Realization

In the 1980’s, I began my study of chanoyu, the tea ceremony. I am a native of Chicago who after spending many years away for schooling erroneously thought I was through with the Windy City. Thus, for my first job I sought out a position in a beautiful lakeside town in Wisconsin. It did not take long to realize I had made a mistake.

The mistake had nothing to do with the amiable people of this small town but with self perception. Soon I was driving to the larger city up the coast for East Indian music concerts and Middle Eastern food. There were authentic Italian bakeries and delicatessens that needed visiting.

Wander lust set in quickly. Next, I found myself in Chicago reconnecting with friends I had abandoned in my quest for higher education. They were gracious in welcoming me back into the fold.

On one trip “home” I picked up a brochure for adult education at the Latin School. One of the listings was for a four weekend seminar in the tea ceremony. I quickly signed up and found myself driving back to Chicago after office hours to attend the class. It was taught by an imposing man and a diminutive woman both in kimono.

It was obvious from the start that she was in charge. The woman, my future teacher, ran the roost but due to limited English needed a translator. The class started with the basics: how to fold a fukusa, how to handle a chawan, an explanation of matcha and the technique of using a chasen. There was a short dissertation of the history of chado, and then we were all invited to take the chasen in hand and make our partner a bowl of tea.

Years later in medical school where the aphorism “See one, do one, teach one” is paramount, I looked back and recognized the style of my first teacher who was a distinguished internal medicine doctor. Six months later, I took the class again and then to my surprise was asked to take lessons formally.

The year was 1985 and I am still at it. If I am truthful, I have gained a level of competency but nowhere commensurate with the time spent in study. It is as if the more I study the wider the tea world becomes. It is infinite.

That revelation changed frustration into the comforting thought that chanoyu will be forever fascinating. I will never be bored with the process, the history, the arts and crafts, and thus I will never need to move on to another endeavor to satisfy my curiosity. And that is the realization, my realization at least.

October 2019

Senioring

The backs of cars are festooned with many clues as to the type of people that inhabit them. There are political affiliations, union memberships; you can see where most of the money that should have gone in the retirement account went instead to a university. The type of dog that is riding shotgun, and how many family members are shuttled around by mom in the mini van is often evident.

There is on occasion a quirky haiku-like statement about how we are going to hell in a hand basket. And often I am left feeling inadequate because my other car isn’t a Corvette.

I miss the Grateful Dead’s skeletons and bears. Where have all the deadheads gone? And I have not seen the elitist Colorado’s green Native sticker for a while; maybe they have become more inclusive.

The best adherents to bumper sticker culture have to be the drivers of old VW camper vans. The backs of their vehicles, including the window, are covered with every destination in their carefree lives.

I have never participated in this, though I have come close. Stickers collect in the back seat waiting to be affixed but grow old and tattered, and are eventually thrown out. But I think my time is coming.

Not that I want to make a political statement, or advertise a lifestyle. I have no grandchildren that are going to Harvard or Yale, and there are no dogs or exotic cars that the world needs to know about. What I propose to post is similar to the “New Driver, Please be Patient, or “Baby on Board, Please don’t drive me off the road” genre of stickers.

I must have crossed over an imaginary line recently. My neck must have gotten spindlier, my hair sparser and greyer, I must be slumping in my seat or listening to talk and classical radio more. Something has changed that motivates drivers in my rear view mirror to help me along by blaring their horns.

Maybe I am preventing them from getting to the next stoplight quicker, or from making that forbidden right turn on red. I certainly am slowing the progress of every plumber’s van, not that they ever get to my house on time.

Okay, I am comfortable that my time has come to burden the vehicle behind me with guilt by announcing, “Senior On Board, Please Give Me A Break”, or “Senior On Board, What’s The Hurry”, or maybe “Senior On Board, Where The Hell Are You Going Anyway”.

Though when I mention this plan, friends caution that it will make me increasingly vulnerable to the scofflaws that call our streets home, and it will give these hurried drivers more glee in cutting me off the next opportunity they get.

On occasion, I have fun at a stoplight. The unremarkable white Honda I pilot, when dropped into sport mode, will translate its 260 HP to the front wheels in dramatic fashion. I know it is wrong, but when the towering pickup truck that has been tailgating me pulls to my right, I cannot help but accelerate just for a moment. It alters the whole dynamic.

It is juvenile, as it would also be to put the above stickers on my bumper. In the end, better to remain anonymous and keep driving . . . . like an old man!

September, 2019