Saturday, December 29, 2007

A Year Goes By


A year goes by through no effort of our own. The pages of the calendar, which at first seem numerous, diminish with great speed.

It is a convenient package for all our memories, some of which we toast to celebrate and some of which we drink to forget.

A year is a complicated notion: The Earth resides on the outer arm of the Galaxy, eight light-minutes from the center of the solar system and travels at 67,000 mph to be able to circumnavigate the Sun in 365 days.

It is a serious intellectual construct that we love to send off with fireworks, streamers and kazoos.

A year’s end is a convenient time to reflect on our past behavior and our future goals.

This year, let us keep in our thoughts all our fellow citizens and their families who have made the ultimate sacrifice.

A year goes by with white blizzards, yellow spring flowers, green tea and brown leaves.

This year let us commit to, as Sen Genshitsu the retired 15th Grand Tea Master says, “Peace through a bowl of tea.”

Happy New Year!

Volume 5694 (33), 1/1/2008

Friday, November 16, 2007

Inventory


Recently on a beautiful fall afternoon my wife and I were walking south on Clark. We had just visiting Aiko’s Art Material store where we purchased a piece of Japanese handmade paper and as we walked the crowded streets towards Belmont I began to wonder why I was so relaxed about theft here in my own city of Chicago.

In Europe I carry a small amount cash, a credit card and my passport all residing safe and snug, deep in a secluded pocket. When at home I rarely concern myself with such precautions, but in Paris, Florence, Naples or Rome I am much more alert. Old World cities seem to have ever-present warnings announcing that pickpockets are on the loose.

Before a trip I break out the travel gear and dust off my pants with the secret pockets. This is optimistically done in the hope that they will still fit after a year spent hanging in the closet. These thoughts compel me to take an inventory of what I am carrying on that afternoon’s walk if for no other reason then to see just what I have to lose. What follows is a list with commentary on that day’s stock.

My wallet (an odd looking contraption made out of high-tech sailcloth) has three twenty-dollar bills and a few singles along with a credit card, health insurance information, a driver’s license, and an antique silver dollar given to me by my mother who stated that I was in greater need of its good luck than her.

My shirt pocket has a Pelikan fountain pen and a new Streamlight LED flashlight. I bought this neat little light after a friend showed me his. I just had to have one, so much for not keeping up with the “Jones”.

Concerning telecommunications gear, I carry a pager, which I am sure has no value other than to allow the world to contact me at a moments notice. To deal with the pager, and the other complexities of my life, I have a Treo 650.

Within this complex little device resides the Palm system; a slot for a memory card; a camera with a zoom feature; and yes, even a phone. It can connect to the Internet for an extra fifteen dollars a month, but when I realized I was becoming the biggest bore at the party, answering every obscure question while staring into its tiny screen, I cancelled the service.

Nonetheless I have become sufficiently attached to my Treo that when I dropped and destroyed the last one, I did not hesitate to fork over $300.00 (after discounts and coupons) to replace it for a new model.

On that sunny afternoon I also carried an elegant twenty-five year old Buck pocket knife, and a pedometer hooked to my belt in the hopes that I may have taken a couple of thousand steps toward fitting into my travel pants this spring.

I have never worn jewelry. No rings, bracelets, earrings or gold chains adorn my body. I think of my pen and knife as such. A few months back I became enamored with a certain watch, but then realized that my phone keeps as good of time as I will ever need and decided to use the money to help pay off some of my mortgage.

As far as what was on my back that day, I was wearing Clarks on my feet, a pair of jeans, a nice flannel shirt and to ward off the cold, a fleece vest and bomber jacket.

Both the vest and the jacket were kindly provided by my employer as holiday gifts. At first I felt like a walking billboard with the company’s name embroidered on the front of each garment, but I have gotten over it and now wear them proudly.

If I add up the total cost of the stuff hanging off of me and residing in my pockets, I start to feel a little guilty. If I was stripped bare by European pickpockets and all the content fenced, I most certainly carry the equivalent of several years’ income for the vast majority of the world’s population. I find this a sobering thought.

When I get into a quandary about such things I fall back on what has sustained me spiritually over many years and that is Chado, The Way of Tea. Rikyu, the founder of Tea four hundred years ago, stated that chanoyu, the tea ceremony and the practice of Chado, is simply to heat water and make tea. This denotes simplicity to life. He demonstrated this by his gravitation away from precious, dare I say pretentious objects to common earthen utensil.

How should I incorporate this philosophy into my daily life? This is a central dilemma of living in a modern consumer society. Rikyu of course was a mandarin in his time. He was an advisor to Hideyoshi, the ruler of Japan, and therefore well connected.

