Truth

A seminal album of the 1960’s is John Coltrane’s A Love Supreme. It was his search for truth. Music was never the same after it. To follow his path is to watch jazz evolve (or devolve, depending on your opinion) from dance music, to improvisation, to bebop, to Avant-garde, and then to something indefinable. To say he was an innovator, though he certainly was, is to miss the point. How many musicians have a church named for them?

Coltrane’s My Favorite Things and Greensleeves were top forty hits, while the later work was derided. His music went from straight ahead jazz to straight out of the universe. A Love Supreme balances between tonal and atonal. Any listening will benefit from scholarly input and a historical perspective; in that way, it is similar to James Joyce’s Ulysses.

A Love Supreme is a four part suite. It is at the same time polished and raw. It was recorded by Rudy Van Gelder, the legendary recording engineer, and retains the excitement of a live performance. Minimal instructions were provided to the other three musicians and so, their genius shows through.

My interest here is in the fourth movement named Psalm. It has a vocal quality because he is chanting his poem, A Love Supreme, through the tenor saxophone. The poem can be read almost note for note as he plays. “Thank You God”, a three note phrase punctuates Psalm’s seven minutes nine times.

As I listened repeatedly to Psalm, I am reminded of the obscure Japanese music called Honkyoku. It is played on the shakuhachi, the venerable two or so foot long piece of bamboo that holds the distinction of being a meditative instrument that doubled as a weapon.

Honkyoku is solo and meditative. It is not considered music by some of its most adept adherents. The music is ancient, and is based on the sounds of nature and in some cases transcriptions of monks chanting. I admit that I cannot prevent myself from looking for structure within the music. The repertoire shares a vocabulary of short passages but as far as a beginning, middle, and end, well it is not obvious.

The music begins and ends without fanfare. It is as if it will go on forever with only the inhalation of breath to mark the passage of time. In this, it differs from Coltrane’s masterpiece, which has a beginning and end. I think this troubled him and his later work tried to address the infinite qualities of God’s love.

I spent decades hidden away trying to master the shakuhachi by playing doyo (children’s songs) and minyo (folk tunes). A few years ago, I came out of my shell to pursue lessons, and purchased a traditional Japanese instrument. Let me say that both the above required more of a learning curve then I would have thought.

But as with most things persistence pays off. Now with a newly tuned flute and a talented teacher I have made progress. I still cannot see the end of the tunnel, but I know that one exists. The one thing that my teacher instilled in me is not to fear the music. I often see this lack of fear in artists I admire. This lack of fear allows them the freedom to express the true nature of their work. Of course, it is no guarantee that it will be accepted or that it will be competent but that is irrelevant to the practice.

John Coltrane and Honkyoku’s inspiration relies on the true and unknowable nature of the universe: one with a secular concept, the other without any at all. So, for me, the notes on the page will remain just that until I can discover the truth within myself. And in that pursuit, I may be running out of time!

Deacember 2017

Chabana

Rikyu, the founder of Chado, the Way of Tea, said to arrange flowers as they exist in nature. This practice became known as Chabana. I have often wondered what does he mean by this. Are we to take his words literally and how do we, practicing chanoyu in Chicago’s brutal climate, emulate the milder climate of Japan?

His simple aphorism has plagued me and because of that, I have sidelined the study of flower arranging in my practice of chanoyu. It is only recently, now that I am more comfortable in my tea making skills that I have begun to contemplate flowers.

In the practice of chanoyu, seven exercises take chance into play. They are called kagetsu. A small paper pocket contains chits, which are randomly chosen by the five participants. These exercises put different aspects of chanoyu into play. One person brings the tea utensils in, the next makes a bowl of tea, the next drinks, all determined by chance. In one koicha (thick tea) is made, in another the charcoal is laid, and in another flowers are arranged.

There is no way, except to devote a life to the study of chanoyu, to prepare for kagetsu. A chit is picked, a task is done, and as the exercise progresses everyone moves into different position within the confines of the tearoom. In the basic exercise, only bowls of tea are made. And at the end, the participants do a military like march to regain their original seats.

It is quite fun, and engenders much giggling and consternation. Though it appeared to be a game, that is until I took part in it, and then, despite the giggles I realized it was deadly serious.

