Spectacle

I have become accustom to subtlety: The quiet ring of water simmering in an iron kettle, A faint hint of incense when entering a tearoom, The rustling of tabi on straw mats, A fine misting of water that slowly evaporates on flowers and leaves.

Years spent surrounded by the trappings of the tea ceremony has left me ill prepared for the spectacle of modern sport. Sitting in $120.00 seats at The United Center, watching what I have been led to believe is an especially lackluster Bulls team, it is difficult to take the entire spectacle in.

I ask myself, what could this place have been like when Michael Jordon was playing? Prior to the game I stood and watch people of all caste stand in hysterical reverence gawking at the statue of Mike gliding over a vanquished opponent. Tiberius could not ask for a more fitting tribute.

As the game proceeds I wonder why even have a game. The most enthusiasm shown by the fans is for the Dunkin Donuts race displayed on mega TVs hovering, Blade Runner like, above us. And as in the movie there is even a blimp the size of a small delivery truck purposely gliding through the stadium.

It turns out I win, or I should say the coffee cup wins the race and I am assured a free cup of joe. I will probably never avail myself of it, but it does get me into the spirit. I try to relate, but it is hard when you have spent the last twenty years kneeing on tatami mats. No cheering, just a hushed enthusiasm; no sirens, just quiet banter.

Tea is ephemeral. There is no core of TV, radio and print press lined up to report on every nuance. Once over, tea exist only in the minds of the participants and in that sense there is certain fragility to it. And though you have the physical memory of the utensils, it is hard to grasp their reality.

We try to understand even as we hold the objects. They are as much concepts as physical beings. That may be why we find it so hard to comprehend the nature of a Raku chawan even though it be in our hands. There is an uncertainty inherent in it bespeaking the fragile nature of time and substance.

What are tea utensils but a little clay, a bit of bamboo, a slip of minerals fired on earth, raw iron molded into vessels? They contain the beauty and the spirit of their makers. They are their history of use. They develop character as they age, just like the people who use them to draw closer to the pure essence of life.

Life is about experience and not about living through others even if it be in surround-sound and HDTV. I fear the flash of the electronic media has duped us. What have we done, what have we experienced that is not second hand?

Life is a balance between action and contemplation. In the ebb and flow of tides there is a slack moment when all lies still. In tea we have a moment, when the chawan is in place, where we stop just for a second to breath deeply and consider what we are about to do.

It is harder to do this than you might imagine. Much nervous energy has been spent preparing for tea. There is momentum and then, even though there are others in the room, you are suddenly alone with your thoughts.

It is only a bowl of tea you think to yourself, but you know what you are about to do represents the entirety of humanity. It represents the development of culture. It represents our interaction with the outside world. It represents our ties to nature.

But back to the hilarity of the Bull's game, for had I never gone would I be drawn into this path of introspection? So my advice is to go to a game. Go stand before Mr. Jordan’s image and gawk. Go have a beer and a brat, and cheer to your hearts content. Join in the spectacle of sport and then plot the quiet spectacle of your life.

Volume 5713 (21), 5/16/2008

Wine

There is no reference to Japanese culture in this commentary, but my thoughts on wine have been shaped by my study of chanoyu, the Japanese Tea Ceremony: the subtlety of taste and smell; the Zen concept of ichigo, ichie (one time, one meeting); wabi-sabi, the appreciation of the minute details of the objects used to make tea; the tea itself, which is simply leaves as wine is simply grapes; a feeling for nature and the changing of the seasons; a love for the gardens that surround the tea room, and the hills and valleys that contain the vineyards. I could go on, but I will let the words speak for themselves.

Even though I am of Italian descent, I am partial to French wines. My affection for them started about six months into my internship. Needing to self-medicate after a particularly stressful day, I decided to treat myself to a glass of the rich restorative wine from the Southern Rhone region.

I am not sure what drew me there. Maybe it was the shape of the bottle or maybe it was because these big reds were as yet undiscovered and at pre-euro prices, cheap. Each night thereafter I made it a point to sample wines from the different towns that make up the land on either side of the Rhone River: Gigondas, Vacqueyras, Tavel, Rasteau and of course, the most famous town of all, Chateauneuf-du-Pape.

What a treat to come home to dinner, have a glass of wine and watch Seinfeld reruns with my wife Charlotte. But then disaster struck as the tannins from these reds leached into my gut and produced the kind of heartburn that should send you to the emergency room, convinced you are finally having your first well-deserved heart attack.

To make matters worse I had just spent the last five years building a small wine cellar in the basement: actually a few dozen bottles of red resting in a rickety bookcase. But they were good bottles, the best I could afford at the time, full of the syrah, grenache, carignan, cinsaut and mourvedre grapes that make up the wines of Southern France.

Thus denied of the pleasure of my crimson stash I was forced to consider white wines. Severely depressed at first, the white wines from Burgundy, Loire, Jura, Alsace and Bordeaux proved a revelation. I quickly recovered and found myself haunting the shelves looking for that one bottle that would prove life altering.

Most whites are insipid, but the above are buttery. Your mouth springs to attention and though there are no tannins to vasodialate the small blood vessels of your face, after several sips your worldview definitely improves.

It will not serve any purpose to recite the bizarre vocabulary used to describe the taste and smell of wine; the numerous terms used to delineate the sensuous experience of swishing an ounce of liquid around in your mouth.

A liquid created by the interaction of the sun, the water and the minerals in the soil surrounding their deep roots. It is a taste that is exclusive to one time and one place, akin to tasting the earth and the sky.

A simple wine has one note. Not necessarily good or bad, but a single note is not music. The more of it you drink, the less interesting. It is drinking for drinking’s sake, and what fun is that.

A complex wine demands attention and may at first be overwhelming. “What is this!” your mouth exclaims. The harmonics resonate and keep your interest as you decipher each sip. It is not unusual to find people that can remember a memorable bottle of wine for a lifetime.

At a young age, once I got over my taste for Boone's Farm Apple wine, I became quite curious in the interesting labels staring back at me from the shelves of our local liquor store. They were classically designed with odd typefaces and engravings of chateaus with unpronounceable names. They spoke to me of a far away and unattainable world.

I am in the habit of saving the labels of wine I enjoy. I carefully peal them off and etch the character of the wine into my memory. I derive great pleasure from paging through the old dog-eared labels that hang inconspicuously from a clip in my kitchen.

Years passed before I was able to decipher their meaning. I am still self-conscious of the pronunciation when asking for a specific wine, and have used the French language expertise of my niece Cassidy, even knowing that I will suffer humiliation due to my Chicago accent.

The sacrifices I have made in pursuit of what is after all only fermented grape juice. But what juice, what tastes and bouquet, what warmth deep in your core, and what shared experiences. After all what is life for if not for this?

Volume 5709 (24), 4/18/2008

Yurei

Everyone has a ghost story. If you do not believe me just ask the next person you see. It may be in the first, second, or third person, but they will have one. I have a few even though I think most of these stories are the result of too much garlic and red wine.

When I catalog my experiences there are a few more then I expect. One from my mother-in-law's childhood in Sumter, South Carolina, one from a drunken night in the dorms at Cambridge University, there were basement spirits in Las Cruses, New Mexico and ghosts around the campfires deep in the Western wilderness. I can even remember poltergeist at a friend’s house in Sauganash.

All these stories are unique, individual to the teller and the tale. There appears to be no common thread, but then I happen on a book about the faint spirits of Japan, the yurei and quickly change my tune. Lafacdio Hearn, a lecturer on English Literature at The Imperial University in Tokyo, wrote the book in 1899 called In Ghostly Japan. He devotes fourteen chapters to the telling and the interpretation of classic Japanese ghost stories.

His book starts with an eerie non-attributed Japanese poem--Think not that dreams appear to the dreamer only at night: The dreams of this world of pain appear to us even by day. I think you will agree that this is a sobering introduction to any topic, let alone one about ghosts.

Unfortunately for me I began to read his book late one night close upon the Hour of the Ox, the early morning hour reserved for Japanese ghosts and goblins. The book commences with a Bodhisattva and a young patron ascending a cloud-shrouded mountain in what I assume is to be a search for enlightenment.

To the horror of both the young man and myself only a mountain of his skulls awaits him at the summit. I am not sure what the point of this story is. It seems unusually cruel, but then it is a ghost story after all.