The fact that Rikyu, and I, are comfortable allows us the leisure to contemplate giving it all up. If you are living on the margins of society such options are not available. One of Rikyu’s Hundred Verses states, “ In that chanoyu is possible as long as you have one kettle, it is foolish to possess numerous utensils.” These are profound words to contemplate.

(Rikyu’s Hundred Verses translation by Gretchen Mittwer)

Thursday, November 15, 2007

Autumn Breeze


Exiled in California, a man dreams of his Midwest home. His vision is of a city that is the foundation of modern architecture, and of a river that once was defiled and now, though not pristine, is cleansed.

This man, Bob Brockob, an architect raised in the city of Frank Lloyd Wright’s birth, Oak Park, IL, dreamed of a leaf floating down the Chicago River on an autumn breeze. For several years he strived to clear his project through the various bureaucracies until finally, in October of 1992, his Leaf floated.

As he designed it, the Leaf was comprised of a stable platform made from three canoes decked with plywood. The outline of a teahouse (chashitsu) tops the craft, again of his design. The teahouse, constructed of white PVC plumbing pipe, is reminiscent of a famous four and one-half mat tearoom that resides in the Urasenke garden compound in Kyoto.

To complete the picture, the Leaf was fitted out with tatami mats, a flower arrangement, a scroll, a furo and all the utensils needed for chanoyu, the tea ceremony.

We gathered at the river on a cold windy morning. There we stood, just west of the lock that separates Lake Michigan from the Chicago River, and watched as a Buddhist priest loudly exclaimed a blessing on our enterprise. The sound of his voice rebounded off the skyscrapers. Then the event commenced with offerings of salt, sake and his ritualistic swordplay.

We stood entranced, amazed by the energy emanating from this white-clad figure silhouetted by the immensity of the Chicago skyline. He had only minutes before been amongst us, casually talking and now, well it is hard to describe, but we gained a new respect for him.

Finally the Leaf floated down the river. It was populated by five souls on a soon-to-be-epic voyage under the thirty bridges that transect the Chicago River as it divides the city into three separate landmasses.

Chicago is known as the windy city, historically for political windbags and not for the wind, but on that day you would be hard pressed to believe it. As the Leaf approached the Lake Shore Drive Bridge, the wind, compressed by the deep man-made canyon that the river courses through, made a futile attempt to repel the intruders. Two more souls with paddles were required to propel the Leaf on its westerly voyage.

Once in motion, the tea ceremony commenced as the floating chashitsu glided pass the gathered guest along the canyon's walls. Matcha was served to the Leaf's guest, and as the Leaf floated under bridge-after-bridge the utensils were purified and admired, the meaning of the scroll's kanji (True Emptiness) was discussed, and as Wolf Point was left behind to the North, the over riding principle of Chanoyu came to mind; ichigo, ichie (One Time, One Meeting).

As with many of the things our association, Chado Urasenke Tankokai Chicago Association, has done over the years this one began with some one coming to us with their dream. Be it the commemoration of the 150th anniversary of the Commodore Perry's Black Ships opening up Japan to the out side world or the marking of the start of The Parliament of the World's Religion, we helped to fulfill their dream.

So on that chilly morning, Japanese and Americans, Californians and Illinoisans gathered in a most unlikely spot to celebrate one man’s dream, and the grand passage of the earth around the sun that autumn represents and celebrated through a bowl of tea the universality of the human experience.

Impermanence


In our every day lives flowers are used to commemorate special events and as decorations, but in Tea they take on a different meaning: one, to bring nature and the seasons into the tearoom, and two, to represent the impermanence of life.

Tea flowers or chabana are much simpler than the elaborate ikebana arrangements we often see. In ikebana there are many different schools, each with distinctive styles, but as far as I know there is only one chabana.

As with most things in Tea there is almost limitless variation. Specific flowers are used for each month, for different levels of formality and for the vases they are to be displayed in. The arrangement of tea flowers even becomes part of the Seven Special Tea Exercises (shichi jishiki), collectively known as kagetsu.

Kagetsu is an interesting series of lessons where various tasks, such as flower arranging, the preparation of tea, and the placing of charcoal, to name a few, are designated to participants by the selection of tiny bamboo tiles (fuda) picked out of an intricately folded paper box (orisue). Each tile has a different marking on it representing the task to be performed by its recipient.

The lessons are as compelling as they are challenging because you have no chance to reflect and remember. The days or weeks you usually have to prepare are distilled into seconds. This represents a level of spontaneity not elsewhere found in Tea.

