Chanoyu’s pivotal figure is Sen Riyku. Though chado (the way of tea) existed before him, he set the standard we follow today. The shakuhachi has no such person. There are “modern” teachers and virtuosos but they are only present from the 19th century on. The origins of the shakuhachi are shrouded in chants emanating from forest temples 900 years ago.
The second: space, is harder to describe. It is an ill defined term, and both physical and intellectual. There is outer space and the space alluded to in the phrase “Give me some space”. A person can be spaced out, and during the Cold War, there was a space race. Everything in the universe, no matter how large or small, is separated by space.
I did not look up space in a dictionary. Slumped in my kitchen chair, I closed my eyes, and let my mind wander in inner space and let it search through my experiences that relate to space. Despite having an espresso, I did nod off. It is so quiet since Covid emptied the airspace over my house.
In chanoyu there is a moment, just after the kensui (waste water container) is moved forward, when it is appropriate to stop and compose oneself before making matcha. No teacher has told me how long to pause. It is a rare time to consider the years of study that lead up to this moment. A time to reflect, with courage and curiosity, if I should move forward and reach for the chawan to place it in front of me. It is a simple task with profound consequences.
And then there is the shakuhachi. It may say D, F, G, A, or C on the tuner but these are manmade constraints. Each pitch has infinite variability. Most musicians, no matter the instrument or genre, play a bit of Bach. Do any of them sound like the other? They play the same notes, but each performance is unique.
I have a few shakuhachi works lodged in my memory. Can I ever play them the same; the answer is frustratingly no! Several have quickly played threads of notes. My old mangled hands have trouble moving from one fingering to the next, plainly missing a note or adding a wayward one.
No matter how fast the notes are to be played, there is space between them. And that space can be infinitely divided. As I play each note, I search for the interval that will allow me to express each note clearly while adhering to the wishes of the composer. Often, when listening to virtuosic performances these passages are amalgamated into a blur of sound, but at the same time hidden within the shakuhachi’s breathy tone, each note is articulated. I search for that space in my playing. Not filling the empty space between each note is a hard won skill.
When I began to speak in public, it was pointed out to me that I was speaking too fast. I intentionally began to pause between each word. It felt and still feels awkward but is more effective. This is what I attempt to do when playing the shakuhachi. The wisdom is in the silence and not the noise.
Since chanoyu and the shakuhachi have developed for hundreds of years, I am not upset that my performance, for the lack of a better word, still develops despite the decades of practice. Of course, as everyday passes there is one day less to master my art. The truncated space left to me needs to be infinitely divisible.
December 2020