One day while reading about Japanese pottery I learned that Japan has one of the oldest, if not the oldest ceramic traditions in the world. Over twenty thousand years in the making. A culture this old has had ample time to develop a richness of culture that we in America can only guess at, and hence the number of phantom classifications that exist in Japanese literature.

In my short reading on the subject I come upon no less than 25 unique paranormal beings and I am sure there are more. They are represented by white kimono clad humans, non-human phallic-nosed goblins, fanged and horned demons, and mischievous foxes. They run the gamut from harmless sea ghost to dead vampire babies, from vengeful aristocrats to impish children, and even haunted lanterns with eyes and long tongues.

These ghosts exist for many reasons. Some become eternal due to improper burial rites, some because they have no family to care for their spirit after death and some because of violent deaths. Some haunt the places where they died or were buried. Some stalk their murderers and some look after their beloved.

There is a notion of exorcism, of fulfilling the restless spirit’s needs. There are the yearly festivals of Obon and setsubun. The former a festival to pay tribute to the dead held in July or August, and the latter a casting out of evil and welcoming in the good held in February. These festivals are so popular that foreign tourist are discouraged from traveling to Japan during these times because of the congestion caused by the whole country traveling to family reunions.

I like the thought of the shiryo-yoke that protects the living from the dead, the segaki services that care for the dead that have no living relative to care for them and the o-fuda, the religious texts used as charms or talismans to ward off ghosts.

I like the thought that all ghosts deserve respect, and mostly I like the thought that I have only begun to scratch the surface of understanding the ancient Japanese culture.

Volume 5705 (21), 3/21/2008

Ghosts

Cedar Key is a bit of a backwater. The Gulf of Mexico is the only outlet, that is unless you turn back, which of course is what most people do. John Muir, its most famous visitor, did not.

Feverish with malaria he paid his way onto a schooner and traveled to Cuba. But this story is not about him; it is about the ghosts that inhabit this tiny patch of Florida's West coast and The Island Hotel where my wife and I hid out for five days.

It is not surprising that ghosts inhabit this dwelling. From the first, as I walked through its double French doors it seemed destined to be so. The hotel has a certain lush decrepitude that only exists in the South. The fact that its ghosts are, if not benevolent, at least not malignant, fits right in with my first impressions.

Poltergeist is part of the story. It appears the thirteen or so ghosts that occupy the hotel are fond of unplugging cell phones, stealing socks and changing room numbers, but there is some thing more than random movement. A presence is often felt: some times in the guest rooms, in the kitchen or in the lobby, and most certainly in the basement depending on which ethereal personages is feeling frisky that day.

I say day because like most Northerners I think of ghost as nighttime creatures, things that sulk and are to be feared. This is not the case south of the Mason-Dixon line. The South has a rapprochement with ghost. They are tolerated and even encouraged, and in the process become eccentric if not already so.

Day or night it does not matter, the apparitions frequent the premises at all hours. Sipping an overflowing glass of chardonnay at the bar, ghost tales begin to surface and a long time waitress is summoned to impart her experiences in thirty years, and five owners, of working at the hotel.

The hotel has served many functions since being built in 1859 as a general store and post office. Requisitioned for a Civil War barracks probably saved it from being torched by the Yankees. Over the years tales of prohibition stills and brothels have entered its lexicon, as has the mysterious death of one of its owners and its survival in the face of apocalyptic storms.

The most renowned owner was Bessie Gibbs. Bessie made the hotel's restaurant nationally famous for seafood, started an art fair, acted as mayor for a time and tragically died an invalid in a house fire.

Now I am no expert, but venturing an opinion I think the more experiences a structure has the better chance for ghosts. Not every structure has ghosts, so there must be some code that governs which abode becomes a sanctuary for the departed.

Molly, our waitress, had herself seen a ghost and was not fearful. The ghost, as told to us, appeared unexpectedly and then in the blink of an eye evaporated. The most common apparition mentioned is a mute youngish lady dressed in the drab garb of Little House On The Prairie.

Between the waitress and the bartender we learn that guests have summoned the owner to their rooms due to interlopers only to find they have disappeared, and front desk staff have tried to register guests only to have them vaporize.

It seems the only place in the hotel that is immune is The King Neptune lounge with its beautiful crystal blue painting of King Neptune clutching one mermaid while another pours him a martini out of a conch shell. As one long time patron stated, this used to be a very rough, working man's bar, and this may be why the ghosts, feeling at risk for their safety, started to ply their mischief else where in the facility.

Our teller of tales had the supernatural nature of the hotel confirmed by a guest made sensitive to the presence of such energy after being struck by lightning. This lady was searching the country to find some acreage with the least electromagnetic radiation. She had become painfully sensitized to it since her accident and found she could no longer live comfortably in our electronic world.

The spirits also extend out into the town and surrounding keys. A not so ghostly "Croc man" (the islands substitute for Sasquatch) is said to live amongst the gators and snakes, and feast on them. Florida being what it is, I imagine I see quite a few croc men wandering the docks and driving pickup trucks, but that might just be the jaundiced eye of a Yankee speaking.

The obsession with ghost on this key is probably due the lack of distracting electrical amenities. Here in the hotel no plasma TV blares out the latest scandal or sports report, we have no choice of movies in our room, and no clock radio or phone are to be found.

Curiously, our cell phones cease to function while crossing over the wetlands, rivers and bayous that separate this raised patch of coral and oyster shells from mainland Florida. This is odd because I distinctly recall passing several cell towers hugging the road on the way in.

It has been blessedly quiet here. Quiet enough to hear our own thoughts for a change. Quiet enough to hear the birds before seeing them. Quiet enough to be surprised by contrails in the sky and quiet enough to regret driving out of this world into the perpetual noisemaker that present day America has become.

Frankly, as I see it, ghosts do not stand a chance of competing with modernity, so hopefully the Island Hotel will remain a sanctuary for as many of them as choose to float in the space between the real and the imagined.

Volume 5699 (21), 2/8/2008

Revelation

I listen to books-on-tape while driving. The stories are my salvation, especially now that traffic has become more and more snarled. I am drawn to the male equivalent of gothic romances, but I have managed to get through most of the world’s great literature that I neglected as a wayward youth.

The other morning while piloting my Subaru through a premature fall blizzard, I found myself listening to a hard-boiled detective story without a detective. An artist/thief/computer nerd was playing the role that is usually reserved for the gumshoe.

For some reason this character made me think of the lack of interest exhibited by the young for things mechanical. My youth was spent in garages. It did not matter whether it was the depths of winter or the dog days of summer, my friends and I took a wrench to any car, motorcycle, mini-bike, or go-cart we could get our hands on.

As I listened to the computer gobbledygook in this story I had a revelation that the computer is the new garage. Granted, instead of nuts and bolts, it is bits and bytes. Instead of wrenches and screwdrivers, it is disc drives and RAM, and Intel, not Briggs and Stratton makes the engines, but in a digital sense these are mechanical.

People have replaced grease under their fingernails with tendonitis from clicking a mouse eight hours a day. That this should have surprised me gives me cause for concern. Conservatism is not something I readily admit to, but it crept in without my knowledge.

I have determined to get off my high horse and recognize that times have changed. After all, your computer needs to be defragged more often then your car needs a tune-up. I wonder why I did not come to this conclusion sooner. The famous myths of the computer world all begin in garages.

In Tea I have had a similar dilemma. The status quo has been the status quo for over 400 years. Teachers and students are reluctant to veer from the tradition without definitive approval, but I do a disservice here too.

Each Grand Tea Master, and there have been sixteen, creates their own artistic and ascetic legacy for the times they live in. Gengensai, the Grand Tea Master during the Meiji era, in response to Commodore Perry’s Black Ships, designed a tabletop style to make Tea more accessible for the newly arrived Westerners.

The most recent Grand Tea Master of the Urasenke Tradition, Oeimoto Zabosai, has created, for much the same reasons as Gengensai, several new adaptations for Tea. This time not necessarily because of Westerners, but for a homegrown population more accustom to chairs than tatami mats.