The task that I have always dreaded is flower arranging. It is not a skill we spend much time on in our lessons and not being floral in any sense of the word, I find it frustrating to arrange the flowers in any meaningful way. Give me a mechanical or woodworking task and I will arrange all the parts into a symmetric whole, but flowers are a different story.

If by chance I pick the fuda for flowers, I try to conjure up images of all the beautiful arrangements I have seen over the past twenty years of studying Tea. I try to think of the earth and the sky, of the asymmetry present in Japanese art, of the season of the year and of the vase the flowers will occupy.

To complicate matters, the flower arrangements in chabana are deceptively simple. Rikyu, the founder of Tea, tells us that the flowers for Tea should be arranged as they are in the fields. This leaves the thought open to the casual viewer that it is a simple task to arrange them; I know otherwise.

Hoping in vain for a tiny spark of inspiration to descend on me, I begin the process. Moving to the wooden tray located in front of the tokonoma, I pick up the small paring-like knife and begin to rifle through the flowers and leaves while looking at the vase that will contain them. There is only so much time in a day, so instinct takes over and I do the best I can.

That is what matters after all. I think of it as a way to get back to my beginner’s mind. Before all the years of study, when Tea was new to me and there were limitless opportunities. Of course there still are no limits and this simple exercise reminds me of that.

And this brings me back to one of the symbolic meanings of chabana, the impermanence of life; the temporary ever changing state we find ourselves in. As beautifully arranged as these flowers may be, they are but temporary. The arrangements are not kept, but discarded having served their purpose, as we are in the end.

Tuesday, August 21, 2007

Invitation


Some fifteen years ago my wife Charlotte and I moved into a traditional Chicago bungalow on the North side of the city. As many of you may know, Chicago has a belt of similar single family homes built crescent-like across thirty miles of the city. This went on from the early nineteen hundreds to the fifties. Many of these well-used homes are making a come back and being restored to their former glory.

Moving into our first house was a bit of a shock. First, it was much smaller than the sprawling two bedroom, two-bath apartment we had left, and second, it had a backyard devoid of greenery. The apartment had been in a lush neighborhood with a beautiful park just steps away.

This was not to last though. Between my parents and my wife, our back forty (feet not acres) was slowly transformed into a small urban garden complete with sculptures, my only contribution. Every thing from bones to old car parts surfaced as we tilled the soil and until my father, in a fit of cleanliness, threw them away we had amassed a large collection of castaway junk.

The clean up and landscaping allowed the backyard fauna to diversify. And as our next-door neighbor’s children grew up, she joined us in the planting making for a thick hedgerow along the fence between our houses. This also helped number of species to multiple. I now find my bird feeder requires more frequent fillings and the local cats need to be chased out more frequently.

There are the year round inhabitants (House Sparrows, House Finches, Cardinals, American Goldfinches, Mourning Doves) and the bi-yearly travelers (Dark-eyed Juncos, Monarch Butterflies, Robins, House Wrens, Ruby-throated Hummingbirds). Each competes for the pounds of seed I put in my one diminutive bird feeder. Through multiple experiments I have limited myself to Niger seed as this prevent squirrels, large birds and other varmint from feasting on my largess.

Once I provided suet and delighted in the colorful Red-Headed and Downy Woodpeckers that showed up to feast. They were compelled to peck their way through the tuff plastic to get at dinner even though the whole backside of the container was open. The Starlings on the other hand had no such compunction. They soon drove off all the woodpeckers due to their aggressive behavior and increasing numbers, and this compelled me to remove the delectable fat and bid farewell to our fluffy red and white friends.

We have in effect extended an invitation to a small subset of the natural world to come join us and in exchange we have received hours of entertainment, and a bit of enlightenment. I have often thought what if our whole neighborhood banded together to attract some wildlife.

Mayor Daley has done some of this. The greening of the city helped along by a milder climate has extended the range of many animals that previously only lived south of us. It is not unusual to see Turkey Buzzards circling overhead, to say nothing of the Canadian Geese that have found a permanent home in the Chicagoland area.

In the movie The Field of Dreams the voice says, “if you build it, he will come.” That is what we did and “they” did come. I would like to think that we purposely set out to do that, but I would be lying. In hindsight, with a little dumb luck and a lot of hard work, we accomplished a small nature preserve in our backyard.

This can be done in other aspects of our lives. An invitation in the form of a kind word or a simple act of civility will go a long way to soften our fast paced, self-centered lifestyles. I think this is why Chado leads you through a garden before partaking in a bowl of tea.