But this is a long introduction to my original thought about Chabana. I was never called upon to arrange flowers until I participated in one of the above exercises. It left me dumbfounded. There I knelt before the tokonoma with a small wooden tray beside me. A knife, a small watering can, and a mass of flowers and leaves rest impatiently on the tray. In front of me was a tall cylindrical vase.

I do not remember if the vase was bamboo, ceramic, or bronze. I do not remember the season or the type of flowers. All I can remember is my lack of inspiration. Kagetsu moves along. It is not meant to be contemplative. Complete the task competently and move on. I muddled through it fumbling with the flowers, littering the tatami mat with debris, and spilling water over the vase. Tea folk are considerate but I am sure I put their patience to the test.

Now thirty years later I still struggle to gain the artistic sensibility to follow Rikyu’s simple instruction and place the flowers naturally. To sit with a few flowers and leaves is to contemplate the vastness of the universe. A flower is on the face of it a simple transient thing, a thing that is in constant flux. Think of a way to arrange them and delay for a moment due to self doubt, and the flowers, as if sensing hesitancy will change, requiring another approach. It is a never ending circle.

Chabana is meant to bring the season into the tearoom. It is meant to represent the ephemeral nature of life. It is not meant to convey the style of the host or to bring beauty into the room. And because of this, it does exactly that, and one hopes in a selfless manner.

With a few flowers in a cracked and repaired bamboo vase, Rikyu conveyed his artistic vision of Chado. One so simple that it took me thirty years to recognize.

November, 2017

Poems

Sunday was momentous in a quiet way. First in the early afternoon, I saw the Alphawood Gallery’s exhibit called “Then They Came for Me”; it consists of the government’s photographs of the Japanese internment camps, which were put into place soon after the Pearl Harbor attack. And second, I watched the sixth episode of Ken Burns documentary about the Vietnam War called “Things Fall Apart”; it covers the first half of 1968, significant for the Tet offensive. It is curious that both titles are based on poems.

“Then They Came for Me” is from a speech written by Martin Neimöller, a Protestant pastor who spent seven years in a Nazi concentration camp due to his failure to keep quiet about his opposition to Hitler. The poem, as only poems can do, succinctly remarks on the silence the systematic disappearance of one group after another was met with, including his own disappearance.

William Butler Yeats, one of the 20th centuries most famous poets who was active in Irish politics, wrote “The Second Coming” in 1919 with WW I, the Russian Revolution, and Irish political tumult in mind. It is from the third line that “Things Fall Apart” is drawn. The poem paints a stunning and disturbing image of how he perceived the world around him. It is difficult to fathom the complexity of his imagery.

One poem is a simple statement of fact; the other is woven with biblical references. Both leave me heartsick and wondering about how I would react if I found myself in either situation, on either side. Would I go quietly . . . would I give or follow orders . . . would I have the courage of convictions or the complicity of a coward.

These questions are impossible to answer. Life is made up of chance, and if things turn out well it is considered luck and if not, misfortune. I do have the free will to make decisions, but if they come to get me or things fall apart will I ever have a chance.

As an example, my Viet Nam era draft lottery number was in the high two hundreds. It was my get out of jail card. Luck had intervened on my behalf. I relaxed and got on with my life, but now watching the war’s carnage unfold on LEDs rather than a cathode ray tube I wonder if I could or should have done more to protest.

In 2006, I was asked to participate in the Field Museum’s Cultural Connections Program called Connecting Cultures Through Kimono and Sari (http://www.discovernikkei.org/en/journal/2006/11/18/voices-of-chicago/).
A male was needed to demonstrate the intricacies of wearing a kimono. Because of my involvement with Chado, the Way of Tea, I have many occasions to wear kimono, so that made sense. I respectfully played my role but after all these years, I still feel uncomfortable with the historical circumstances that lead to me being asked.

As part of the program, the Chicago Japanese American Historical Society requested that I write an article describing the event. In doing the research for the article, I was confronted by the harm the forcible incarceration of over 100,000 Japanese Americans had caused. I was shocked by my unfamiliarity with the extent of this tragedy.

The exhibit and documentary, no matter how painful, bring long hidden communities out into the open. The arresting images force an internal dialog, which is why I think both titles were derived from poems. What better medium to cut through the ambiguity, and that is truly momentous.

October 2017

Away

The lobster fishing community is a parallel universe in Maine, impenetrable by us from “away”. It is hunkered down on island hideaways or in cubbyholes tucked into the mainland’s jagged coast. Cruising guides that usually error on the side of optimism, are blunt in their description of certain bastions of lobsterdom as being unwelcoming to recreational boaters.