He designed both a series of nestled tables that can be transformed into three tables for the preparation of tea, and a stand that sits on tatami mats allowing one to sit cross-legged. These innovations are a response to the times we live in. The tradition of Tea based on harmony, respect, purity and tranquility will not rise or fall based on furniture.

And so I wonder in what other areas of my life am I behind. What subtle (or not so subtle) prejudices am I harboring? When I was a teenager one of the things that bothered me was always being told why I could not fulfill my dreams. Granted some were a bit weird, but then many of them I managed to pull off.

Even with this background I have to try hard to be supportive. Life is about dreams, and daydreams are an essential part of the planning process. Without them life quickly goes by with few accomplishments and many frustrations.

This may sound peculiar, but growing up in the Cold War I continually heard of China and Russia’s five-year plans. Most of these schemes came to naught and the commentators always made them sound sinister, and they probably were, but I seem to have adopted this approach to life.

A little glimmer in my eye, a few words uttered subconsciously starts the process. All it takes is a word and the where-with-all not to edit. If the idea is high concept it will flourish on its own accord and in five years who knows what will come of it.

So be expansive, encouraging and non-judgmental. Embrace your and other’s dreams, and in the process don’t forget to get out in your garage and crank on a few nuts and bolts.

Volume 5697 (21), 1/25/2008

A Year Goes By

A year goes by through no effort of our own. The pages of the calendar, which at first seem numerous, diminish with great speed.

It is a convenient package for all our memories, some of which we toast to celebrate and some of which we drink to forget.

A year is a complicated notion: The Earth resides on the outer arm of the Galaxy, eight light-minutes from the center of the solar system and travels at 67,000 mph to be able to circumnavigate the Sun in 365 days.

It is a serious intellectual construct that we love to send off with fireworks, streamers and kazoos.

A year’s end is a convenient time to reflect on our past behavior and our future goals.

This year, let us keep in our thoughts all our fellow citizens and their families who have made the ultimate sacrifice.

A year goes by with white blizzards, yellow spring flowers, green tea and brown leaves.

This year let us commit to, as Sen Genshitsu the retired 15th Grand Tea Master says, “Peace through a bowl of tea.”

Happy New Year!

Volume 5694 (33), 1/1/2008

Inventory

Recently on a beautiful fall afternoon my wife and I were walking south on Clark. We had just visiting Aiko’s Art Material store where we purchased a piece of Japanese handmade paper and as we walked the crowded streets towards Belmont I began to wonder why I was so relaxed about theft here in my own city of Chicago.

In Europe I carry a small amount cash, a credit card and my passport all residing safe and snug, deep in a secluded pocket. When at home I rarely concern myself with such precautions, but in Paris, Florence, Naples or Rome I am much more alert. Old World cities seem to have ever-present warnings announcing that pickpockets are on the loose.

Before a trip I break out the travel gear and dust off my pants with the secret pockets. This is optimistically done in the hope that they will still fit after a year spent hanging in the closet. These thoughts compel me to take an inventory of what I am carrying on that afternoon’s walk if for no other reason then to see just what I have to lose. What follows is a list with commentary on that day’s stock.

My wallet (an odd looking contraption made out of high-tech sailcloth) has three twenty-dollar bills and a few singles along with a credit card, health insurance information, a driver’s license, and an antique silver dollar given to me by my mother who stated that I was in greater need of its good luck than her.

My shirt pocket has a Pelikan fountain pen and a new Streamlight LED flashlight. I bought this neat little light after a friend showed me his. I just had to have one, so much for not keeping up with the “Jones”.

Concerning telecommunications gear, I carry a pager, which I am sure has no value other than to allow the world to contact me at a moments notice. To deal with the pager, and the other complexities of my life, I have a Treo 650.

Within this complex little device resides the Palm system; a slot for a memory card; a camera with a zoom feature; and yes, even a phone. It can connect to the Internet for an extra fifteen dollars a month, but when I realized I was becoming the biggest bore at the party, answering every obscure question while staring into its tiny screen, I cancelled the service.

Nonetheless I have become sufficiently attached to my Treo that when I dropped and destroyed the last one, I did not hesitate to fork over $300.00 (after discounts and coupons) to replace it for a new model.

On that sunny afternoon I also carried an elegant twenty-five year old Buck pocket knife, and a pedometer hooked to my belt in the hopes that I may have taken a couple of thousand steps toward fitting into my travel pants this spring.

I have never worn jewelry. No rings, bracelets, earrings or gold chains adorn my body. I think of my pen and knife as such. A few months back I became enamored with a certain watch, but then realized that my phone keeps as good of time as I will ever need and decided to use the money to help pay off some of my mortgage.

As far as what was on my back that day, I was wearing Clarks on my feet, a pair of jeans, a nice flannel shirt and to ward off the cold, a fleece vest and bomber jacket.

Both the vest and the jacket were kindly provided by my employer as holiday gifts. At first I felt like a walking billboard with the company’s name embroidered on the front of each garment, but I have gotten over it and now wear them proudly.

If I add up the total cost of the stuff hanging off of me and residing in my pockets, I start to feel a little guilty. If I was stripped bare by European pickpockets and all the content fenced, I most certainly carry the equivalent of several years’ income for the vast majority of the world’s population. I find this a sobering thought.

When I get into a quandary about such things I fall back on what has sustained me spiritually over many years and that is Chado, The Way of Tea. Rikyu, the founder of Tea four hundred years ago, stated that chanoyu, the tea ceremony and the practice of Chado, is simply to heat water and make tea. This denotes simplicity to life. He demonstrated this by his gravitation away from precious, dare I say pretentious objects to common earthen utensil.

How should I incorporate this philosophy into my daily life? This is a central dilemma of living in a modern consumer society. Rikyu of course was a mandarin in his time. He was an advisor to Hideyoshi, the ruler of Japan, and therefore well connected.

The fact that Rikyu, and I, are comfortable allows us the leisure to contemplate giving it all up. If you are living on the margins of society such options are not available. One of Rikyu’s Hundred Verses states, “ In that chanoyu is possible as long as you have one kettle, it is foolish to possess numerous utensils.” These are profound words to contemplate.

(Rikyu’s Hundred Verses translation by Gretchen Mittwer)

Autumn Breeze

Exiled in California, a man dreams of his Midwest home. His vision is of a city that is the foundation of modern architecture, and of a river that once was defiled and now, though not pristine, is cleansed.

This man, Bob Brockob, an architect raised in the city of Frank Lloyd Wright’s birth, Oak Park, IL, dreamed of a leaf floating down the Chicago River on an autumn breeze. For several years he strived to clear his project through the various bureaucracies until finally, in October of 1992, his Leaf floated.

As he designed it, the Leaf was comprised of a stable platform made from three canoes decked with plywood. The outline of a teahouse (chashitsu) tops the craft, again of his design. The teahouse, constructed of white PVC plumbing pipe, is reminiscent of a famous four and one-half mat tearoom that resides in the Urasenke garden compound in Kyoto.

To complete the picture, the Leaf was fitted out with tatami mats, a flower arrangement, a scroll, a furo and all the utensils needed for chanoyu, the tea ceremony.

We gathered at the river on a cold windy morning. There we stood, just west of the lock that separates Lake Michigan from the Chicago River, and watched as a Buddhist priest loudly exclaimed a blessing on our enterprise. The sound of his voice rebounded off the skyscrapers. Then the event commenced with offerings of salt, sake and his ritualistic swordplay.

We stood entranced, amazed by the energy emanating from this white-clad figure silhouetted by the immensity of the Chicago skyline. He had only minutes before been amongst us, casually talking and now, well it is hard to describe, but we gained a new respect for him.

Finally the Leaf floated down the river. It was populated by five souls on a soon-to-be-epic voyage under the thirty bridges that transect the Chicago River as it divides the city into three separate landmasses.

Chicago is known as the windy city, historically for political windbags and not for the wind, but on that day you would be hard pressed to believe it. As the Leaf approached the Lake Shore Drive Bridge, the wind, compressed by the deep man-made canyon that the river courses through, made a futile attempt to repel the intruders. Two more souls with paddles were required to propel the Leaf on its westerly voyage.