The path brings you down slowly. Allowing an appreciation of a gentler world inhabited by subtle stimuli. In doing so an invitation is extended to open your mind and let nature rush in. Even in a great urban center a connection to the natural world is just an invitation away

Thursday, August 02, 2007

Connections




Disparate threads distinguish cultures. Economics, food, life style, religion, climate and geology all play into the mix. These differences may at times cause dissension between nations, but usually, as is my experience in Chicago, the differences foster curiosity and hence communication amongst individuals.

I know this seems unlikely when you consider all the partitioned acreage on the planet: North and South Korea; the occupied lands of the Middle East; China and Tibet, not to mention Taiwan; the northern islands of Japan under Russian rule; Cashmere caught between India and Pakistan. Feel free to add your own particular hot spot to the list. Of course most of the disparities are political; people have an innate connection to their land, and will resist any attempt to divide and conquer.

The French use the word terroir, in the context of wine, to describe the attachment engendered by one's homeland. Jay McInerney, the oenophile for HOUSE & GARDEN, defines this as "placeness". Though I cannot find it in my dictionary I think it maybe an even a better word to convey the love of the land.

Despite our love of country, we change the landscape. Having spent years sailing off the coast of Chicago, I have learned to steer clear of the center city while out on the lake. The buildings, built up over my lifetime, act as a mountain range.

The skyscrapers that are our architectural legacy change the wind in their lee for miles out over the blue-green water of Lake Michigan. The concrete, steel and asphalt that make up the core of the city form a heat sink that creates a perpetual inversion in the summer. Heat radiates out, stealing the lake's wind on particularly hot and humid days.

We adapt though, and it is this trait that is the hallmark of Homo sapiens. Whereas other animals’ flourish or flounder in response to change, we alter our environment to suit our own ends. We may not always be successful, and in fact our meddling may prove disastrous, but we are nothing if not pro-active.

Many years ago I visited Greece. Being nineteen at the time, I lived in close proximity to the land. My friend and I camped on a rocky outcrop rather than sleeping in soft beds. We spent thirty glorious days, and about twice that sum in drachma, swimming, hiking and generally exploring the tiny island of Ios. The landscape is denuded of trees. Wood is at a premium and guarded closely, robbing us of the selfish pleasure of a campfire on the beach.

Since then I have come to understand that the Minoans, inhabitants of Greece during the Bronze Age, produced this classic landscape by cutting down all the trees. In the process they destroyed their environment and themselves. Even the Greek philosopher Plato comments on the landscape stating, “All the richer and softer parts have fallen away and the mere skeleton of the land remains.”

So it turns out that the smell of the drought resistant herbs in the wind and the sound of the goat's clanging bells that are so seductive to tourists is a consequence of a lack of foresight on the part of the venerated ancients. Whether we are connected to them by blood or not, we still feel a connection to our ancestors.

Some thing in human nature makes us relate to Greece statuary. Why else would the Elgin Marbles be sitting in London; why would the British have cared? And why did the Taliban feel it necessary to destroy Buddhist statuary; what did they find so threatening about some thing that most of the world had no idea existed? There has to be a connection.

Now that we can sample DNA, the interdependence of our fellow humans and our animal cohorts has become undeniable. It can be seen in the conservation of genes between species and within various human cultures. Even the use of language by our closest primate relatives serves to connect us to the other inhabitants of the Earth.

So how is it that the Japanese and the Americans have stayed connected after a disastrous past? A past initiated by Commodore Perry's Black ships, by Japan's attack on Pearl Harbor, by our WW II internment camps and by the early eighties trade wars.

Even after all the above, our people are closely connected and work hard every day to keep our relationship strong. We have many commonalities, but I cannot help but find our differences entertaining: steak vs. fish, Christianity vs. Shinto and Buddhism, a republic vs. a parliamentary government, and Mickey Mouse vs. Hello Kitty.

I like to think that Tea has some thing to do with this rapprochement. For most Americans, at least before sushi and anime became so popular, the tea ceremony was their first thought when Japan was mentioned. Granted nobody really knew the true nature of Tea, but still it was, and is, a compelling national symbol that until recently over whelmed all others.

It is hard for me to remember when I first became culturally aware of Japan. Was it a raku chawan or the compelling architecture of the chashitsu or maybe the deep rooted Zen philosophy of Tea that first drew me to it, I am not sure.

But I am thankful that the disparate threads have lead me to curiosity rather than ignorance, to involvement rather than isolation, to connections rather than segregation. What better way to live a life?

Friday, July 06, 2007

Paper or Plastic


The more I look, the more I see. Lodged in gutters, wrapped around parking meters and stop signs, tangled high in trees and power lines, stuck in hedges, and flying in the wind as cars drive over them. I have seen them wrapped around birds and fish, and like old cars they inhabit every ravine and rural homestead.

