two opposites involved with teaching: teacher vs. friend; disciplinarian vs. colleague; scholar vs. student; serious commitment vs. lighthearted fun.

She was able to strike a balance and I think this was so because her students became her family, at least that was the way it felt to me. She spent a lifetime in devotion to others. Seemingly frail due to chronic lung problems she continued to teach till it was no longer possible.

And so we gathered November 9, 2003 at the home that she and her late husband Rev. Gyomay Kubose used to welcome their many students and guest for Minnie Somi Kubose’s First Year Memorial Tea Gathering.

Minnie had an amazing collection of the utensils, which are used for the practice of tea. Many were gifts but most purchased, all with the thought of providing her students with the most well rounded study of chanoyu.

Tea was served Sunday in two tearooms, Koso-an, a traditional 8-mat tearoom and a table style tearoom with chairs. Koso-an, which in English means Fragrant Grass Hut was built in 1969.

Koso-an had an especially poignant scroll/kakejiku from Rev. Haga Akegarasu, the teacher of Rev. Gyomay Kubose, stating “Ten billion people have ten billion mothers, but my mother is the best”, and an incense holder/kogo which was made by Minnie during a trip to Japan in 1971 at the Akahada kiln near Nara. It was hand built by her with a design of the Buddhist wheel on the top.

In the table style tearoom there was a fresh water container/mizushashi in the shape of a treasure pouch with an Unkin design of spring cherry blossoms and autumn maple leaves. It was one of Minnie’s earliest utensils purchased in 1941 by her first teacher, Kuriyame sensei. And an incense holder/kogo with the design of a rabbit representing the year that Minnie was born.

The memorial was open to all that brought friendship and richness to her life. I am sure that she would be very pleased and honored to know that all had come to share a bowl of tea in her honor. Joyce Kubose, Minnie’s daughter, is carrying on the tradition of teaching chanoyu with the legacy left to her by her mother.

Cha vs Coffee

What is it about tea. Coffee I understand, coffee is all about stimulation. A very mild form granted, on par with South American’s chewing coca leaves to deal with the rigors of the high altitudes they live in. The altitude we live in is our modern culture, which makes demands on us that interfere with the rhythms of nature. Coffee in all its guises, from an ounce of espresso to the mocha grande latte with a couple of thousand calories, all serve the same purpose; to light a little fire under our butts; to kick start the old brain; to stimulate conversation and thought, but contemplation I think not.

Tea serves another purpose. Of course it wakes billions of people each day, but tea eases you slowly into the day as opposed to suddenly jolting you into existence; the QEII versus the space shuttle.

Why this is so I am not sure. It may be due to the chemistry; theo- bromide as opposed to caffeine. It may be due to gentle hills covered with mossy green plants as opposed to mountain terraces covered by trees. It may be the processing. Tea is dried, fermented leaves or simply leaves unprocessed as in macha, while coffee is a bean. A concentrated little bundle of tannins, organic chemicals and oils which are pick, dried and roasted at the very least.

Green tea especially is one step away from solar energy. A direct connection to the sun—leaves as oppose to seeds. I think this is why tea, from its earliest day to now, is considered medicinal whereas coffee is a vice.

The first Grand Master of Tea, Sen no Rikyu took tea from its early ostentation and gave it a more rustic feel. From the Golden Pavilion to a thatch hut. From a way to measure wealth to the Zen concept of nothingness.

Maybe tea is different because tea requires some thought in the preparation. You can get a reasonable cup of coffee from any of a multitude of machines. All mostly automated but I have yet to have a cup of tea from a machine that passes for the real thing. It usually taste metallic and stale. Even in places that pride themselves on the quality of their beverages, you are pretty much left to your own devices when it comes to tea. Recently at an omnipresent donut shop they put the tea bag in a cup of boiling water and when I ask for cream just added it to my paper cup, tea bag and all.

Then there is the notion of time. Someone should invent a silicone-based timer that is triggered by hot water and ticks off the appropriate 4 minutes. Being somewhat obsessive compulsive I always have the timer on my watch set for 4 minutes. I stand awkwardly among the multitudes of harried coffee drinkers for my tea to steep. It is amazing how long 4 minutes can last.

When I think about brewed versus steeped; well which would you rather be. Brewed conjures up thoughts of being boiled alive but steeped makes me think of soaking in a hot spring.

The contemplative nature of the evergreen bush camellia helped create the world that Chanoyu represents. A way to bring art and culture in to your life and a way to share it with friends. Though the philosophical and political arguments going on in every coffee house are important, the philosophy of Tea that Sen No Rikyu set into motion 400 years ago is still present with us today; Harmony, Respect, Purity and Tranquility. Tea usually enlivens a more gentle relax banter.

