Forethought

Every tea/chanoyu event engenders much forethought. Most of the groups that request a tea ceremony demonstration are surprised at the amount of equipment needed to perform the task properly. And they are also surprised to see the number of kimono clad women and men that deliver, unpack, assemble, use the various objects, and then reverse the process.

Along with the equipment is the creation of a mizuya (kitchen). One of the principles of chanoyu is purity, and during tea, the host ceremonially purifies the utensils. But before that, hidden away from the guest in the mizuya, the utensils are cleansed and prepared for use.

Chanoyu is not a preordained event. Each time tea is prepared it is unique. I believe that that is one of the reasons why chanoyu is so engrossing. Many factors are considered when designing (if that is the appropriate word) each event. The season, the availability of tea ware, the level of formality, the space that tea is to be made in, the practitioners level of expertise, all these and more must be considered.

And though we draw upon our training and experiences, another tenet of chanoyu is ichigo, ichie (one time, one meeting). It belies us to consider this presentation of chanoyu as a one and only. In my medical practice, when asked to provide an opinion, diagnosis or medication sight unseen, I would respond that each patient is a custom one off encounter, and in my experience the simpler the problem was made out to be, the more complicated it was.

The lesson learned is never to be complacent. Never to take anything for granted. Plan, plan, plan, and then review the plan. Despite my excellent chanoyu training, I must remind myself of the above. This may be because I know that my teachers will not allow themselves or their students to strive for anything except perfection.

Of course, this striving for perfection is passed down from above. My visits to the Urasenke Headquarters in Kyoto have been a mixture of awe and dread. It is not fear of their reproach, for they are gracious and accommodating, but fear of my insufficiencies.

Alas, the only way forward is to persevere. Riyku, the founder of chado (the way of tea), stated it this way: To become adept at something requires liking it, adroitness, and the accumulation of training. It is the person with all these three who will realize mastery. (Translated by Gretchen Mittwer)

So, the next time you watch the sublime tea ceremony performed, think of the forethought that the scurrying group of kimonos before you put into the planning and implementation. It will make the experience more fulfilling.

June 2019

Clutter

To get as far out of earshot I practice the shakuhachi at the front of the house. I can close a few doors to lessen the sound permeating into the back room where the ever patient Charlotte sits, watching the latest Amazon Prime serial. We have reached a compromise on location as the recent piece I have been practicing has the highest notes possible to be played on this 22” piece of thick bamboo.

In a virtuoso’s hands, these notes would not need volumes of air to reach their peak, but then I am not a virtuoso. The tuner does not lie; I can produce the proper pitch at the sacrifice of increased volume.

The shakuhachi’s five basic notes have simple one syllable names: Ro, Tsu, Re, Chi, and Ri. They are notated in katakana, and when first practicing a tune the notes are sung rather than played.

With other pitches, especially in the third octave, the names become complicated and defy song. It has taken 40 years for me to sound them: Go-No-Ha, San-No-Ha, Yon-No-Ha, or D, D#, and E.

There are others a bit lower on the scale but these three have been fleeting. When I manage to play the note properly, I try to replicate what I have just done. Where was my tongue, how were my lips pursed, what angle was the flute in relation to my mouth, how much air was I forcing into the flute, the list goes on.

Breath is fleeting as well. It should be deep and abdominal, a steady stream of powerful air. But mostly it comes from my upper chest. Halfway into each measure, when it is too late, I remember that this breath should be deep and abdominal. The final notes struggle to survive.

When I sit at my makeshift desk where I practice, and look west into the front and dining rooms, I see clutter. It is not clutter in the negative sense. Most of the objects have a cherished history and their place, but there are still an awful lot of them.

Closest to me there are cigar box guitars and several bamboo komuso figurines. The books and dolls, various wooden and metal objet d’art; paintings and woodblock prints; there is a stereo cabinet with CDs and records, and speakers the size of large picnic ice coolers.

The dining room has the prerequisite table and chairs with the addition of a small shrine to the shakuhachi and chado gods. The walls are cover with home generated prints and watercolors. There is my mother’s maple hope chest and Charlotte’s grandmothers white marble topped dresser, along with a smattering of family and friend's photographs.

The entirety is dusted twice a month on Tuesday, so we cannot be accused of slovenliness. Most of the clutter has been circling the sun along with us for decades. My sister does not have this predilection. She regularly without sympathy redefines her space. In fact, quite a few of the pieces, both large and small, once inhabited her home.

There are moments when I wish it was all gone, and my life was as clean and spare as the furniture ads I see in the Sunday New York Times Style magazine. The people in the ads are as sleek as their surrounds, and I imagine that they have figured out how not to carry any baggage, both spiritual and material, around with them.

Then I relax and realize it is never going to happen. I pity my nephews for somehow I imagine they are going to have to deal with the clutter. But maybe they will wash their hands of it and call 1-800-GOTJUNK . . . not a bad idea.

I turn back to the score. It is time to make some noise. Time to send a few high pitched notes out to interact with the stuff that clutters my life.

May 2019