Ubiquitous is an apt description. What am I talking about, plastic bags of course. I think of them as the canary in the mineshaft; a harbinger of what awaits our culture if we do not take more care. That such weirdly ephemeral yet persistent wisps of plastic are so pervasive is downright creepy. These bags make me wonder what else is lurking in our environment.

Maybe I am disturbed about their presence because my sensibility was shaped by the hippie culture of the seventies, the Gaia Principle, Al Gore more recently and Chado, the Way of Tea, in particular. I take comfort in the fact that large cities such as San Francisco have banned them and so, I am obviously not the only person fretting about this.

I am as much to blame as anyone for this predicament. When confronted with the question, “paper or plastic” my response is usually plastic. As I say this, my mind begins to race with the implications of the decision. I picture the demise of the Arctic Wildlife Preserve and envision oil-covered birds washed up on every coast that oil tankers have disgorged their contents on.

Why must I confront global warming and the destruction of our environment just to carry my organic broccoli home? It seems our daily decisions, as mundane as they may seem at the time, have global consequences.

The study of Tea has some thing to say about this. Since starting my practice, Tea has surrounded me with natural, recyclable materials: bamboo vases, ladles and spoons; thatched tea huts; straw tatami mats; earthen and cast iron vessels of all types. Most of these can be crushed under foot or burned to ash without much effort and with no detrimental impact on the environment.

Despite its physicality Chado is a culture of ideas. In four hundred years it has not left much of physical presence, and though rooted in the past, Chado is based on the ephemera of the here and now.

Sen Rikyu, the 15th century founder of Chado, when asked to explain the essence of Tea stated the following seven rules: Arrange flowers as they are in the fields; Lay charcoal so the water boils; Keep cool in the summer; Stay warm in the winter; Be early; Be prepared for rain even if it is not raining; Be mindful of the guest.

So when I see the clutter it starts me thinking that we need images to guide our modern world other than those provided by Reality TV. So why not look to Chado for some guidance. Chado is based on four tenets: harmony, respect, purity and tranquility. No mention of tea in all the above, only personal responsibility and hospitality, intriguing isn't it.

Of course, to fully appreciate Tea it needs to be practiced. But why a "lay" public cannot study and enjoy Tea the way that I, who cannot play a musical instrument, enjoy the symphony, a jazz quartet or even Dean Martin's crooning. Well why not. We should at least try.

So the next time you are confronted with the choice, "paper or plastic", do not habitually respond. Search for a deeper meaning in your choice. Think of the four principles of Tea and apply them: harmony with and respect for our environment; purity in the sense of picking up after oneself and not leaving trash for others to clean up; and tranquility, which is what we are seeking after all, isn't it?

Monday, May 28, 2007

Conversations



New York is a city of conversations. Mostly gossip as far as I can tell: "I hear he's single again", "did you hear about their nanny", "her gallbladder was the size of a...,” well you get the idea.

These dialogs are either one sided into cell phones or spoken on the street between two passers-by; by lovers huddled in a quiet restaurant; by elegant Channel clad ladies of a certain age; by young mothers with babies in tow; or by metal and tattoo festooned art students.

Coming here after a thirty-year hiatus, I thought it would be all business and high culture, but alas New Yorkers are the same as the rest of us - mired in soap operas of our own making. After all, all politics is local and it seems the larger the city the more village-like.

People strive for community. Soon after moving into a neighborhood one will find a restaurant, a place of worship, a hardware store to frequent. Slowly relationships develop and unions are formed.

This is especially evident in the largest city of villages, Tokyo. Each enclave has it’s own police station and an indecipherable postal scheme. It was not till I trekked to Japan that I began to understand the addresses. They are approximate descriptions of where the dwellings are located, requiring local knowledge for the few final steps.

New York also has well defined neighborhoods: Soho, Tribeca, MidTown and Greenwich Village are but a few. Many have famous parks associated with them and these parks take on the character of the locals.

The sophistication of Bryant Park behind the public library, the musicians and street theatre of Washington Park in Greenwich Village and the stylized gardens of the Cloisters with palisades visible across the Hudson River.

The grand dam of them all, Central Park, incorporates all the above in a naturalistic setting. The sight of boulders and stony outcrops shocked me. Who would have thought such a natural environment could coexist in the mist of this megalopolis.

In Tokyo we stayed in a glorious room at the Palace Hotel. It's two large opening windows looked out over the moat that surrounds the Imperial Palace. The Imperial Palace is located in a large park complex right off the main train station and is only fleetingly visible.