My understanding is that in feudal Japan the chashitsu (tea room) was a type of no mans land. No weapons or talk of war. It offered a little bit of privacy in a very crowded world.

So next time you sit down to have a bowl of macha, green steeped tea or some fermented English Breakfast tea contemplate the role that nature plays in the liquid presented to you. Solar wind filtered through the atmosphere, collected by chlorophyll in the green leaves, fed by the water and minerals that make up the soil and remember the 15th generation Grand Tea Master’s wish: Peace Through a Bowl of Tea.

No`da`te

The image of chanoyu performed out of doors (nodate) is a delightful one to most onlookers. It is usually held in a beautiful garden with a manicured lake in the background. The table is black, accented with orange cords and is set off by a very large, richly red umbrella. It is a methodical dance carried out in a slow stately manner.

Women in floral kimono’s flit around like so many butterflies. Going from one flower to the next, gathering nectar. The seated guest, one imagines as cognoscente of a private privileged world. Never too hot or too hurried.

For me at least the reality of nodate creates feelings of apprehension bordering on queasiness. Chanoyu is a well-practiced, organized discipline where the practitioners devote hours, days, even months to preparing for an event. Besides practicing the specific tea to be done, there are menus to decide on and decisions as to the most appropriate scroll, utensils and flowers to be used must be made.

To complicate the situation further chanoyu is practiced predominately while kneeling in the comforting geometric surrounds of the chashitsu (teahouse) on a square of four to eight tatami mats with very definite borders. The vistas in the teahouse are internal rather than majestic. It is a way to garner a little peace in a very chaotic world.

One thing most people do not notice while watching chanoyu is that things balance: the chashaku (tea scoop) on top of the natsume (tea caddy); the ladle on the furo (portable brazier); the cover of the mizushashi (water jar) lying slightly to the side. Most of the objects are light as a feather, barely weighting an ounce put together.

Though tea in the great out of doors is as much fantasized by tea folk as by anyone else, the thought is tempered by, well by the great outdoors: sun, heat, bugs, lack of electricity and water, uneven surfaces, rain and worse of all, the wind.

The women and men in kimono wilt and need to be revived; bees are shooed off the sweets; extension cords found; water is carried in by the bucket full; wedges even out the tables and the rain is waited out. But the wind is most troublesome. If only some of utensils were made of cast iron.

Every thing seems to take flight including all the ash in the furo which coats the precious objects with dust and it is especially obvious on the black mirror-like surface of the table-impossible to ignore, difficult to clean.

The worse of the offending utensils when it comes to the wind is the most obvious of all-the umbrella. This was designed perfectly to take flight and in accordance with Murphy’s Law it usually starts to soar in the middle of tea. It is such an expensive and fragile device that it keeps everyone on edge till it is taken down.

In the true spirit of chanoyu none of this ever deters anyone from nodate. Fret as everyone may, no one ever says no. They just say where, when and for how many. In practicing chanoyu one develops a real can do mindset. People are presented with a problem and they go about solving it. I hear very little whining from tea folk. Their years of training and the example of their teachers prepare them to be positive and practical. So everyone steps up to the challenge.

Learning chanoyu is a bit like my medical training in that you are never alone. Every thing you do during the years of training is done in front of numerous people with different levels of expertise. There is no way to cover-up your missteps and thus the cloak is pulled off and one gets used to many pairs of eyes watching your every move.

It is also a bit like bringing a boat into a dock. Bystanders and fellow boaters alike are watching, critiquing and analyzing your every move. We all begin to “feel their pain” and in doing so become a stronger community.

So even though nodate seems like a walk in the park to most, it teaches strong lessons in perseverance, adaptability and provides many opportunities to practice one of the four tenets of chanoyu-humility.

Chanoyu As Ceremony

A few years back Sen Soshitsu, the 15th generation Grand Tea Master of the Urasenke tradition of Tea stated in an article his wish that chanoyu be referred to as just that, chanoyu and not the tea ceremony. I did not comprehend the significant of his request at that time but on further reflection it is beginning to make sense to me.

Chanoyu, I have found, is used as the center or showpiece for many activities. It seems to be bedazzling in an odd sort of way. Participants in beautiful garb, exotic utensils (rustic as they may be) and the flowers and scrolls lend themselves to well, lets just say spectacle.

Chanoyu holds a certain allure for westerners. It is one of the only parts of Japanese culture, other than comic books and sushi that seems accessible on a superficial level. To many Catholics, and I imagine other denominations that have the mass as their primary mode of worship, chanoyu is familiar even if they do not comprehend it at the time: the tea bowl as the chalice, sweets as the host,
tea as the wine, the flowers and scroll in the tokonoma as the statues of the saints in the alcove. It puts Japanese culture in a familiar surroundings. Even the use of Japanese in a call and response way during chanoyu reminds me of the use of Latin by the church many years ago.

