Honryousen

To state the obvious, Japan is an island nation. I mention this as a preamble to my notion that after decades of interest in Japanese culture and history, and my involvement with boating in general, I find few references to Japan’s maritime history. 

The most common image is that of traditional boats struggling amongst the great waves in Hokusai’s famous Ukiyoe print of the same name. But even here the craft are but a sidenote, hardly noted within the cataclysmic waves. Most often Japan’s sailing heritage is confined in these prints to a few rectangular sails off in the distance. 

 

As you know from previous commentaries, I am a devotee of all things watery. At eleven years old I began to sail out of Montrose Harbor on Lake Michigan and I have never looked back. In high school I became interested in Asian culture, mainly Japanese, and began to wonder about Japan’s boating history. Recently, I became aware of a book by Douglas Brooks called Japanese Wooden Boatbuilding. It is a gorgeous book that is equally comfortable on a coffee table or in a boat builder’s workshop.

 

The book chronicles his first five Japanese boatbuilding apprentices (there have been four more) from the northern tip of Honshu to the southernmost reaches of Okinawa. It is a comprehensive thesis on the building of each design, and a philosophical essay on the loss of a way of teaching and a way of life. 

 

Each boat is a snapshot of the unique region where they are built and of the proprietary knowledge of the boatbuilder. He documents in detail the trials and tribulations as he attempts to convince his teachers to reveal their secrets. Even though most were in their 70’s and 80’s and the last of their kind, their reluctance to pass on knowledge is striking. The book is an absorbing, if technical read.

 

As a young man Douglas Brooks, a gifted wooden boatbuilder, visited Japan at a friend’s request and saw a need to document Japan’s fast disappearing traditional marine heritage. He has devoted his life to this end. Thus began my involvement with his latest boatbuilding project.

 

Many will know of Japan House on the University of Illinois Champaign/Urbana campus. They are also a repository of Japanese culture and history. One winter’s day I opened their newsletter to see that Douglas Brooks, in conjunction with Japan House, was offering a Japanese boatbuilding class, an apprenticeship, for the 2022 winter semester. The boat to be built is a honryousen, a typical fishing boat. This one is based on a 21-foot traditional Shinano River fishing boat.

 

I am 68 years old and the thought of matriculating as a student was daunting, but just maybe I could make a case to volunteer to help in the condensed seven day boatbuilding schedule. I presented my curriculum vitae as an amateur small boatbuilder and a long term cruiser. A Zoom meeting was held with the interested parties and after reassurances by me that I can follow orders, I was told to report to the Siebel Center for Design’s Garage on March 26.

 

What followed required a rapid learning curve reminiscent of my medical training. The 18 students and I, through Brooks’ superb tutelage, learned unique wood working skills using unique tools, and learned the sharpening techniques to keep the various planes and chisels functioning. The class’s readings: learning in a Zen monastery, the life and work of traditional craftsperson’s, and the use of traditional tools linked the didactic to the hands on portion.   

 

There are too many details to go into here, so I refer you to the Douglas Brooks (www.douglasbrooksboatbuilding.com) and to the Japan House (www.japanhouse.illinois.edu) websites, and to his book: Japanese Wooden Boatbuilding.

 

What I found notable, though a boat was built and floated (without a leak!), was that the main thrust of the apprenticeship was how to live, learn, and teach through the lens of a different culture: attention to detail, full concentration on the task at hand, accepting responsibility for our actions, a life lived without contradictions and true to our natural selves. This along with new found manual skills, which the students seemed to crave, created a quiet and intense learning environment.

 

In this way his class echoes the four principles of chado, the way of tea: harmony (wa), respect (kei), purity (sei), and tranquility (jaku). Concentrate on the details with a pure heart, and maybe, just maybe, a bowl of tea will be made or even a boat!  

 

P.S. The boat is for sale. Go to the Japan House website for further details, here is a link to the U of I article: https://news.illinois.edu/view/6367/789104783

April 2020

 

   

 

        

 

   

 

     

Snow

Snow is an animate thing. No two snowfalls are alike. At times the snow that accumulates in my backyard is achingly heavy. It is like shoveling water. At other times it is downy light, like shoveling feathers. The best scenario is when the sidewalk is warm and the snow melts upon arrival. Then I can enjoy the wintery scene without resorting to the snowblower. This is how the snow is today, March 3, 2022. Yesterday’s temperature hovered around sixty degrees. The sun shined and a warm wind blew from the southwest.

I have lived here long enough to know two things: One – There are several desperate snowstorms in March and April; Two – I should leave Chicago in February. The first is a given. The second is advice I often neglect.