Once in motion, the tea ceremony commenced as the floating chashitsu glided pass the gathered guest along the canyon's walls. Matcha was served to the Leaf's guest, and as the Leaf floated under bridge-after-bridge the utensils were purified and admired, the meaning of the scroll's kanji (True Emptiness) was discussed, and as Wolf Point was left behind to the North, the over riding principle of Chanoyu came to mind; ichigo, ichie (One Time, One Meeting).

As with many of the things our association, Chado Urasenke Tankokai Chicago Association, has done over the years this one began with some one coming to us with their dream. Be it the commemoration of the 150th anniversary of the Commodore Perry's Black Ships opening up Japan to the out side world or the marking of the start of The Parliament of the World's Religion, we helped to fulfill their dream.

So on that chilly morning, Japanese and Americans, Californians and Illinoisans gathered in a most unlikely spot to celebrate one man’s dream, and the grand passage of the earth around the sun that autumn represents and celebrated through a bowl of tea the universality of the human experience.

Impermanence

In our every day lives flowers are used to commemorate special events and as decorations, but in Tea they take on a different meaning: one, to bring nature and the seasons into the tearoom, and two, to represent the impermanence of life.

Tea flowers or chabana are much simpler than the elaborate ikebana arrangements we often see. In ikebana there are many different schools, each with distinctive styles, but as far as I know there is only one chabana.

As with most things in Tea there is almost limitless variation. Specific flowers are used for each month, for different levels of formality and for the vases they are to be displayed in. The arrangement of tea flowers even becomes part of the Seven Special Tea Exercises (shichi jishiki), collectively known as kagetsu.

Kagetsu is an interesting series of lessons where various tasks, such as flower arranging, the preparation of tea, and the placing of charcoal, to name a few, are designated to participants by the selection of tiny bamboo tiles (fuda) picked out of an intricately folded paper box (orisue). Each tile has a different marking on it representing the task to be performed by its recipient.

The lessons are as compelling as they are challenging because you have no chance to reflect and remember. The days or weeks you usually have to prepare are distilled into seconds. This represents a level of spontaneity not elsewhere found in Tea.

The task that I have always dreaded is flower arranging. It is not a skill we spend much time on in our lessons and not being floral in any sense of the word, I find it frustrating to arrange the flowers in any meaningful way. Give me a mechanical or woodworking task and I will arrange all the parts into a symmetric whole, but flowers are a different story.

If by chance I pick the fuda for flowers, I try to conjure up images of all the beautiful arrangements I have seen over the past twenty years of studying Tea. I try to think of the earth and the sky, of the asymmetry present in Japanese art, of the season of the year and of the vase the flowers will occupy.

To complicate matters, the flower arrangements in chabana are deceptively simple. Rikyu, the founder of Tea, tells us that the flowers for Tea should be arranged as they are in the fields. This leaves the thought open to the casual viewer that it is a simple task to arrange them; I know otherwise.

Hoping in vain for a tiny spark of inspiration to descend on me, I begin the process. Moving to the wooden tray located in front of the tokonoma, I pick up the small paring-like knife and begin to rifle through the flowers and leaves while looking at the vase that will contain them. There is only so much time in a day, so instinct takes over and I do the best I can.

That is what matters after all. I think of it as a way to get back to my beginner’s mind. Before all the years of study, when Tea was new to me and there were limitless opportunities. Of course there still are no limits and this simple exercise reminds me of that.

And this brings me back to one of the symbolic meanings of chabana, the impermanence of life; the temporary ever changing state we find ourselves in. As beautifully arranged as these flowers may be, they are but temporary. The arrangements are not kept, but discarded having served their purpose, as we are in the end.

Invitation

Some fifteen years ago my wife Charlotte and I moved into a traditional Chicago bungalow on the North side of the city. As many of you may know, Chicago has a belt of similar single family homes built crescent-like across thirty miles of the city. This went on from the early nineteen hundreds to the fifties. Many of these well-used homes are making a come back and being restored to their former glory.

Moving into our first house was a bit of a shock. First, it was much smaller than the sprawling two bedroom, two-bath apartment we had left, and second, it had a backyard devoid of greenery. The apartment had been in a lush neighborhood with a beautiful park just steps away.

This was not to last though. Between my parents and my wife, our back forty (feet not acres) was slowly transformed into a small urban garden complete with sculptures, my only contribution. Every thing from bones to old car parts surfaced as we tilled the soil and until my father, in a fit of cleanliness, threw them away we had amassed a large collection of castaway junk.

The clean up and landscaping allowed the backyard fauna to diversify. And as our next-door neighbor’s children grew up, she joined us in the planting making for a thick hedgerow along the fence between our houses. This also helped number of species to multiple. I now find my bird feeder requires more frequent fillings and the local cats need to be chased out more frequently.

There are the year round inhabitants (House Sparrows, House Finches, Cardinals, American Goldfinches, Mourning Doves) and the bi-yearly travelers (Dark-eyed Juncos, Monarch Butterflies, Robins, House Wrens, Ruby-throated Hummingbirds). Each competes for the pounds of seed I put in my one diminutive bird feeder. Through multiple experiments I have limited myself to Niger seed as this prevent squirrels, large birds and other varmint from feasting on my largess.

Once I provided suet and delighted in the colorful Red-Headed and Downy Woodpeckers that showed up to feast. They were compelled to peck their way through the tuff plastic to get at dinner even though the whole backside of the container was open. The Starlings on the other hand had no such compunction. They soon drove off all the woodpeckers due to their aggressive behavior and increasing numbers, and this compelled me to remove the delectable fat and bid farewell to our fluffy red and white friends.

We have in effect extended an invitation to a small subset of the natural world to come join us and in exchange we have received hours of entertainment, and a bit of enlightenment. I have often thought what if our whole neighborhood banded together to attract some wildlife.

Mayor Daley has done some of this. The greening of the city helped along by a milder climate has extended the range of many animals that previously only lived south of us. It is not unusual to see Turkey Buzzards circling overhead, to say nothing of the Canadian Geese that have found a permanent home in the Chicagoland area.

In the movie The Field of Dreams the voice says, “if you build it, he will come.” That is what we did and “they” did come. I would like to think that we purposely set out to do that, but I would be lying. In hindsight, with a little dumb luck and a lot of hard work, we accomplished a small nature preserve in our backyard.

This can be done in other aspects of our lives. An invitation in the form of a kind word or a simple act of civility will go a long way to soften our fast paced, self-centered lifestyles. I think this is why Chado leads you through a garden before partaking in a bowl of tea.

The path brings you down slowly. Allowing an appreciation of a gentler world inhabited by subtle stimuli. In doing so an invitation is extended to open your mind and let nature rush in. Even in a great urban center a connection to the natural world is just an invitation away

Connections

Disparate threads distinguish cultures. Economics, food, life style, religion, climate and geology all play into the mix. These differences may at times cause dissension between nations, but usually, as is my experience in Chicago, the differences foster curiosity and hence communication amongst individuals.

I know this seems unlikely when you consider all the partitioned acreage on the planet: North and South Korea; the occupied lands of the Middle East; China and Tibet, not to mention Taiwan; the northern islands of Japan under Russian rule; Cashmere caught between India and Pakistan. Feel free to add your own particular hot spot to the list. Of course most of the disparities are political; people have an innate connection to their land, and will resist any attempt to divide and conquer.

The French use the word terroir, in the context of wine, to describe the attachment engendered by one's homeland. Jay McInerney, the oenophile for HOUSE & GARDEN, defines this as "placeness". Though I cannot find it in my dictionary I think it maybe an even a better word to convey the love of the land.

Despite our love of country, we change the landscape. Having spent years sailing off the coast of Chicago, I have learned to steer clear of the center city while out on the lake. The buildings, built up over my lifetime, act as a mountain range.

The skyscrapers that are our architectural legacy change the wind in their lee for miles out over the blue-green water of Lake Michigan. The concrete, steel and asphalt that make up the core of the city form a heat sink that creates a perpetual inversion in the summer. Heat radiates out, stealing the lake's wind on particularly hot and humid days.

We adapt though, and it is this trait that is the hallmark of Homo sapiens. Whereas other animals’ flourish or flounder in response to change, we alter our environment to suit our own ends. We may not always be successful, and in fact our meddling may prove disastrous, but we are nothing if not pro-active.