Lobstermen and women seem the perfect foils for country western songs. Many are scruffy with cigarettes dangling from their mouths. They exude the machismo of total disregard for their health. But this cannot be the total truth, for many come from deeply religious backgrounds and have a legacy of fishing that goes back to great grandfathers.

For the indigenous, training can start as early as five years old. Knowledge handed down from grandfathers and fathers is priceless. In a local bookstore, I asked if there was a lobster fishing textbook that would be used in a community college course titled Lobstering 101. I received a puzzled look and was directed to the shelf labeled Maine.

There I found a skinny book written by a young woman who fished with her father and grandfather, and then went on to earn a higher degree. She does a good job of explaining a life spent on the water, particular customs and superstitions, the biology of lobsters, and the rational behind many of the practices we watched as we cruised through miles of lobster buoys.

But I imagine much of what is done is instinctual. I gained an understanding of cruising on the Great Lakes: the weather, the waves, the lee and weather coasts, and the peculiarities of harbors by putting in thousands of hours. From what I have witnessed here, these lobstermen earn a lifetime of experience before they are thirty.

Despite what I have stated above many of the harbors are both working and recreational. Lobster boats intermingle with cruising boats and in many places distinctive one design sailboats raced by the local yacht club. If there is a dock at all, there are often working and recreational sides.

Lobster boats come in many sizes. Most are in the mid 30 foot range. They have powerful engines and large four bladed props that enable the captains to muscle the boats around. I sat in the pilothouse and watched them maneuver to and from the docks. They did it with aplomb.

If I cut off Carrie Rose’s salon, she could certainly go fishing, so watching them is instructive. The only thing I lack is the self confidence to use the power available to me. But that said piloting Carrie Rose is becoming instinctive. I end up in tight places without much thought and only afterwards try to dissect how I got there.

I compartmentalize my fears and in doing so keep my options open. For me it is the only way to keep cruising. To keep throwing us into new situations and not fall back on familiar territory, this requires a certain recklessness and a willingness to take risks. And with that comes the responsibility to minimize those risks.

That is the fine art of cruising, which I suppose, for superstitious reasons it is not talked about much. Each person has their own perception of these risks and that perspective changes, one way or another, with experience. This is the foundation for an interesting life, even if not recognized.

It is a valuable lesson to learn at the helm of a cruising or lobster boat, and maybe it will create a wormhole between the two. I’ll be thinking of this next year while steering through the multitude of buoys placed by those lobstermen from the other universe, and hope that the experience gained will keep a buoy from wrapping around the prop!

Nice

For someone who has spent an inordinate amount of his life looking at boats, Maine is a treasure. It is like finding Eldorado. In Pulpit Harbor, North Haven Island, one of the premier anchorages on Maine, one sailboat after another came to roost. Most were larger than Carrie Rose, some close to 100 feet.

Now Carrie Rose is further Down East and the boats are no less classic but of a more manageable scale. Of course, this excludes the schooner fleet we just left behind at Camden. We swing in a mooring field surrounded by a multitude of Herreshoff 12 ½’s, Concordia yawls, and other beauties of unknown design but all of wood with varnished topsides and painted white hulls.

The fiberglass boats are also vintage good old boats. There is even a boat Charlotte and I coveted before turning to power, a Hallberg-Rassy 32. Our beloved Lenore was of an older vintage from this Swedish builder of wood lined ocean ready sailboats.

It was a twenty mile cruise today from Camden to Castine. The seas were calm and though cloudy, the rain held off until almost into the harbor. It was turning into an uneventful day (if that can ever be said about a day spent on the waters of Maine) when I noticed the bilge pump’s red light flicker on and off.

Of course, this light should not be flickering. Charlotte took the helm and slowed us a bit. We informed our cruising companions of what was taking place and I began to investigate. First, I looked at the engine gauges. All was well, nothing overheating. Then, with flashlight in hand, I skipped down the three stairs into the saloon and took the floor panel off.

The bilge pump was cycling on and off as the water rose and fell. The propeller shaft was turning and its seal was intact. The various other potential leaks were also intact, so I replaced the floor and focused my attention to the engine room. Back up the stairs, I removed the port side pilothouse floor. Noise and heat and crankcase fumes filled the space.