Couples, families and large groups from the provinces stand with the Imperial Palace's small white structure visible over their shoulders, as the zeros and ones of digital images are stored away for posterity.

Alas New York does not have such an intimate view with such momentous implications. We have a more egalitarian society and would have to travel to Washington D.C. to stand on Constitution Ave. with the White House in the distant background to have a similar experience.

But our leaders are not royals and our culture is not yet five thousand years old. We tend to celebrate common people turned heroes or statesmen, as opposed to status earned by heredity. That said we do have our Kennedy's, Roosevelt’s, and the like.

My neighborhood is a bit of a village, an eclectic one. At our yearly block party we like to joke of the United Nations. Irish, Vietnamese, Asian Indian, Japanese, Cubans, Italians, Swedes and many more ethnicities mingle in the center of a car free Talman Ave. and partake in the magnificent feast displayed on plastic covered picnic tables.

Down at the end of the street, the alderman’s brother cooks corn-on-the-cob on the 40th Ward’s large rectangular barbecue while the neighbor’s Irish band’s music intermixes with the sounds of salsa farther up the street. We have an egg toss, a bike parade for the kids (I ride my ribbon covered recumbent), and climb all over the fire engine and pet the police horse if they come visit.

And so, in this way I have many conversations with neighbors I would never normally interact with, and all our stories bind us closer together. We become not the large demographic that government and corporations find so appealing, but individuals.

I revel in the odd combination of diversity and individualism that America is. Though frustrating at times, it is what gives us our strength as a nation, a state, a city and ultimately a village.

Monday, April 30, 2007

Commemorate


I have written several commentaries concerning Sen Rikyu in the past and focused primarily on Rikyuki, the commemoration of his death. Rikyuki is not our usual tea ceremony demonstration. No running commentary is provided and this lack of theatrics engenders a more introspective attitude amongst both the guests and the participants.

Each year when I sit down to review my notes; I get the chance to revisit the telling of Sen Rikyu’s tale. This inspires me and I spread all my books out on the kitchen table to see what else I can learn about his time in history. Inevitably my scholastics lead me to delve deeper into Japanese culture to get a better understanding of the man and the world he inhabited.

This March while giving the introduction to Rikyuki at the Japanese Information Center, a little voice at the back of my mind quietly said that it takes ten years to do any thing well. As I continued to speak I could not help but think of the relevance that statement.

Granted we consider ourselves experts long before a decade has past, but if we persist with our studies, the realization of just how little we knew at the start of our endeavors comes as a shock.

This conceit is necessary of course, for how else would we ever find the confidence to begin: to make the first bowl of tea, to see the first patient, to hold the first scalpel, and to suture the first head wound.

So with that said, I present a short history of Sen Rikyu and ask your forgiveness for my ignorance. I hope that his story will inspire you to spread your books out to journey back into medieval Japan. I look forward to writing next years commentary when I will doubtlessly be better informed.

______

Sen Rikyu passed by his own hand in 1591, being ordered to do so by Togotomi Hideyoshi, the military dictator who unified Japan and for whom he served. Rikyu was the head tea master for Hideyoshi, a position akin to being a cultural minister.

When Sen Rikyu’s popularity began to out shine that of Hideyoshi’s he was ordered to commit ritual suicide. Once Sen Rikyu was dead, Hideyoshi is said to have anguished over his death for many months and refused to appoint a successor.

Rikyuki is the commemoration of the 416th anniversary of Sen Rikyu’s death. The Urasenke tradition of tea commemorates him because he is the founder of our school of chanoyu, as tea is referred to in Japan.

Sen Rikyu is also remembered for the transition to the practice of “soan tea”, otherwise known as “tea of the thatched hut”. This is opposed to “shoin tea” or tea of the Golden Pavilion, which served as a vehicle to display one’s power and stature.

Sen Rikyu was the product of several tea masters. They attempted to change the corrupted practice of tea in the early 16th century and ultimately succeeded, but not without the tragedy of Sen Rikyu’s death.

Juko, who lived from 1422-1502, is considered the father of the tea ceremony and is attributed to have said, “I have no taste for the full moon.” By this he meant that the moon, half hidden by clouds, is more moving than it’s full round image.

Tea at that time was centered on the use of Chinese objects rather than Japanese. Japanese crafts were considered inferior to their Chinese counter parts. Juko supplanted tea centered on an appreciation of Chinese objects, to tea based on Japanese utensils from the provinces.

He led to the rediscovery of art objects that are not completely perfect or ideal. A very popular author even today, Okakura Tenshin, in his 1906 book, The Book of Tea, describes this as “a worship of the imperfect.” We call this sensibility wabi.

