In the change of seasons I am lucky to have chanoyu, the tea ceremony in my life. Chanoyu is remarkable and lovely in the transition from spring-summer to fall-winter. Of course there are the flowers, flowers arranged as they are in the fields. There is the change from making tea at 90 degrees to your guest, to an obtuse angle drawing you closer to them. There is the use of chawan, tea bowls with shear sides that preserve the heat as opposed to the wide-open basins that cool the tea in the summer.
Chanoyu migrates to the heart of the chashitsu (tearoom) in the fall. It is a geometric transition anticipating the change from airy and light to dark and hearty. The driving force in this is robiraki, the opening of the sunken hearth (ro) located in the center of the tearoom. The brazier that is proudly displayed all summer on its cast iron perch now resides and simmers in a subterranean nest. Warmth and steam emanate from it and cling to the walls.
We do tea in a Chicago bungalow’s retrofitted bedroom. There is no way—save for cutting a hole in the floor—to bury the ro, so it inhabits a wooden box called okiro. The okiro literally means “in the place of the ro”. It rises out of the flat landscape of tatami mats like a Native American or Norwegian Viking King’s burial mounds. It draws attention to itself.
This is a compromise of doing tea in the real world. As timeless as tea appears it accommodates itself to changing times. Gengensai Seichū, the eleventh-generation grand tea master of the Urasenke tradition of tea, created a tabletop tea service knows as ryūrei. This was done in response to Westernization of Japan during the Meiji era (1868-1912). In the 1950’s Tantansai, the fourteenth generation tea master, constructed the Yūshin, New Again, tearoom specifically designed for ryūrei using a black lacquered table called misonodana.
I have been twice a guest at Konnichian, the Urasenke estate of tearooms nestled in its garden. It is truly a study in contrasts to come from the somber traditional tearoom Totsutotsusai built by Gengensai in 1839 into Yushin with its golden hue woods and well lite interior. It is only now that I begin to understand the significance of the journey and wish to return one day to better appreciate the glorious details.
But enough of history, I want to share my robiraki experience this year. My first inclination was to walk through the event and describe it in detail. I think not. I think if I can express the feeling in the following three examples my purpose will be better served. Many tea things have poetic names associated with them and one of the joys of tea is to share this provenance with your guest. It is what the talk is made up of in the chashitsu.
When you slide into the tearoom the first place one approaches is the alcove known as the tokonoma. In here reside several objects. One is the flower arrangement (chabana). Another, the one I am interested in now, is the scroll.
This robiraki’s scroll was most auspicious having been written by the 15th generation grand tea master, Sōshitsu Sen XV. It read Sho Kiku Man Nen Yorokobi. It translates into Pine-Crysantimum-10, 000 years-Joy. I wondered what this meant and asked the hostess. My linear western mind could not fathom the imagery. The pine speaks of long life. It is evergreen after all. The chrysanthemum the same and of course 10,000 years need no explanation as does joy. So, forever and forever and forever joy! How splendid a wish to bestow on anyone.
These three poetic symbols add up to eternity. This esthetic sense was lost on me. I could not comprehend the incongruousness of the words until it was explained. This is what comes from living with a language where words are also pictures. How jealous I am.
My next encounter was with the chawan (teabowl). In tea, after drinking, it is polite to admire the bowl. To take the time to stop and gaze at its shape and color; to turn it over in your hands and appreciate the potter’s deft fingers as they worked the bowl into its present form. This bowl, not made by but fired in the famous Raku kiln, is named Hatsu Warai—First Laughter. Completed in December it is meant to commemorate New Years and all the first that it entails.
And third, the diminutive chashaku (tea scoop), a mere wisp of bamboo that is easily overlooked but often holds the most esteemed place of all the utensils. And so it was that day. The chashaku’s poetic name is Kanza—Sitting Quietly. Again it was made by the then Sōshitsu Sen XV.
So, these three objects viewed in a Chicago bungalow embody the essence of Japanese culture: the appreciation of nature’s rhythm, the vivid imagery of the hand written scroll, the appreciation of traditional crafts and the importance placed on everyday things . . . sitting quietly poetic.
November 2012