Clear water was lapping under the main engine. I pointed the flashlight around, stopping at each possible water source. All looked undamaged. The search was narrowing. The water was clear so it was not engine coolant. The raw water valves and hoses that bring in cooling water for both engines were dry. I quickly moved to the starboard side.

Charlotte had to move to the far right, so I could slide that floor panel over. Using the high beam, I started the next inventory when I saw it. The cold water hose for the water heater was spewing like a garden hose. I turned the water pressure pump switch off and the leak ceased.

Now imagine if you can a 6 cylinder 220 HP turbo diesel and a 2 cylinder 23 HP diesel running side by side in a narrow compartment in a boat mid channel on East Penobscot Bay with Islesboro Island on one side and Resolute Island on the other with the heat, noise, noxious fumes, and the intermingled fumes that reside in the bilge despite all my attempts to eradicate them . . . well, it is not the kind of place to lightly crawl into.

I procured the few tools I needed and lowered myself on to the battery box, wedged into a space confined by the thumping main engine and the waste holding tank. Careful not to scorch my right arm and shoulder, I reconnected the hose. It was not complicated, just loosening and tightening a hose clamp.

By now, the bilge was dry and we informed Sir Tugley Blue that we were coming back up to speed. Forty five minutes later at the dock of the Castine Yacht Club, we replaced the seventy gallons of water that had emptied into the bilge. In another thirty minutes we were attached to mooring “3” in 68 feet of water at low tide on the Bagaduce River.

Charlotte made lunch and I did something I rarely do, took a nap. As I lay across the pilothouse bench, covered in a cotton blanket I took a last glance at the nice boats Carrie Rose was privilege to be part of on this rainy eventful day, and faded off with dreams of varnish and wood shavings, expectant of the next Eldorado.

August 2017

Inlet

There are breakers in the distance. It is obvious they are coming across the inlet’s bar that we are about to turn into. There are also many small fishing boats (most with hundreds of horsepower strapped to their sterns) negotiating the passage. This makes me feel better about piloting Carrie Rose (our 32 foot Nordic Tug) through, for you see this is Barnegat Inlet. An inlet infamous up and down the Atlantic coast for being the most treacherous of a treacherous group of inlets that makes up the New Jersey coast.

We left Cape May, NJ in the early morning’s calm, and the wind and waves have slowly increased. So now, Carrie Rose has to contend with a SE facing inlet, 15 knot NE wind waves, and the 3 foot swell that has been pushing us along for the last few hours. Though I did not realize it, Charlotte has been dutifully studying Navionics, a tide and current app on her iPhone. She quietly mentions that at this moment, minutes away from turning into the fray, there is a full ebb tidal current racing out of the inlet’s opening and running head first into the above wind and waves.

I hear this above the din and bile rises into my throat. This is a good time to take a few deep breaths. I turn into the inlet and push the throttle forward a few extra hundred RPMs. Suddenly we are in a weird combination of broadside breakers, a following swell, 4 to 5 foot vertical waves standing straight up in the air, their curly little edges defying gravity.

The next moment the sea is oily flat with various eddies and whirlpools, then it erupts into sharp little wavelets that remind me of the meringue on a lemon cream pie. I can feel the stern rise as a trough opens up before me. The swell twists the hull to the port, so I turn the rudder starboard. Of course, I over correct and struggle to spin wheel over to the port.

Remember the little boats transiting the inlet, well they are coming and going amongst the waves. Some obviously frolicking while others twist and turn trying to compensate for the melee. One disappears into the swell ahead and pops out within a second.

Since this is not the first time we have been through an inlet (though this is the most extreme) we quietly talk to each other and make sure that Carrie Rose is between the red and green markers. All 220hp are engaged. The extra power makes us more responsive and stable. It also has the added effect of creating an imposing bow wave that keeps the squirrely-ist power boaters thinking twice before getting in our way.

That said the Barnegat Bay boating community seems to be a full-throttle-all-the -time crowd. It does not matter how shallow, narrow, winding, or crowded a channel is, this is a take no prisoner boating environment. I thought about getting a “Baby Seal On Board” sign for Carrie Rose but realized that that would only encourage them to go faster and get closer. The odd thing is once out of the inlet most of these boats stop about a mile off shore to try to catch whatever pelagic creatures that wander by.