Juko also instituted the tradition of using a 4.5 mat room for chanoyu and this practice was built upon by another tea master known as Takeno Jo-o who lived from 1502-1555, and who eventually became Sen Rikyu’s teacher.

Jo-o altered the tearoom to include the plain clay walls, bamboo-lattice ceiling and the use of unfinished wood for the tokonoma that we are familiar with today. Jo-o changed tea from a formal style to a style that reveals the informal beauty of the natural world. This concept, along with Okakura Tenshin’s “worship of the imperfect”, is known as wabi-sabi.

Sen Rikyu was the son of an affluent merchant who went on to study tea and became Jo-o’s disciple in 1541. Rikyu’s style, derived from both Juko and Jo-o, was in opposition to the gaudy tea practices at that time. His tea reflects the natural environment as opposed to the cosmopolitan one that had influenced tea before and during the 16th century.

Rikyu created tearooms smaller than 4.5 mats and these rooms, being impractical spaces, had no other purpose than tea. The tiny tearooms incorporated a crawl-in entrance that forced the participants, no matter how distinguished, to bow low and crawl into the tearoom.

Sen Rikyu molded chanoyu into a spiritual discipline (chado, the way of tea) and this may be what ultimately sealed his fate. Rikyu and his predecessors created tea as it exist today, whether we are in a secluded natural setting or a large conference room.

Without Sen Rikyu none of this would have existed. His sons and today, the present 16th generation Grand Tea Master Zabosai Oiemoto, carry on the tradition of tea he started.

Sen Rikyu left the following verse at his death:

Over seventy years of life,
What trouble and concern,
I welcome the sword which,
Slays all Buddha’s, all Dharmas!

The sword which has ever been
Close at hand,
Now I throw into the sky.

Translation by Rand Castile

Friday, March 30, 2007

February


Now that February has past, I realize it brought the reality of living in northern climes front and center for me, as it has not for years. My hope that global warming would actually warm up Chicago seemed to be coming true: November, December and even into January we appeared to have dodged the usual winter debacle, but in the long run did not.

Even with the return of the frigid cold there were none of the expected survival condition that we experienced in the seventies. Back then, on my daily rounds as a suburban USPS Letter Carrier, I walked in trenches carved out of ten-foot tall snowdrifts, and when finally managing to get home did not see the light of day, or for that matter the mercury-vapor streetlights, for months while buried under the snow in my garden apartment.

The idea that these conditions can exist in a large city with almost unlimited resources is a testament to the power of nature. So the other Monday morning when I found myself sitting gloomily slumped in my chair, melancholic and enveloped in foul vapors, I knew there was more to it than just my usual funk.

It dawned on me then that it was February. The sun was beginning to rise earlier and set later, but I could not convince myself of that. February is a state of mind and though I am a fairly positive person, if I could erase a month from the calendar it would be numero dos.

In the month-to-end-all-months, the only bright light is the Super Bowl and if you are not a sports fan, the hilarity surrounding the game makes February even more depressing. The only positive thing I can think of is, it only lasts 28 days.

But before I digress entirely into the dark side of my soul, let me state that February does have some bright spots. For one our tea association, Chado Urasenke Tankokai Chicago Association, has a belated New Years celebration called tatezome the first Sunday of the month. I think of it as a gathering of family. It is wonderful to see our members so engaged in the process of planning and performing chanoyu.

And February also sets us aside from the less contemplative parts of the world. What is there left to do, even with all the modern distractions, on a cold Sunday afternoon but read a good book, watch an old movie or well, just sit with a cup of tea and contemplate.

February is downright character building and characters it does build. I can attest that our city is full of gloriously quirky individuals. February reminds us, as we say in medicine, of our morbidity and mortality. It says to us we are mortal, expendable, and better get on with ours lives and make the best of every fleeting moment lest they disappear forever.

This is the ultimate meaning of February for me. I doubt I ever would have understood if it had not been for the hands-on teaching of Chado, which stresses the here-and-now as opposed to practicing for some future gain. I have read many philosophical tracts on the subject, but I needed the stable under pinning that physical practice gives to words. For in the long run, words without practice ring hollow—so lets get to work.

Sunday, February 11, 2007

Cadence


Every thing on earth and really the universe has a beat: sun spots vary in intensity every 11 years; comets come and go in decades long ellipses; hearts average 72 beats per minute; brains cycle through multiple patterns of sleep, temperature and hormonal levels over the hours, months and years.

Whether man-made or natural, we are stimulated by events as diverse as the permutations of the moon and the cyclical nature of the economy. Institutions also have rhythm. Corporate cultures vary and many a CEO has come to grief trying to alter their corporations entrenched patterns.

