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