 

On January 26 & 27, 1967 Chicago lived through the mother of all snowstorms. The record 23 inches of snow paralyzed the city. Back then, for a kid like me it was a great adventure. I spent the two days not in school but outside getting into all kinds of mischief. The worst of which was skitching. For those not in the know, it is crouching to grab a passing bumper (then chrome) and hitching a ride. This is akin to reckless skateboarding but of course I had never heard of a skateboard. A few of the city’s garbage/plow trucks even let us hang on while they slowly navigated the streets.

 

My next remembrance of snow affecting my life and well being was in the early seventies. Now in my twenties I was gainfully employed by the USPS as a Letter Carrier or as we were known back then, mailmen. My beat for three winters was the idyllic suburbs of Winnetka and Northfield. Throughout the 70’s it seemed we were approaching another ice age. The snow would begin in November as the temperature plunged below freezing and relent its hold in April. Never melting, the snow piled high. 

 

I could not see out of my garden apartment windows for months on end. It was brutal. The only thing moving on the side streets somedays were snowmobiles. A friends low slung Porsche laid quietly under a snow bank until the spring thaw. 

 

After the third winter spent outside, I determined it was time to move south and return to school. Southern Illinois University offered an affordable tuition and at 400 miles south, a respite from Chicago’s weather. I marveled at how disrupted the locals would get by snow that was trivial to me.

 

I will only bore you kind people with one more tale. Much of my medical training was conducted 40 miles south of my home in Olympia Fields. This was a foreign place. The medical center was in the middle of fallow corn fields. As this was before medical education reform, many memorable days and nights were spent there. Eighty hour weeks were not unusual. At sixish the day would begin and end (if not on call) at 5:30 when night call started. 

 

One winter’s night I was on call. This meant I had worked all day and then had the next 12 hours to look forward to. I was more or less in charge of a floor of sick people; It was terrifying. At one point, while I examined a patient, I glanced out the window. The snow was falling heavier and heavier. It was moving horizontally across the parking lot as the wind steadily increased. 

 

Travel ceased, the hospital grew quiet and then the power failed. The lights dimmed and flickered for a few seconds before the generators kicked in and turned on the emergency lighting. The hospital became even more quiet and I knew I was in for the long haul. 

 

I was in the habit of sleeping, when it was possible to sleep, with my clothes on. What was the point of disrobing when the pager (remember those) was nearly never quiet. I had taken to sleeping in the newly constructed and so far, uninhabited obstetrics unit. The accommodation mimicked a nice hotel room, and I did not have to share it with the mouse family that lived in the intern’s quarters.

 

I woke up to another day but without the usual faces. Me and a few other interns were on our own. Thirty six hours later I was on my way home. Snow, thick heavy intractable snow, had cost sixty hours of my life.

 

It is snowing harder now. The snowflakes are coalescing into distinct entities. In my backyard the blue spruce’s limbs are beginning to droop with the snow’s weight. The snow has matched the sidewalk’s ability to melt it, and soon I will be forced to use one of the new blue plastic snow shovels I bought on a whim in December. 

 

This will not be a memorable snowstorm. TV weather folk will not name it or be forced to stand out in the blizzard yelling into the microphone to be heard. It will be just another reason for people to move to Florida and further depopulate the north. I will stick with the snow . . . as long as I can have February off! 

March 2022

Viewed

 

The 7th floor of the University of Chicago’s surgical waiting room has a spectacular and comprehensive view of the city north from 57th Street. Though, the term “waiting room” does not do it justice. It is bright and new and surrounded by floor to ceiling windows. I pick a window side seat and begin to survey the scene.

 

To the east, I can see the shell of my old training ground, Chicago Osteopathic Hospital and Clinic at 53rd and Ellis. I pan to the west and the National Guard Armory is plainly visible, then Provident Hospital comes into view. Between these lies Chicago’s skyline. It begins with Lake Point Tower on its own to the east and effectively ends with the former Sear’s Tower to the west.

 

Low clouds obscure O’Hare airport’s landing pattern. Chicago flattens out once west of the Chicago River. Our city, built on primordial wetlands, evolves quickly into the prairie.

 

Stately trees surround the large park just to my left. Many look to be elms. These have disappeared in my neighborhood due to Dutch Elm Disease. Murders of crows populate the sky above the trees. Several groups follow each other keeping a discrete distance and undulate through the tree top branches. This is the largest grouping of crows I have seen since another plague, West Nile Virus, devastated their numbers. They are strong deliberate flyers seen from seven stories up.

 

The city’s drama plays out below me. Pulsating red, white and blue lights approach from west and the north. I see them before I hear the sirens wail as they enter the emergency department’s entrance directly below me.

 

It is February’s first week. Snow covers every flat surface. The power plant straight north out the window emits multiple plumes of steam. The white curling vapors quickly fade and are strangely reassuring. They suggest warmth and stability.