In my years of attending performances by the Chicago Symphony Orchestra I have seen most of the worlds renowned conductors. All are enthusiastic and all have their own rhythm. Some are detail oriented, some are more concerned with the big picture and others just let it all hang out.

Daniel Barenboim, the recently retired musical director of the CSO, would just stop conducting and stand at the podium (the best seat in the house) soaking in the sound. Others like Leonard Bernstein propelled himself into the orchestra sweat flinging off his brow, drawing greater emotional heights out of each of his musicians.

Sir George Solti embodied some of both these traits. With profound respect for the music and the orchestra, he conducted every last note, but with enough latitude to let the members of the CSO shine.

Chado, the Way of Tea, has a rhythm. The tradition, handed down from the introduction of tea into Japan from China in the 9th century, has stayed remarkably consistent. The rhythm varies with the time of day, the level of formality, the season of the year, the utensils used, and though this probably should not be so, the demeanor of the practitioner.

Each individual has their own path in life; some go about in a slow stately manner, while other are energetic to a state of mania. This cannot help but be reflected in their approach to Tea despite the urgings of their teachers.

As I watched the recently retired Grand Tea Master of the Urasenke tradition prepare tea, I could not help notice the subtle variation of his cadence. It brought to mind surging surf in the Pacific Northwest; the swaying of bamboo forests in the wind; and purple martins as they swoop and glide, twist and turn, catching their daily quotient of minute diaphanous prey.

There is something of the force and selflessness of nature in his movements. Tea after all is a choreographed dance passed down from teacher to student. It is an apprenticeship where we practice and occasionally get to watch our teacher make tea. To watch a master is a rare thing. To remember the details afterwards is almost always impossible.

For the host Tea begins as they slide into the tearoom and bow to their guests. It proceeds with cleaning the utensils, the ladling of water, and the whisking and serving of tea. Once completed everything is purified again and left as it was found. Lastly, one final bow and the host departs, leaving their guest to appreciate the time they have just shared.

All must be done naturally without flourish, but not pedantically and therein lies the art. The chashaku is cleansed with three stately moves. Tea is whisked slowly at first building to a crescendo and then slowly finished, not to disrupt its perfect mossy surface. The wispy hishaku is handled with the strength and decisiveness of an archer preparing to release an arrow into flight.

Despite all the vessels, cloths, ladles and scoops, chanoyu never comes to a standstill. How is this learned? Not from books or discussion, only from doing. Each master, teacher and student brings the experience of a lifetime to his or her Tea.

Think about the daily patterns of our lives. When young, life is about change. We rush headlong into new adventures. With age stability takes on a more important role. Change requires energy that is better put to other uses.

And thus the cadence slows a bit, becomes more deliberate. Both approaches are valid, necessary even. The risk taker is juxtaposed by the seasoned pro. Our actions reflect the knowledge gained over a lifetime.

From my own background, a new physician is conversant with recent advances in therapeutics and techniques, whereas the experienced healer knows when to leave well enough alone; either letting the body heal itself or pass from this world without interference. And so the cadence of practice, both in medicine and chado, ebbs and flows with the passing of time – how wonderful.

Monday, January 22, 2007

Another Year


What do we do in a year? A year, as the saying in Chado goes, of ichigo, ichie -- One Time, One Meeting; where each moment is precious and irreplaceable.

Do we do some thing momentous or do we spend it watching electrons dance across a screen.

Do we spend it with family and friends, nurturing relationships or do we spend it hunkered down in a fortress of our own making, protected from a cruel outside world.

Do we spend the year creating a nest egg or do we spend it helping to enrich the already rich with poor financial decisions.

Do we spend the year putting ourselves at risk or making ourselves comfortable.

Is there a way to distinguish this year from the last and are we busy with plans to make the next twelve months unique.

And why do we commemorate the New Year, a new year of birthdays, weddings, births and deaths.

Another year for light to travel from the known and unknown universe, revealing super novae, colliding galaxies, and the birth and death of stars.

Another year of medical research, another of deciphering the human genome and another year closer to cures for incurable disease.

Another year of another class of medical students, trained and released out into the world.

Another year on the water, soaking up the best and the worst that Lake Michigan has to throw at us.

Another year of art: of drawings and of sculpture. Both attempted in a futile effort to search for unobtainable solutions to unanswerable questions.

Another volume in the sixty-year history of The Chicago Shimpo and a few more words put down -- ink on paper -- from my neurons to yours. Remarkable that.

So Happy New Year, I hope you have some sparkling champagne or some cold sake to reminisce on the old and welcome the New Year in. 2007 -- the most miraculous year of all our years yet.