And as the mass is used ceremonially, with many people only participating during holy days, weddings and funerals, so chanoyu is used. We have done tea during festivals, to honor visiting dignitaries, to herald the start of a world religious conference, but rarely do any of the events lead to a deeper understanding of the philosophy behind chanoyu. Chanoyu is viewed in these circumstances as one would go to a concert or watch a ballet company go through its motions - a temporary amusement.

Several years after I started studying chanoyu I made a switch from the physical aspects of chanoyu to the intellectual basis of Tea. Of course my knees still hurt and I needed as much practice balancing the sumi in the basket, but I became aware of the four principle that chanoyu is based on. It was curious, what did harmony, respect, purity, and tranquility have to do with the kneeling, whisking and drinking that seems so much of what Tea is about.

The utensils and environment of Tea are but the outward representation, though inseparable, of the ultimate truth that chanoyu is striving for. Chanoyu is a way to live your life, a way to interact with and participate in the complexities of the world on a real time basis. Hence the saying often repeated, ichigo, ichie (one time, one meeting).

There are no cover-ups in chanoyu only truth. The way to practice is to be honest and transparent. Now I am not so naïve to imagine that the world actually runs this way. Individually we all have many faults but structurally, as a philosophy I believe chanoyu transcends our petty attempts to use chanoyu for our own ends.

Harmony-Wa, Respect-Kei, Purity-Sei and Tranquility-Jaku; these principles keep us centered. My second teacher, Minnie Kubose, was a living example of this. There was no way, though I often tried in the grips of paroxysmal muscle spasm to shortcut my practice. I never succeeded and usually only prolonged my misery. I did not understand the agonizing that Minnie and later her daughter Joyce would go through over every detail till I understood the intellectual basis for chanoyu. In fact I am still working on the details, not being quite as meticulous about things as I should be.

Chanoyu has taught me that there are no shortcuts in life. You have to put your time in and be aware of your surroundings. This is the basis of luck. Not the arrangements of the planets or the use of lucky charms but the fact that you are aware and truthful with your self and ready to capitalize on the opportunities presented to you.

So next time you get to see the “Tea Ceremony” remember the Grand Tea Master’s wish - to put the four principles of chanoyu into action in your daily life and of course, enjoy the beautiful dress, the rustic utensils and the sweets and tea.

STUFF

Part of getting involved with any culture is appreciating and acquiring stuff, stuff that is particular to that culture.  I am Italian-American and when I think about it I have five espresso machines, grow garlic, oregano and basil in the garden, order olive oil and vinegar from Alberto who lives in a small town outside of Florence and should be collecting all my mother’s mothers’ aphorisms. She tells me these approximately three times per week, the most recent in honor of my 50th birthday. It is concerned with the fact that after fifty you wake up with a new ache and pain every morning.  The unfortunate part of most these pearls of wisdom are that they are usually true.  Thanks Ma. 

Once I became interested in oriental culture, it took quite awhile to differentiate between the different Asian cultures.  I find that most objects I come in contact with are Chinese and seldom Japanese that is if you exclude Sony’s. The Japanese stuff I do manage to find is usually very well made and expensive.  There are a few stores in Chicago that I have bought many a Christmas present in, but mostly Japanese stuff is hard to find. 

When I started taking lessons in the Tea Ceremony I was overwhelmed by the amount of stuff there was.  These objects are the stuff of legend:  scrolls, flower vases, ceramic and cast iron vessels, whole rooms, and that pen ultimate Japanese treasure, the tea bowl.

There is a dilemma in the practice of Tea in the west if one is trying to use the traditional utensils or dogu.  It is almost impossible to have all the utensils and would be very expensive to obtain them.  The utensils you get here might not even be appropriate in Japan, but because they are the only things you can find, they get used.

My wife Charlotte and I wander around the country and whenever we are out-and-about, Charlotte will take me into whatever antique or junk store she can find.  We snoop around and look for things.  She looks for some priceless antique to take to the Antique Roadshow, while I am looking for tools but also I keep an eye out for objects that I might somehow use in the practice of Tea.

I have always thought that we, practicing Tea in the West, need to create our own Tea culture and provide our own utensils. With that thought in mind I am always looking for something that might substitute for Japanese dogu. In my quest for western dogu I have done everything from making tea stands out of recycled barn wood from Southern Illinois to purchasing American crafts and antiques, which I perceived, would substitute for the Japanese utensils.  This usually turns out to be a mistake.  I have collected some very interesting objects but most have not been usable for Tea. 