Many years ago I visited Greece. Being nineteen at the time, I lived in close proximity to the land. My friend and I camped on a rocky outcrop rather than sleeping in soft beds. We spent thirty glorious days, and about twice that sum in drachma, swimming, hiking and generally exploring the tiny island of Ios. The landscape is denuded of trees. Wood is at a premium and guarded closely, robbing us of the selfish pleasure of a campfire on the beach.

Since then I have come to understand that the Minoans, inhabitants of Greece during the Bronze Age, produced this classic landscape by cutting down all the trees. In the process they destroyed their environment and themselves. Even the Greek philosopher Plato comments on the landscape stating, “All the richer and softer parts have fallen away and the mere skeleton of the land remains.”

So it turns out that the smell of the drought resistant herbs in the wind and the sound of the goat's clanging bells that are so seductive to tourists is a consequence of a lack of foresight on the part of the venerated ancients. Whether we are connected to them by blood or not, we still feel a connection to our ancestors.

Some thing in human nature makes us relate to Greece statuary. Why else would the Elgin Marbles be sitting in London; why would the British have cared? And why did the Taliban feel it necessary to destroy Buddhist statuary; what did they find so threatening about some thing that most of the world had no idea existed? There has to be a connection.

Now that we can sample DNA, the interdependence of our fellow humans and our animal cohorts has become undeniable. It can be seen in the conservation of genes between species and within various human cultures. Even the use of language by our closest primate relatives serves to connect us to the other inhabitants of the Earth.

So how is it that the Japanese and the Americans have stayed connected after a disastrous past? A past initiated by Commodore Perry's Black ships, by Japan's attack on Pearl Harbor, by our WW II internment camps and by the early eighties trade wars.

Even after all the above, our people are closely connected and work hard every day to keep our relationship strong. We have many commonalities, but I cannot help but find our differences entertaining: steak vs. fish, Christianity vs. Shinto and Buddhism, a republic vs. a parliamentary government, and Mickey Mouse vs. Hello Kitty.

I like to think that Tea has some thing to do with this rapprochement. For most Americans, at least before sushi and anime became so popular, the tea ceremony was their first thought when Japan was mentioned. Granted nobody really knew the true nature of Tea, but still it was, and is, a compelling national symbol that until recently over whelmed all others.

It is hard for me to remember when I first became culturally aware of Japan. Was it a raku chawan or the compelling architecture of the chashitsu or maybe the deep rooted Zen philosophy of Tea that first drew me to it, I am not sure.

But I am thankful that the disparate threads have lead me to curiosity rather than ignorance, to involvement rather than isolation, to connections rather than segregation. What better way to live a life?

Paper or Plastic

The more I look, the more I see. Lodged in gutters, wrapped around parking meters and stop signs, tangled high in trees and power lines, stuck in hedges, and flying in the wind as cars drive over them. I have seen them wrapped around birds and fish, and like old cars they inhabit every ravine and rural homestead.

Ubiquitous is an apt description. What am I talking about, plastic bags of course. I think of them as the canary in the mineshaft; a harbinger of what awaits our culture if we do not take more care. That such weirdly ephemeral yet persistent wisps of plastic are so pervasive is downright creepy. These bags make me wonder what else is lurking in our environment.

Maybe I am disturbed about their presence because my sensibility was shaped by the hippie culture of the seventies, the Gaia Principle, Al Gore more recently and Chado, the Way of Tea, in particular. I take comfort in the fact that large cities such as San Francisco have banned them and so, I am obviously not the only person fretting about this.

I am as much to blame as anyone for this predicament. When confronted with the question, “paper or plastic” my response is usually plastic. As I say this, my mind begins to race with the implications of the decision. I picture the demise of the Arctic Wildlife Preserve and envision oil-covered birds washed up on every coast that oil tankers have disgorged their contents on.

Why must I confront global warming and the destruction of our environment just to carry my organic broccoli home? It seems our daily decisions, as mundane as they may seem at the time, have global consequences.

The study of Tea has some thing to say about this. Since starting my practice, Tea has surrounded me with natural, recyclable materials: bamboo vases, ladles and spoons; thatched tea huts; straw tatami mats; earthen and cast iron vessels of all types. Most of these can be crushed under foot or burned to ash without much effort and with no detrimental impact on the environment.

Despite its physicality Chado is a culture of ideas. In four hundred years it has not left much of physical presence, and though rooted in the past, Chado is based on the ephemera of the here and now.

Sen Rikyu, the 15th century founder of Chado, when asked to explain the essence of Tea stated the following seven rules: Arrange flowers as they are in the fields; Lay charcoal so the water boils; Keep cool in the summer; Stay warm in the winter; Be early; Be prepared for rain even if it is not raining; Be mindful of the guest.

So when I see the clutter it starts me thinking that we need images to guide our modern world other than those provided by Reality TV. So why not look to Chado for some guidance. Chado is based on four tenets: harmony, respect, purity and tranquility. No mention of tea in all the above, only personal responsibility and hospitality, intriguing isn't it.

Of course, to fully appreciate Tea it needs to be practiced. But why a "lay" public cannot study and enjoy Tea the way that I, who cannot play a musical instrument, enjoy the symphony, a jazz quartet or even Dean Martin's crooning. Well why not. We should at least try.

So the next time you are confronted with the choice, "paper or plastic", do not habitually respond. Search for a deeper meaning in your choice. Think of the four principles of Tea and apply them: harmony with and respect for our environment; purity in the sense of picking up after oneself and not leaving trash for others to clean up; and tranquility, which is what we are seeking after all, isn't it?

Conversations

New York is a city of conversations. Mostly gossip as far as I can tell: "I hear he's single again", "did you hear about their nanny", "her gallbladder was the size of a...,” well you get the idea.

These dialogs are either one sided into cell phones or spoken on the street between two passers-by; by lovers huddled in a quiet restaurant; by elegant Channel clad ladies of a certain age; by young mothers with babies in tow; or by metal and tattoo festooned art students.

Coming here after a thirty-year hiatus, I thought it would be all business and high culture, but alas New Yorkers are the same as the rest of us - mired in soap operas of our own making. After all, all politics is local and it seems the larger the city the more village-like.

People strive for community. Soon after moving into a neighborhood one will find a restaurant, a place of worship, a hardware store to frequent. Slowly relationships develop and unions are formed.

This is especially evident in the largest city of villages, Tokyo. Each enclave has it’s own police station and an indecipherable postal scheme. It was not till I trekked to Japan that I began to understand the addresses. They are approximate descriptions of where the dwellings are located, requiring local knowledge for the few final steps.

New York also has well defined neighborhoods: Soho, Tribeca, MidTown and Greenwich Village are but a few. Many have famous parks associated with them and these parks take on the character of the locals.

The sophistication of Bryant Park behind the public library, the musicians and street theatre of Washington Park in Greenwich Village and the stylized gardens of the Cloisters with palisades visible across the Hudson River.

The grand dam of them all, Central Park, incorporates all the above in a naturalistic setting. The sight of boulders and stony outcrops shocked me. Who would have thought such a natural environment could coexist in the mist of this megalopolis.

In Tokyo we stayed in a glorious room at the Palace Hotel. It's two large opening windows looked out over the moat that surrounds the Imperial Palace. The Imperial Palace is located in a large park complex right off the main train station and is only fleetingly visible.

Couples, families and large groups from the provinces stand with the Imperial Palace's small white structure visible over their shoulders, as the zeros and ones of digital images are stored away for posterity.

Alas New York does not have such an intimate view with such momentous implications. We have a more egalitarian society and would have to travel to Washington D.C. to stand on Constitution Ave. with the White House in the distant background to have a similar experience.

But our leaders are not royals and our culture is not yet five thousand years old. We tend to celebrate common people turned heroes or statesmen, as opposed to status earned by heredity. That said we do have our Kennedy's, Roosevelt’s, and the like.

My neighborhood is a bit of a village, an eclectic one. At our yearly block party we like to joke of the United Nations. Irish, Vietnamese, Asian Indian, Japanese, Cubans, Italians, Swedes and many more ethnicities mingle in the center of a car free Talman Ave. and partake in the magnificent feast displayed on plastic covered picnic tables.

Down at the end of the street, the alderman’s brother cooks corn-on-the-cob on the 40th Ward’s large rectangular barbecue while the neighbor’s Irish band’s music intermixes with the sounds of salsa farther up the street. We have an egg toss, a bike parade for the kids (I ride my ribbon covered recumbent), and climb all over the fire engine and pet the police horse if they come visit.