We decided to ignore the maelstrom and keep on task, which once through the inlet is no less daunting. Since the inlet and the area a few miles west are always changing, the charts are unreliable. I looked ahead and saw boats everywhere but where I thought they should be. Granted there was a large red buoy to port, which I would have aimed for but it was close to the shore and lighthouse. I pulled back the throttle to idled.

The usually reliable cruising guide’s only comment on Barnegat Bay was, “Use Local Knowledge, call on channel 16”. I ponder this and wondered whom I would call when on our port side I saw a Sea Tow rescue towboat. I picked up the radio’s microphone and called, “Sea Tow, Sea Tow, Sea Tow this is Carrie Rose, the trawler behind you.” He responded and I tried to sound calm when I asked, “I am new to the bay and I am confused about how to proceed, can you help direct me”.

In a comforting voice, he instructed me to follow him and then mentioned a shortcut across what was land on our charts. Charlotte groaned, I kept quiet and turned in behind him. Boats streamed passed us both ways. At one point, one large speedboat got so close to him that the spray flying off the bow splashed the Sea Tow captain. Five minutes into this the radio crackled, “Captain just follow the large markers on in and watch out at buoy 37, it gets shallow and tricky there”, and off he went.

I looked ahead, saw a nun (red) and a can (green) silhouetted in the sun and spray, and headed between them. In another 10 minutes we were out in the bay and in 15 minutes more Spencer at Spencer’s Marina caught our lines. He graciously welcomed us. I slowed my breathing and tried to answer the questions the crowd on the dock peppered us with: where did you come from; how long are you staying; do you need to borrow a car; Chicago, how the hell did you get here from Chicago.

For the first time in weeks I slept soundly, woke at five and nudged Charlotte, “We gotta get out of here, sooner is better”. Charlotte made coffee for the thermos, we took quick showers, pumped the head, and then headed east to exit the inlet.

It was obvious that most of the bay’s fishermen go to church on Saturday evening because they again streamed passed us. Other than the ruckus, it turned out to be helpful. We followed their wakes out and by 7:50 were on the North Atlantic. As a fitting send off, the largest boat encounter thus far blew passed us creating such a large wake that it spirited us out of the channel and pointed us north.

Autopilot on, heading 014 degrees, coffee, banana, and a peanut butter sandwich for breakfast, we settled in for the 7 hour cruise to Great Kills on Staten Island. The NYC skyline slowly emerged from the curvature of the earth. We rounded Sandy Hook and saw the first large grouping of sailboats since Annapolis, and what I assumed to be New Yorker’s sunning themselves on the beach. Carrie Rose cut across both St. Ambrose and Cherry Hill Ship Channels while heading into another ebb current. I spied a boat flying a “Don’t Thread On Me” flag ahead of us and followed it into the large Great Kills Harbor basin. Ah, home, for a week . . .

July, 2017

Duality

I understand that we live in a world of dualities. There is light and dark, black and white, soft and hard, male and female, and love and hate. We cannot have one without the other, and I wonder if that explains the cataclysms that take place on a daily basis. It is probably too simplistic of a reading. There are many other forces, most out of our control, that rule the planet. If I lived next to a volcano that decides to explode all the dualities in the world will not matter, I will still be incinerated.

And since I cannot control nature, I ponder the more mundane, like how do I feel first thing in the morning particularly before my first caffeine fix. Am I upbeat and positive, brimming over with joy for what the day will bring, or just the opposite, dower and pessimistic, dreading the day ahead of me. If I am truthful, it is a bit of both, though I tend to favor the positive side of the equation.

The way I lean on a particular day affects, in most cases, only my wife and I, but let us say I was someone with power (as I used to be) it could effect tens if not hundreds. Was I aware of this at the time, not really? It is only with time and introspection that I realize this. So, if I woke as a hateful brat or a beaming pixy that is what I spread.

I wonder why people choose the hateful side. It does not matter if they are Christian, Buddhist, Muslim, Jew, or atheist. This love-hate balance is not predicated on religious doctrine, or the lack of it. It is quite easy to promote hate while singing the praises of whatever god or philosophy is believed.

The love versus hate I talk of here is not only meant to be personal. In the broader sense, it represents our interaction with the natural world, all the species, plants and minerals, the atmosphere and the ocean, the rivers and lakes, the mountains and valleys. What benefit is derived from being callous and not gracious?

I understand the lure of short-term gain and the power that goes along with it. But that said, if the choices presented, no matter how tenuous the tread, are ones of affliction or well-being, why not error on the well side of things.