 

Grey clouds darken as they head out over Lake Michigan. Earlier I saw a large lake freighter on its way north from the Indiana steel mills. It crept across the horizon just outside the shoreline’s ice floes. I attributed its slow progress to the large wind blown waves coming from 400 miles north.

 

I am here to shepherd a friend through a surgical procedure. We arrived at 10AM and left at 6:30PM. A long day but it ended well, so no complaints. The surgical center is as enormous as Lake Michigan’s waves. Standing in the middle of the pre/post surgical floor, I cannot make out the ends. It is a city block long.

 

Despite its size and the number of people in constant motion, it is quiet and well run. The staff is concerned and generally caring. I never have to search for the answer to a question, as they answer it before I know what to ask. Both my friend and I are retired physicians and they know this, so certain formalities are dispensed with. The correct boxes are checked, and then we are left alone to wait.

 

The room grows quiet, each of us with his own fears and/or remembrances. My friend breaks the silence and recollects a previous bout with general anesthesia. When it was delivered through his IV, all went blank. Nothing until he awoke: no recollections, no nothing, if that is a proper use of English. He says that is what he imagines death to be, and how he will be none the wiser, just blank.

 

At this, we both quiet again. He is carted down the hall a moment later. I return to the seventh floor, have a cup of tea, and resume my vigil. I brought several books and a magazine, but I find it hard to focus on anything other than the view outside the floor to ceiling windows. I am in a fishbowl looking out.

 

Viewed from the inside out

Sirens wail red, white, and blue -

A murder of crows.                    

Awkward

Awkward is an apt description of the last few years. It is awkward not to see family and friends, awkward not to travel or even drive around the city, awkward to fear grocery stores, awkward to wear a mask, awkward to Zoom and Skype instead of hug and share meals, awkward not to make dinner reservations or buy tickets for favorite music venues, and it is awkward to write this!

 

My wife Charlotte and I decided to become less awkward in 2021. We went cruising in Maine, reunited with family and friends, and drove 3000 miles to and from Maine. These were done carefully and fully vaccinated. The majority of our people protected themselves and in doing so protected us.

 

My tea ceremony and shakuhachi lessons remained remote but at least weathered the complexity of Covid life. There have been challenges and growth, which helped me remain sane.

 

Now it is January, and January at the best of times is a time for introspection. The cold and dark turn thoughts inward and this is especially true when no trek to warmer climes is contemplated. 

 

Charlotte’s mother Tillie was our excuse to seek the sun. She lived in a small city (her home town) in the middle of South Carolina. I prepared our over powered Honda Coupe by fitting it with snow tires. They helped us safely negotiate the Appalachian Mountains on the way to the Palmetto State.

 

I write this at my kitchen table, and I can see South Carolina’s low country appear in the distance from the final mountain pass. After the tumult of the mountains, suddenly a palm tree savannah emerges. As if on their own, the car’s sunroof and windows open and let in warm humid air. Sun and heat, not to mention palm trees, seem otherworldly in January, at least to this Midwestern boy.

 

Soon tall spindly pine forest surrounds us, and as we near our final destination, sandy fields of cotton began to appear. We traverse long low bridges amidst cypress swamps. And usually, we are greeted at her front door by large dark green bushes filled with flowering camellias.

 

Sometimes we stay put and sometimes we wander further east to St. Simons Island or Hilton Head, to Savannah or Charleston, and even occasionally, when cabin fever is out of control, into Florida. These forays, at times as far south as Miami, are regretted once we turn north for home. 

 

Heat turns to cold, curvy mountain roads are shared with monstrous trucks, ice and snow storms hinder our way, plus the lack of anticipation turns the trip home - as hard as we try for it not to be - into a chore rather than an adventure. 

That said, once home it is gratifying to unlock the backdoor and stride into a familiar space, to sleep on one’s own bed, and return to comforting routines . . . awkward as they may be.

January 2021 

Next

I always look forward to next year. While not trying to speed towards my demise, it is that every year I expect a fuller life. Even when it is cold and dark, and the city is hunkered down, I anticipate the surprises that await me when the light returns. About this, I am seldom wrong. 

 

Granted I have been lucky, not that I am sold on this sort of thing. I like to think I have been prepared, because if you get a lucky break but are not prepared to capitalize on it, it is wasted.

 

This year provided us a reprieve. I thank the thousands of scientist who spent decades developing unique vaccines. We joined polite society again with hesitancy and caution. Nonetheless, relationships rekindled in the flesh and Zoom took a backseat. As I read and reread the statistic of Covid infections, hospitalizations, and deaths, it is reassuring to know that the virtual world is ready and waiting to reactivate. 