And so, in this way I have many conversations with neighbors I would never normally interact with, and all our stories bind us closer together. We become not the large demographic that government and corporations find so appealing, but individuals.

I revel in the odd combination of diversity and individualism that America is. Though frustrating at times, it is what gives us our strength as a nation, a state, a city and ultimately a village.

Commemorate

I have written several commentaries concerning Sen Rikyu in the past and focused primarily on Rikyuki, the commemoration of his death. Rikyuki is not our usual tea ceremony demonstration. No running commentary is provided and this lack of theatrics engenders a more introspective attitude amongst both the guests and the participants.

Each year when I sit down to review my notes; I get the chance to revisit the telling of Sen Rikyu’s tale. This inspires me and I spread all my books out on the kitchen table to see what else I can learn about his time in history. Inevitably my scholastics lead me to delve deeper into Japanese culture to get a better understanding of the man and the world he inhabited.

This March while giving the introduction to Rikyuki at the Japanese Information Center, a little voice at the back of my mind quietly said that it takes ten years to do any thing well. As I continued to speak I could not help but think of the relevance that statement.

Granted we consider ourselves experts long before a decade has past, but if we persist with our studies, the realization of just how little we knew at the start of our endeavors comes as a shock.

This conceit is necessary of course, for how else would we ever find the confidence to begin: to make the first bowl of tea, to see the first patient, to hold the first scalpel, and to suture the first head wound.

So with that said, I present a short history of Sen Rikyu and ask your forgiveness for my ignorance. I hope that his story will inspire you to spread your books out to journey back into medieval Japan. I look forward to writing next years commentary when I will doubtlessly be better informed.

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Sen Rikyu passed by his own hand in 1591, being ordered to do so by Togotomi Hideyoshi, the military dictator who unified Japan and for whom he served. Rikyu was the head tea master for Hideyoshi, a position akin to being a cultural minister.

When Sen Rikyu’s popularity began to out shine that of Hideyoshi’s he was ordered to commit ritual suicide. Once Sen Rikyu was dead, Hideyoshi is said to have anguished over his death for many months and refused to appoint a successor.

Rikyuki is the commemoration of the 416th anniversary of Sen Rikyu’s death. The Urasenke tradition of tea commemorates him because he is the founder of our school of chanoyu, as tea is referred to in Japan.

Sen Rikyu is also remembered for the transition to the practice of “soan tea”, otherwise known as “tea of the thatched hut”. This is opposed to “shoin tea” or tea of the Golden Pavilion, which served as a vehicle to display one’s power and stature.

Sen Rikyu was the product of several tea masters. They attempted to change the corrupted practice of tea in the early 16th century and ultimately succeeded, but not without the tragedy of Sen Rikyu’s death.

Juko, who lived from 1422-1502, is considered the father of the tea ceremony and is attributed to have said, “I have no taste for the full moon.” By this he meant that the moon, half hidden by clouds, is more moving than it’s full round image.

Tea at that time was centered on the use of Chinese objects rather than Japanese. Japanese crafts were considered inferior to their Chinese counter parts. Juko supplanted tea centered on an appreciation of Chinese objects, to tea based on Japanese utensils from the provinces.

He led to the rediscovery of art objects that are not completely perfect or ideal. A very popular author even today, Okakura Tenshin, in his 1906 book, The Book of Tea, describes this as “a worship of the imperfect.” We call this sensibility wabi.

Juko also instituted the tradition of using a 4.5 mat room for chanoyu and this practice was built upon by another tea master known as Takeno Jo-o who lived from 1502-1555, and who eventually became Sen Rikyu’s teacher.

Jo-o altered the tearoom to include the plain clay walls, bamboo-lattice ceiling and the use of unfinished wood for the tokonoma that we are familiar with today. Jo-o changed tea from a formal style to a style that reveals the informal beauty of the natural world. This concept, along with Okakura Tenshin’s “worship of the imperfect”, is known as wabi-sabi.

Sen Rikyu was the son of an affluent merchant who went on to study tea and became Jo-o’s disciple in 1541. Rikyu’s style, derived from both Juko and Jo-o, was in opposition to the gaudy tea practices at that time. His tea reflects the natural environment as opposed to the cosmopolitan one that had influenced tea before and during the 16th century.

Rikyu created tearooms smaller than 4.5 mats and these rooms, being impractical spaces, had no other purpose than tea. The tiny tearooms incorporated a crawl-in entrance that forced the participants, no matter how distinguished, to bow low and crawl into the tearoom.

Sen Rikyu molded chanoyu into a spiritual discipline (chado, the way of tea) and this may be what ultimately sealed his fate. Rikyu and his predecessors created tea as it exist today, whether we are in a secluded natural setting or a large conference room.

Without Sen Rikyu none of this would have existed. His sons and today, the present 16th generation Grand Tea Master Zabosai Oiemoto, carry on the tradition of tea he started.

Sen Rikyu left the following verse at his death:

Over seventy years of life,
What trouble and concern,
I welcome the sword which,
Slays all Buddha’s, all Dharmas!

The sword which has ever been
Close at hand,
Now I throw into the sky.

Translation by Rand Castile

February

Now that February has past, I realize it brought the reality of living in northern climes front and center for me, as it has not for years. My hope that global warming would actually warm up Chicago seemed to be coming true: November, December and even into January we appeared to have dodged the usual winter debacle, but in the long run did not.

Even with the return of the frigid cold there were none of the expected survival condition that we experienced in the seventies. Back then, on my daily rounds as a suburban USPS Letter Carrier, I walked in trenches carved out of ten-foot tall snowdrifts, and when finally managing to get home did not see the light of day, or for that matter the mercury-vapor streetlights, for months while buried under the snow in my garden apartment.

The idea that these conditions can exist in a large city with almost unlimited resources is a testament to the power of nature. So the other Monday morning when I found myself sitting gloomily slumped in my chair, melancholic and enveloped in foul vapors, I knew there was more to it than just my usual funk.

It dawned on me then that it was February. The sun was beginning to rise earlier and set later, but I could not convince myself of that. February is a state of mind and though I am a fairly positive person, if I could erase a month from the calendar it would be numero dos.

In the month-to-end-all-months, the only bright light is the Super Bowl and if you are not a sports fan, the hilarity surrounding the game makes February even more depressing. The only positive thing I can think of is, it only lasts 28 days.

But before I digress entirely into the dark side of my soul, let me state that February does have some bright spots. For one our tea association, Chado Urasenke Tankokai Chicago Association, has a belated New Years celebration called tatezome the first Sunday of the month. I think of it as a gathering of family. It is wonderful to see our members so engaged in the process of planning and performing chanoyu.

And February also sets us aside from the less contemplative parts of the world. What is there left to do, even with all the modern distractions, on a cold Sunday afternoon but read a good book, watch an old movie or well, just sit with a cup of tea and contemplate.

February is downright character building and characters it does build. I can attest that our city is full of gloriously quirky individuals. February reminds us, as we say in medicine, of our morbidity and mortality. It says to us we are mortal, expendable, and better get on with ours lives and make the best of every fleeting moment lest they disappear forever.

This is the ultimate meaning of February for me. I doubt I ever would have understood if it had not been for the hands-on teaching of Chado, which stresses the here-and-now as opposed to practicing for some future gain. I have read many philosophical tracts on the subject, but I needed the stable under pinning that physical practice gives to words. For in the long run, words without practice ring hollow—so lets get to work.

Cadence

Every thing on earth and really the universe has a beat: sun spots vary in intensity every 11 years; comets come and go in decades long ellipses; hearts average 72 beats per minute; brains cycle through multiple patterns of sleep, temperature and hormonal levels over the hours, months and years.

Whether man-made or natural, we are stimulated by events as diverse as the permutations of the moon and the cyclical nature of the economy. Institutions also have rhythm. Corporate cultures vary and many a CEO has come to grief trying to alter their corporations entrenched patterns.

In my years of attending performances by the Chicago Symphony Orchestra I have seen most of the worlds renowned conductors. All are enthusiastic and all have their own rhythm. Some are detail oriented, some are more concerned with the big picture and others just let it all hang out.