I grew up with several examples of this: automobile companies fighting against safety and environmental standards, and the tobacco companies covering up the detrimental effects of cigarettes.

Even as a kid I thought, why not put seat belts in cars, improve the emissions, and then charge more for the cars. Why fight it, it is progress in the end, the cars are better products, and since the company is devoted to making millions of cars a year for the indefinite future what do they have to lose in the end. For the same amount of effort put into fighting every improvement, put that energy into engineering. The money will be spent anyway. Is it better to spend it on lawyers and lawmakers, or engineers and designers. If the former is chosen it might delay the process but eventually the latter will win out, nothing is stagnant.

When I became of car buying age, the American cars verged on the ridiculous compared with their German and Japanese counterparts. Now after two humungous bailouts, American cars have reached parity with imports but the delay cost much goodwill not to mention market share and jobs. If your life is building cars, why not just build them better.

And then there is the tobacco industry. I spent my career in healthcare and in that context delivered the devastating news of emphysema, lung and throat cancer on a regular basis. I always felt like the judge, jury, and executioner. The tobacco companies with the help of the medical establishment and governmental agencies fought to cover up the truth, a hopeless task. How many of our fathers, mothers, uncles, and aunts had to die in front of us before it was obvious that cigarettes kill.

Of course, there are differences between cars and cigarettes. A car can be improved but cigarettes just need to be abandoned. Each generation needs to make its own decision here, and as I see it tobacco stocks are still doing well despite the increase cost and enlarged font size of the warnings on each pack.

If we wake up with hate in our hearts even while preaching the good word what have we done to better the world. Why not error on the side of a better outcome. What do we gain by denying that the climate has changed, that the earth is billions of years old, that vaccines have prevented millions of premature deaths and that all people should have equal opportunities.

I have the benefit of a comprehensive education. It was not indoctrination. There was value in what I learned, and there was value in learning the process of learning. It is not infallible but helps cut through much of the intentionally fog. And it helps to have a bit of that indefinable entity, common sense.

When I started this essay, it was with the name of Hate, but I tempered it and changed its name to Duality. An error I think. There is only one reason to ignore the other half, love, so completely and that is to give in to hate. A cataclysm if I have ever seen one.

May 2017

Chaji

A chaji is a tea gathering that includes koicha (thick tea) and usucha (thin tea) plus a kaiseki (light) meal. This description belies the complexity of the undertaking. Despite attending and participating in chaji, I cannot say I truly understand the process. But I will try to explain, in a rudimentary fashion, what a chaji is. That in itself presents problems because there are many different types of chaji, so I will pick one that I have some experience with and do my best to illuminate the reader and myself.

Parts of a chaji can seem strange in a world with the transportation and communication options available to us. Just responding to an invitation requires training and an advisor to help ferret out the etiquette. The first question to answer is what type of chaji is it: formal or informal, a few guests or a large gathering, the time of day, and the purpose.

No time should elapse in the response. As stated in Chado by Soshitsu Sen, the then 15th generation grand tea master and now the retired Daisosho Hounsai Sen Genshitsu, the guest should pay a visit to the host to accept the invitation, see the physical location of the chaji, and make sure of the amount of time it will take to arrive there on the allotted day. It is important in tea to be 15 minutes early so as not to cause any bother for the host.

I suppose the next dilemma is what to wear. And here I will say, if you have a suitable kimono, wear it. If not, wear loose conservative clothing. Other things to bring are a folding fan for greetings and for entering and leaving the tea room, two silk napkins for various functions: kofukusa and a fukusa, a small folded pad of white paper, another small linen cloth for wiping the tea bowl, and finally a wooden pick to eat the sweet with.

But with that let me start to describe the actual event. When guests arrive, they wait in a room where they can organized themselves, view the room’s decorations and have a bowl of warm water served by the host’s assistant. Once the guests are ready, they move into the garden to a sheltering structure called the machiai. Here they wait until the host comes to greet them and initiates the move to the chashitsu (tea house).

On the way, they pass through another gate into the inner garden, and there they purify their hand and mouth with water from a small basin. Now they are ready to enter the chashitsu (tearoom). The first guest will remove their sandals, open a low door in the side of the chashitsu, place their fan in, and then enter the tearoom. The other guests follow.

In the tearoom hangs a scroll and vase with a flower arrangement. These are viewed, as is the brazier. This is a time to appreciate the room and what the host has done to make it interesting and comfortable.