 

In Chado, there is a saying: one meeting, one time. Each moment is irreplaceable. That is how I remember 2020 and the first few months of 2021. It was a time to reconnect to my home and backyard; to develop coping mechanisms; to wake each morning with a plan for the day that in reality was not much different than the plan for the day before. I adapted to the circumstances. It became a way of being.

 

I am grateful for 2021’s freedom even as I am ready to revert to a safer posture if necessary. I am fortunate to be born when I was, to be now retired, and to be comfortable in my own skin. If the pandemic occurred in my teens and twenties I doubt I would be this complacent. 

 

Those were also turbulent times replete with an unending war, multiple assassinations, racial tensions, a deep recession, and ongoing inflation. One had reasons for hopelessness and anxiety but then, for some reason, I acknowledged the never ending notion of time. 

 

It was not in a moment of enlightenment but in the daily routine of wake and sleep, of work and leisure, of the mundane and the extraordinary events that life offers. I habituated to time flowing off me like water off a duck’s back. 

 

Thus, each year I expect more from myself, and spend time in preparation to take full advantage of any chance occurrence. I am realistic enough to know that one day, despite the preparation, I will need to pass on an opportunity or worse yet, not recognize one. I think I am prepared for this eventuality but I am probably dead wrong about this with a capital “D”.

 

So now with the end of 2021, I move on to next year: a year of surprises, a year of wonders as well as adversities. A “next” year to be excited about, and that in itself is a wonder! 

December 2021

Explanations

I often have to explain chanoyu, the tea ceremony, and explain my participation in this obscure art form to friends and acquaintances, not to mention the public. This is especially so since I am an Italian-American with a Chicago accent. I struggle to represent chanoyu in a succinct cogent way. Japanese culture fascinates people, many have seen trappings of the tea ceremony, and this only increases their curiosity.

The concepts that define chanoyu have nothing whatsoever to do with drinking tea. It is safe to say that in my first thirty years of study no one ever talked about the tea itself except in general terms. I knew there was a difference in the quality of the matcha used in usucha (thin tea) and koicha (thick tea) but if asked to define it I would be at a loss .

 

Even today describing tea in oenology terms is beyond me. Of course, some tea is bitter and some is sweet, and some teas have a different mouth feel than others. There is some color variation, but in the class of tea I have been privileged to drink, all are acceptable.

 

It was not until recently, when matcha became a popular ingredient in many of the drinks prepared in coffee houses, that I realized that all teas are not created equal. Over the years well intentioned friends, knowing my interest in tea have bestowed different varieties of matcha upon me. It was only then that I realized that the matcha I have been drinking over the last forty years is the equivalent of the finest French Burgundy.

 

So, when my explanation of chanoyu begins with a list of the philosophical foundation for making tea and not something concrete as above, I am already at risk of losing my audience. Nonetheless, that is where I begin.  

 

One of the founding principles of chanoyu is Ichigo, ichie, or One time, one meeting, which reflects the Zen influence. And then there are the four principles of chanoyu: wa, kei, sei, and jaku; respectively harmony, respect, purity, and tranquility. As I recite these, I begin to sense puzzlement: “What does this have to do with making a bowl of tea?” 

 

At this point, I feel compelled to talk about the mechanics of making tea. I try to explain the classic setting: the welcoming garden and its path’s destination, the chashitsu/tea hut. I discuss the utensils needed to make a proper bowl of matcha. This explanation of chanoyu seems off putting. 

 

Who actually has a chashitsu let alone a garden to put one in? Does this mean that only people with the above can study chanoyu? Of course, the answer to the first question is, not many, and the second is, no. The next line of questioning that often follows is what are the circumstances in which chanoyu is done, whom it is done for, and probably the most pressing question, why is it done.

I fall back on history, thinking that putting chanoyu into historical context will help to explain why chanoyu represents the culmination of Japanese culture, but with most people’s exposure limited to anime, sushi, and samurai movies, the concept that making a bowl of tea is an art form is hard to grasp.

 

The next questions usually concern, and I do not say this lightly, kneeling to make tea. This is difficult to answer in a short sentence. I state that in the late 1800’s when the West peacefully invaded Japan it was thought necessary to develop tea procedures to be done seated. And I state that in an increasingly ageing and westernized Japan, the seated style has taken on a new significance.

 

I understand that most of the information I am struggling to transmit can be found by a simple Internet search. That what is important is my experience with chanoyu, and with the multitude of people who I have met who’s lives have been enriched by the simple pleasure of making a bowl of tea and sharing it with family, friends, and with complete strangers.

 

Explanations should probably be left to the experts. Will this realization stop me from trying all the above, I doubt it. Whether making a humble bowl of usucha or the most complex bowl of koicha, the basic principle of chanoyu can be learned and reinforced . . . despite the puzzlement!

October 2021