Daniel Barenboim, the recently retired musical director of the CSO, would just stop conducting and stand at the podium (the best seat in the house) soaking in the sound. Others like Leonard Bernstein propelled himself into the orchestra sweat flinging off his brow, drawing greater emotional heights out of each of his musicians.

Sir George Solti embodied some of both these traits. With profound respect for the music and the orchestra, he conducted every last note, but with enough latitude to let the members of the CSO shine.

Chado, the Way of Tea, has a rhythm. The tradition, handed down from the introduction of tea into Japan from China in the 9th century, has stayed remarkably consistent. The rhythm varies with the time of day, the level of formality, the season of the year, the utensils used, and though this probably should not be so, the demeanor of the practitioner.

Each individual has their own path in life; some go about in a slow stately manner, while other are energetic to a state of mania. This cannot help but be reflected in their approach to Tea despite the urgings of their teachers.

As I watched the recently retired Grand Tea Master of the Urasenke tradition prepare tea, I could not help notice the subtle variation of his cadence. It brought to mind surging surf in the Pacific Northwest; the swaying of bamboo forests in the wind; and purple martins as they swoop and glide, twist and turn, catching their daily quotient of minute diaphanous prey.

There is something of the force and selflessness of nature in his movements. Tea after all is a choreographed dance passed down from teacher to student. It is an apprenticeship where we practice and occasionally get to watch our teacher make tea. To watch a master is a rare thing. To remember the details afterwards is almost always impossible.

For the host Tea begins as they slide into the tearoom and bow to their guests. It proceeds with cleaning the utensils, the ladling of water, and the whisking and serving of tea. Once completed everything is purified again and left as it was found. Lastly, one final bow and the host departs, leaving their guest to appreciate the time they have just shared.

All must be done naturally without flourish, but not pedantically and therein lies the art. The chashaku is cleansed with three stately moves. Tea is whisked slowly at first building to a crescendo and then slowly finished, not to disrupt its perfect mossy surface. The wispy hishaku is handled with the strength and decisiveness of an archer preparing to release an arrow into flight.

Despite all the vessels, cloths, ladles and scoops, chanoyu never comes to a standstill. How is this learned? Not from books or discussion, only from doing. Each master, teacher and student brings the experience of a lifetime to his or her Tea.

Think about the daily patterns of our lives. When young, life is about change. We rush headlong into new adventures. With age stability takes on a more important role. Change requires energy that is better put to other uses.

And thus the cadence slows a bit, becomes more deliberate. Both approaches are valid, necessary even. The risk taker is juxtaposed by the seasoned pro. Our actions reflect the knowledge gained over a lifetime.

From my own background, a new physician is conversant with recent advances in therapeutics and techniques, whereas the experienced healer knows when to leave well enough alone; either letting the body heal itself or pass from this world without interference. And so the cadence of practice, both in medicine and chado, ebbs and flows with the passing of time – how wonderful.

Another Year

What do we do in a year? A year, as the saying in Chado goes, of ichigo, ichie -- One Time, One Meeting; where each moment is precious and irreplaceable.

Do we do some thing momentous or do we spend it watching electrons dance across a screen.

Do we spend it with family and friends, nurturing relationships or do we spend it hunkered down in a fortress of our own making, protected from a cruel outside world.

Do we spend the year creating a nest egg or do we spend it helping to enrich the already rich with poor financial decisions.

Do we spend the year putting ourselves at risk or making ourselves comfortable.

Is there a way to distinguish this year from the last and are we busy with plans to make the next twelve months unique.

And why do we commemorate the New Year, a new year of birthdays, weddings, births and deaths.

Another year for light to travel from the known and unknown universe, revealing super novae, colliding galaxies, and the birth and death of stars.

Another year of medical research, another of deciphering the human genome and another year closer to cures for incurable disease.

Another year of another class of medical students, trained and released out into the world.

Another year on the water, soaking up the best and the worst that Lake Michigan has to throw at us.

Another year of art: of drawings and of sculpture. Both attempted in a futile effort to search for unobtainable solutions to unanswerable questions.

Another volume in the sixty-year history of The Chicago Shimpo and a few more words put down -- ink on paper -- from my neurons to yours. Remarkable that.

So Happy New Year, I hope you have some sparkling champagne or some cold sake to reminisce on the old and welcome the New Year in. 2007 -- the most miraculous year of all our years yet.

Treasures

Married for six months, my father went to war. He did not return for four more. My mother was a “Rosie the riveter” building cargo planes at a defense plant that after the war became O’Hare Field. The only details I have of his four year hiatus came late in his life, when the 50th anniversary of the WWII brought a few reminisces from the quiet veteran.

As a kid, my father and I watched every WWII documentary, that is when wrestling was not on. We were especially fond of Victory at Sea. It had a stirring sound track, and impressive black and white footage of large battleships crashing through larger waves, many going to their final battles.

The documentaries moved the time line on and as the war in Europe concluded, depictions of the Far East began. Images of the peaceful Pacific Ocean were intermixed with fierce island fighting. The inevitable images of kamikazes flying through streams of bullets filled our TV screen. Then suddenly all would become quiet, as a lone plane appeared high amongst the clouds over Japan, signaling the end of the blood bath that was WW II.

Usually steeped in the past, in 2005 while preparing for my first trip to Japan I started to read modern Japanese history. The more I read the more heartsick I became as I realized conventional bombing, long before the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, destroyed many of Japan’s larger cities. To think of the lives lost and the culture destroyed on both sides is sobering.

In my travel to Japan and also to Italy I have driven into concrete filled towns, the result of quick post-war construction to replace the devastation of the bombing. Italy and Japan sport an odd conglomeration of buildings due to the destruction during the war. We really do not have an equivalent to this in America.

The hastily constructed buildings of sixty years ago put a human face on to what had been for me images on a screen and words on paper. It is hard not to think of the lost history and of the history that was never made by the soldiers, sailors and airmen who fell under juggernaut of the world war.

My wife has devoted many years to the genealogy of her family: one side Scotch-Irish with a little Heugonaut thrown in, the other Russian-Polish Jews. The former traceable for many generations, the latter disappearing into the pogroms of a world bent on the destruction of every Jewish inhabitant. Again, I think of the lives and culture lost. We will never know who was venerated and what was treasured. It was all annihilated.

Is it naïve, even foolish to treasure objects when millions of souls have been lost? In Chanoyu, the Tea Ceremony, one of the four tenets is respect. It is respect not only for people, but also respect for the objects they produce. We venerate and treasure these objects, not I think for their own self worth, but for the memory of the people that make, name, enjoy and ultimately pass them on.

Tea objects are made of fragile materials, made even frailer by the passage of time. Each has a history that makes them special. It is people’s relationship with these objects that make them note worthy; like finding a few notes of Mozart’s or a sketch of Leonardo da Vinci’s hidden away for centuries. The dogu, as we collectively call them, is a link to the past and a guide to the future.

The tea world is not a stagnate one, conservative as it may seem to the out side world. Gengensai, the eleventh Grand Master of Urasenke, designed a seated chanoyu, ryurei, in response to the growing Western influence during the Meiji period in the late 19th century. This century, the 16th generation Grand Tea Master designed three small side tables that fit together as the famed Russian dolls that cradle multiple dolls into one. The design encourages us, who do not have access to traditional tea surroundings, to actually do tea and not to relegate it to antique status; some thing hid away only to be admired from a distance.

These developments are in response to an evolving world that we hope will be peaceful enough to allow us to continue to respect, treasure and venerate the people and the culture of a another land. I like to think of my twenty-year involvement with Tea as a bridge to another culture. I know I will never fully understand Japan, but the effort allows me to better understand my own up bringing as an Italian-American living in the great city of Chicago.

How is this so. I would be the last to know, but an appreciation of another culture, with all the inherent difficulties helps me focus on my culture. It helps me treasure what I have and what I have lost. This interesting journey, started many years ago as a disenchanted teenager, has come full circle.

It would be nice to think that all these words, over several years of commentaries have helped both Japanese and Americans reflect on their cultures, and strive for better understanding and cooperation in concrete ways. At some point words need to jump off the page into one’s heart and on to the street. I cannot think of a better way to venerate and treasure all that have gone before us.