Once everyone is seated, the host enters and greets the guests with a bow. There is a short discussion about the garden, the scrolls and the flowers, and then a light (kaiseki) meal is served. The host serves the meal but does not partake in it. The meal and the entire event are for the guests so the host does what they can to care for them.

A kaiseki meal is quite a treat. It begins with rice, miso soup, and a small dish of foods to be eaten with sake. Several courses follow including a nimono (cooked delicacies in broth), yakimono (grilled fish, poultry, meat or vegetables) served with the second offering of sake, hashiarai (a light broth), and hassun (one food from the mountains and one from the sea). The meal ends with Japanese pickles and crisp rice served in hot water.

Now you are probably wondering when we are going to have tea. Be patient it is coming, but first there are a few other things to be done. Depending on the time of year and if actual charcoal is used (a rarity) to heat the water the host will lay more charcoal into the already simmering fire. This is quite a procedure, so I will leave the description of it for another time.

In preparation for koicha (thick tea) the guest are served a moist sweet out of stacked lacquered wooden boxes (fuchidaka). There is a short break after this and the guests leave the chashitsu to allow the host to prepare the room for making tea. The sounding of the gong signals the guests to return to the tearoom. As before, the room is viewed. A flower arrangement replaces the scroll and several utensils for making tea have been placed in the tearoom.

A solemn preparation of koicha begins. There is little conversation between the first guest and the host. The motions are studied and deliberate. This is the focal point of the chaji. A sense of seriousness pervades the tearoom as the guests share tea from the same bowl, becoming one.

But the guests need to return to their daily lives and to make the transition easier usucha (thin tea) is served. The host replenishes the charcoal, brings in a tray of dry sweets, and begins to make each guest a bowl of tea. The atmosphere is relaxed and if a guest chooses more than one bowl can be had. Now the making of tea is complete, the utensils are cleaned and removed from the room.

The host reappears to humbly thank them for being so understanding. The first guest thanks the host for their effort, and explains it will not be necessary to see them out. The host bows and slides shut the shoji screen. The room is viewed one last time and the guests leave the way they came in.

As they walk down the inner garden’s path, the host comes to the door of the chashitsu to watch them leave. They bow to the host with the realization that this chaji, now just a memory, was a confluence of ideas and events that will never be repeated.

April 2017

Ryurei

In 1871 Gengensai Seichu Soshitsu (1810-1877), the 11th Urasenke iemoto, created a method of making tea using a table and stools to make it easier for foreign guests to comfortably participate in tea. This type of tabletop seated tea is called ryurei. It was developed at the beginning of the Meiji Period (1868-1912) when Japan opened to the west.

The table he designed, the Tenchaban, is elegant with a black lacquered top, four bamboo legs, and a lower shelf of unfinished cedar. A sumitori rests on the lower shelf. It is a container with what is needed for sumidemae, the charcoal laying process.

There are other types of tables but Tenchaban is the only one that can be used for a chaji, a formal tea gathering. The Tenchaban is suitable for both Western rooms and on tatami.

Misonodana or Imperial Garden Stand is another table. Tantansai Mugensai Sekiso (1893-1964), the 14th Urasenke iemoto, developed it in 1952. It is often used when tea is performed outdoors along with a large picturesque red umbrella, and it is used indoors as our Chicago Urasenke Association did recently for tatezome, our New Years celebration. It consist of two tables joined by a central shelve and is garnished with red cords tied in elaborate knots.

Tantansai’s wife Kayoko designed the first room built for table style tea. It is called Yushin, the Shelter of Newness Refreshed. The floor is tile rather than tatami mats. Kayoko used it to commemorate Tantansai’s 60th birthday.

There is yet another table called Washindana. This was designed by the present 16th Urasenke iemoto, Zabosai Genmoku Soshi Soshitsu. It is three nesting tables that when placed into each other can be used as a side table. There are three styles: a circle, a triangle, and a square. Any of them will seamlessly fit into a modern room and support a lamp, a clock, or a vase.

Each of the above Urasenke iemotos has faced the challenges of a changing world. Gengensai, the introduction of western culture; Tantansai, the disruption of World War II; and Zabosai, the rapid change brought on by social media. They have responded not by isolating themselves but by taking steps to retain the inclusiveness and the beauty of tea.