There are a couple of concepts that are prominent in Tea and in Japanese fine arts—Wabi and Sabi.  I have translated these to mean rustic elegance.  It is the difference between a beautifully crafted Wedgwood teapot and a raku tea bowl that at first looks to the untrained eye like it was thrown together haphazardly.  The difference lies in their use and in the aesthetics.  I have tired to use Western objects in Tea but they usually do not work.  And by work I mean they are too tall, too short, too wide; there is no place to comfortable to hold on to them, they get to hot, there is no place for the lid or there is no lid.

At first glance some of the structure of a Tea room and the utensils look down right a-symmetrical and random, sort of like a raku Tea bowl, but once put together and used as a cohesive unit, they function perfectly.  I do not know why this surprises me because all of this stuff has a 400 plus year history of development and design that follows the Zen principles of fukinsei and kanso (asymmetry and simplicity), plus a history of crafts persons working in tandem with the practitioners of Tea to make objects that are elegant in form and function. 

In a world of general consumer goods, I have always thought that Sony from Japan and HP from the US have this aesthetic down.  Besides the way they work, they are usually beautiful objects.  Ergonomically made to function intuitively, being made out mostly of plastic, they are made with attention to texture, color and feel such as Sony portable CD players and the HP 11c calculator.

Then we come to the packaging of Japanese stuff.  It is very exciting to receive a gift from Japan. I know that opening it is going to be a compelling experience regardless of what it contains.  Layer upon layer of complicated textures and designs on beautiful paper.  Even in a box of cookies there are multiple sleeves of paper with much writing.  I only wish I could understand them. But as with many things understanding might take some of the mystery away.  I am assuming some of these sheets of calligraphy are ingredient lists: flour, sugar, hydrogenated vegetable oil, MSG, etc.  It is probably better off not knowing what they say and retain the illusion.

Tea utensils are stored in wooden boxes, wrapped in their own silk napkins and closed with a colorful ribbon. The boxes are made out of a light in color and weight, open grained wood with meticulous joinery and handwritten calligraphy adorning the top stating the provenance of the object. 

My experience is that most Japanese stuff is not out in the open but packed lovingly away and living in their handsome wooden boxes out of sight, waiting for the time to come out and see the light of day for some special purpose. In the Tea Ceremony a lot of time and effort is devoted to the different dogu that is chosen for each event. The dogu is picked specifically for each occasion, time of year and guest. They may be family heirlooms or valuable antiques and you may never see them again.  This unlike most Western homes where our nick-knacks are always on display.

A protocol exists for when to use, how to handle, describe and appreciate Tea dogu.  With most of these objects it requires some knowledge to appreciate them.  Important facts such as which generation of the crafts person produced it, from what region does it come from and did someone special, such as a Grand Tea Master, give the object a name.  This information always offered during Tea.

One of the more interesting tea proceedings is called Chabako.  It consists of a series of tea ceremonies from the very simple to more complex and presents an opportunity to collect multiple little objects.  Chabako refers to a box, which I think was originally developed to transport the necessary utensils for Tea in a small self-contained package. All the stuff is contained in a small box about three quarters of the size of a tall box of Puffs.  The box is made out of clear wood held together with complicated Japanese joinery.  They can be unfinished or lacquered, always has a lid and many times another small shelf inside.

Inside live the natsume (a small tea caddy), chawan (tea bowl), chakin (small linen cloth) and its porcelain holder, chasen (bamboo wisk) and its wooden container, chashaku (wooden scoop) in its cloth case, and sweets in a porcelain vessel.  The chabako is carried into the tearoom on a round lacquer tray to where a cast iron teakettle rests.  So you get my point.  You can go on and on searching for and acquiring stuff, in fact you can make a life’s work out of it. 

Chabako was one of the first types of Tea ceremonies I was exposed to and having some wood working skills I made two boxes to fit my collection of tea gear it. One being as bit to big and crudely made, the other constructed much better (experience pays off) but probably a bit too small. That brings me back to one of my first points, that even if many tea utensils look somewhat rough hewned, they are designed to very exact tolerances. When I made the boxes myself and was able to measure “real” ones, I still was not quite able to get them exactly right.

The acquisition of Japanese stuff has filled every corner of my home, much to wife’s dismay.  Being that we do not own any curio cabinets, my stuff is distributed throughout the house on every available shelf.  The boxes, the dogu should be living in, fill all the closets and all the stuff, instead of hiding, is out collecting dust and providing me with a wonderful visual palette, along with our painted saws from Southern Illinois.