As summer evaporates into fall we collectively pass through boundaries. Tragically, the Cubs and the White Sox’s seasons are usually over, and we are left to anticipate winter and agonize over the latest Bear’s quarterback. This November we will have the long anticipated election to pick a new government after a protracted campaign.
I have a much simpler wish, one dependent on sun and soil, and not the vagaries of man. Often in vain I hope for a few more warm days to help ripen the tomatoes. I long to make one last batch of sauce to be relished on the coldest nights of the year. On those nights I defrost a container of “sugo” made from our garden’s bounty and pour it over freshly made pasta. It almost makes February tolerable.
And as the veil of night surprises me with its ferocity, I look for solace in other interests. In my twenties I built three telescopes in an optical workshop buried deep in the basement of the Adler Planetarium. I seldom use them due to the bright lights of the city, but I do keep up with astronomical advances.
Recently one in particular caught my attention; Voyager 2, one of a pair of plutonium-powered spacecraft launched in 1977, reached the heliosphere. The heliosphere is the furthest point that the sun's solar wind streams out into space. At this distant border the rest of the universe starts to push back.
Once thought to be a definitive border, it turned out not to be. Voyager is intermittently engulfed and then released from the wavering solar wind. The area of convergence between our solar system and the universe is known as the “solar wind termination shock”. It is here that the solar wind meets resistance, is compressed, heats up and is ultimately overcome.
Life is like this. We move along until we meet resistance. Then things heat up for a while and in the end we either overcome or are overcome. I have watched people succumb despite all our, and their, efforts. Some fight and some do not. Some are cheerful and resigned, some terrified and belligerent. Their families respond in many of the same ways. Dealing with these emotions is an art and not every practitioner is gifted at it.
Medical students are offered training in the management of difficult situations, but most have yet to pass through a shockwave themselves and thus discount it. They choose to study for the next microbiology test over the soft science of crisis management. It is hard to blame them. The struggle to get through the intense didactic portion of their medical training is a monumental feat in itself.
For chanoyu fall is a time of introspection. We remove the portable brazier (furo) and replace it with a centrally located sunken hearth (ro). When making tea we turn slightly towards the ro, symbolically moving closer to our guest. The color and the mood become more somber, and we begin to long for the moon.
The harvest moon (tsuki) has its own formal tea (tsukimi no cha). Once, in the backyard of a small home adjacent to the park running along the west side of the North Branch of the Chicago River, I sat in a beautifully manicured miniature Japanese garden and watched the tsuki rise over the trees as tea was served.
It was a magical moment in an improbable location. After such an event I begin to worry if I will ever experience such a moment again, but my angst is misplaced. I push at the boundaries and hope that the universe pushes back. It makes for an interesting life.
Volume 5733 (4), 10/17/2008