As translated by Gretchen Mittwer in Rikyu’s Hundred Verses, the founder of tea said, “If unexpected guests come, do temae for them with your heart easygoing but your technical performance of temae prudent”. The three Urasenke iemoto have taken his words to heart and produced beautiful, practical solutions to the world they find themselves in.

March 2017

Chaconne

One of the joys of February is that there is time to contemplate and study. The days are short and other than Valentines Day, the holidays are over. The weather makes me appreciate the heat coming from the radiators. So, I settled into a comfortable chair and began to listen to Bach’s violin Sonatas and Partitas, in particular to the Partita #2 in D-Minor. Bach composed this set of six Sonatas and Partitas in the 1720’s. What got me started was reading a book by Arnold Steinhardt, the first violin in the Guarneri String Quartet, called Violin Dreams.

The book is an absorbing tale about his life in music and about the different violins he has played. A CD of him playing the Partita #2 in 1966 and in 2006 is included with the book. These recordings not only show how his interpretation changed over forty years but also just how different violins can sound.

The 1966 violin is high pitched and sonorous. The high and low notes sing out as if they are vying for position. While the 2006 violin is somber, verging on guttural. Its notes blend and merge into each other. There is no competition here just virtuosity favoring the baritone as opposed to the first violins tenor.

I have listened to the recordings many times but I cannot say whether I prefer 1966 or 2006. One is full of youthful exuberance and hesitancy. The other is deliberate; each note is thought out and mined for meaning.

Bach’s Chaconne is considered the pinnacle of music written for solo violin. It has been transcribed for many other instruments: piano, organ, harpsichord, flute, orchestra, and famously by Segovia for guitar. All these are compelling but I think the violin is topmost.

It is 64 variations on a theme presented in the first four measures. I was curious what the sheet music would look like, so I went to the library and checked out the score. I can barely read music but if I concentrate, I can follow along with it. The partita is divided into five sections each based on a dance: Allemande, Courante, Sarabande, Gigue, and Chaconne.

The Chaconne is almost as long as the other four sections. From my reading, there is a consensus that it was written after Bach returned from a trip only to find his 35 year old wife had died. As I listened to it, there are points where it shifts from solemn to gay and back again. The score reveals that the key changes from D Minor to D Major and back to D Minor: from sorrow to joy and again to sorrow.

The music is unrelenting and somehow accompanies itself. Believe me, listening to it is twelve minutes well spent. There are joyous moments and passages that will cause your heart to ache. I find it hard to contemplate the composing and playing skills involved. The Chaconne is well suited to the solitude of February when there is time to let it soak in undisturbed by a warm summer breeze.

February 2017

Principles

Harmony, respect, purity, and tranquility are the founding principles of chado, the way of tea. And there is Diashosho’s (the retired 15th Grand tea master) mission of “Peace through a bowl of tea”. Either of these can be an inspiration whether we are involved in tea or not.

I try to keep these concepts in mind while practicing tea: when cleaning the tatami with a damp rag, when rinsing and filling the kama to prepare it to heat the water, or when my leg muscles refuse to obey the command to stand.

Of course, there are a multitude of such moments in the chanoyu, the tea ceremony. They a joy and a frustration, and they are what keep chanoyu fresh even after decades of study. From the first lesson I took, tea began to permeate my life. It caught me by surprise.

Why was I walking this way, why was I wringing the wash rag that way, why did I look before entering a room or handle ceramics in a certain way. Why am I always 15 minutes early, and why do I send multiple email and stamped thank you notes after every event, why…

It is because I have spent thirty years in and around tea, and tea exist in the real world not separate from it. The reason to do tea is to interact with the world not to shy away from it. To do tea is to expose your true nature to your guest. This makes tea a little scary even for people who have studied for years. There is nothing to hide behind.

I did not realize this when I first began to study; just as I did not understand that chanoyu is not about my performance but about the guest’s comfort and tranquility.

The founding principles that I thought were there for me are in truth there for the guest. In my self-centered way, I imagined that if I practiced harmony, respect, purity, then I would find tranquility. I had it backwards. It is my guest that will find tranquility.

And I think that this is why Diashosho has such a loving following. He has travelled the world, baring his soul, to try to help create a peaceful world one bowl at a time. This is also something that took me many years to understand.

So what I am trying to say, in a long-winded way, is to let the essence of tea permeate your life, no matter if you practice or not.

January 2017