Perimeter

Recently a new Target opened in my neighborhood. It was long awaited; taking over a year to build at the site of several previously failed big box retailers. As I walk into the store I notice large white columns interspersed with the big red beach balls that have become synonymous with Target’s image. Unobtrusive as they may seem, I still need to negotiate around them and that act brings images of 9/11 to my mind. I instantly redirect my thoughts, but cannot deny their implications.

These barriers have appeared in all facets of my interaction with the environment: while walking past the federal buildings on the way to Symphony Center, in the O'Hare International terminal at the beginning of a long anticipated European trip and in many places where the absence of such barriers I cautiously note.

Living in a large city has taught me to quickly become complacent with most urban fashions and inconveniences. I understand that change is inevitable, but this feels different. The barriers are signs of a troubled world that I have no medicine to prescribe for and I think to myself, “this is a hell of a way to spend one's life.”

Many years ago at the Experimental Aircraft Association’s Fly-In in Oshkosh, WI, a stealth fighter sat on the tarmac, glistening in the mid-day sun despite its drab camouflaged paint. The plane was impressive, but the Special Forces troops that set up a perimeter around it were even more so. Despite the hot steamy weather they were in full regalia with weapons drawn.

As far as I could tell there were three perimeters surrounding the plane; each demarcated by a thin rope suspended by thinner poles. You would need to negotiate all three to gain access, but these men left no doubt in my mind that if it came down to the billion-dollar plane or a mere mortal, the mortal would lose out.

But what is a perimeter but a threshold, an entryway into a different world. It may be a forbidden world, it may be there for our protection or for the protection of what lies inside. It requires a journey, be it long or short. It delineates space and as such, time.

Tea gardens (roji) also have perimeters, non-lethal ones of course. Every garden is different. Some are elaborate, leading deeply into the garden through many steps and dwellings before finally coming to the Teahouse (chashitsu). Others have a simple waiting station symbolically substituting for the complexity of the above.

Roji has a complicated morphology. It is a simple path, a passageway from the garden’s gate to the chashitsu. It is the dewy path of the Lotus Sutra, separating us from the reality of dirt and dust, providing a guide to a hermitage of pure spirituality. This path, as with many things over time, has become more intricate.

The roji is divided into two parts: the outer (soto) and the inner (uchi). Let me walk us through this dewy path as best as I can. Although I have been studying Chanoyu for several decades I have only experienced this walk several times. It will be instructive for both of us and will cement the experience in my mind.

In Tea guests arrive early, fifteen minutes is appropriated. It provides time to decompress from the humdrum of the outside world and begin to contemplate an inner one. We approach the roji through a roofed outer gate (sotomon), the most famous of which is the Helmet Gate (kabuto mon) at main entrance of the Urasenke School of Tea in Kyoto.

Water will be sprinkled around the opening as a sign that all is prepared and we may enter. There may be several paths to choose from. Our host has anticipated this and laid a river stone tied with a black cord on the stepping-stone of the trail not to follow, deflecting us in the proper direction.

The garden will also be lightly sprinkled with water as the outer gate was, to provide a feeling of freshness like after a summer thunderstorm.

We walk into the soto roji and enter a small area that is often combined: a porch (yoritsuki) and a waiting room (machiai). This small room is used to shed the dust of the city, change into new tabi and wait for all to assemble. It is here that we leave our worldly possessions.

There may be art objects to view, a tobacco tray and in cooler weather a small hearth with warm water to drink. I hear you saying tobacco, “what in the world is that for?” Well, a long leisurely smoke is not what it is about, but that is the concept. The tray is used to convey the idea of relaxation and contemplation, and is purely symbolic.

Once we are settled, we will be called from the waiting room and move through the garden to a sheltered arbor (koshikake) to await our host (teishu). We have yet to reach the inner garden; the arbor is located between the waiting room and the middle gate (chumon). The chumon separates the outer garden from the inner garden.

Here in the koshikake are small straw cushions (enza) for us to sit on and again we encounter a tobacco tray. Although the distance traveled is short, we are being drawn deeper into the experience. In a formal tea gathering we would come back here to wait during the intermission between the meal and being served tea, but today we will only rest here once.

As we quietly wait for the teishu’s silent bow bidding us to enter the teahouse (chashitsu), we are given a chance to contemplate the nature of the garden: feel wind on our face, smell moist earth and pine, listen to the chirping of birds, and watch insects moving through the dewy moss.

Once beckoned, we walk through the chumon and enter the inner garden (uchi roji); the focal point of which is a stone basin called the tsukubai. If it is a small garden we may have heard the teishu filling the basin with fresh cool water and placing the bamboo ladle that we will use to ritually cleanse our hands and rinse our mouth before entering the chashitsu.

In a final act of humility we will bow low to the ground to use the tsukubai and again as we enter the chashitsu through the small entrance known as the nijirguchi. The perimeter has allowed us to journey far in a short distance and penetrate into the pure world of the Lotus Sutra.

Perimeters delineate space. The bordered land can be welcoming or off-putting, but it is always special. We need not travel far to distant lands to seek enlightenment. We need only to recognize the outer gate. The inner world awaits us.

Rivers

This is my third day at Harborside Marina on the Des Plaines River. I had planned a more extensive cruise, but stopped short after a harrowing first couple of days spent dodging multiple thousand foot long tows (barge and towboat combinations like on the Mississippi River) and negotiating the thirty foot depths of Lockport and Brandon Road Locks.

The feeling I had before this cruise was similar to the weeks prior to beginning my internship and then at the start of my life as an attending physician. You prepare for years, but in no way feel competent to accomplish the task ahead. Momentum takes over and drives you forward despite your misgivings. A couple of months later it is hard to look back and wonder what the fuss was all about.

This journey downstream through the Main and South Branches of the Chicago River, the Chicago Sanitary & Ship Canal to the Des Plaines and Illinois Rivers feels similar. After having read extensively, studied the charts, talked to many boaters and years spent wandering around Lake Michigan, I finally decided to take a "practice" cruise south to see what all the fuss is about.

Well, the fuss is justified. Most of the inhabitants of the Chicagoland area have no idea this world-within-a-world exists. If it were not for this world Chicago would not exist. Or at least not on the scale that it does today.

The raw materials that keep the city moving, the streets ice free and our cars rusting; that keep the city warm or cool and bathed in perpetual light; that keep the new skyscrapers climbing. All this stuff and more floats in on barges pushed along by towboats from four stories tall to the cute little yard tugs that begin to appear the closer we creep towards the center of Chicago.

The scale of the industry is massive, as is the horsepower harnessed to move the vast quantities of coal from the West, sand from the shores of Lake Michigan, concrete from China, scrap metal from the alleys of Chicago, Midwest corn and soybeans, processed petroleum products and the waste produced in the process of keeping our megalopolis functioning.

Intermixed amongst this drab functional landscape are a few quaint sections of the old waterway: forested and meticulously lined with sand stone. The labor of the immigrants that went into creating this path from the Atlantic Ocean to the Gulf of Mexico is evident.

There is a faint whiff of Chicago even fifty miles downstream. It is an odor I am familiar with from many days spent boating on the North Branch of the Chicago River and the legacy of the infamous reversal of the Chicago River.

Finally able to relax I sit in my favorite spot, the pilothouse of Carrie Rose, our 32 foot Nordic Tug, and read a few words then dose off for a few. I am gently awakened by the presents of a behemoth tow as it ghosts by.

I look towards it and haphazardly glance out a sliver of the port rear window: a spider sits suspended in its handiwork, waiting; a large horse fly lands on the stainless steel stanchion that surrounds the upper deck and settles in for I know not what; a yellow butterfly appears, as in the back ground a Great Blue Heron glides along the ripples of the river; a large fish breaks the surface of this no wake zone to create a disturbance that slightly rocks the boat.

All this happened in an instant on a lazy warm afternoon at the tail end of my 42nd year on the water. It is haiku like, but with too many syllables.

How could I have guessed that my interest in Japanese culture would lead to this at once inconsequential and significant moment of awareness. How do I say this. How do I thank a culture for providing me with sustenance over a lifetime.

For providing me with fast friends, with multiple experiences that I never would have imagined as working-class kid from Chicago, with the opportunity to speak to thousands of people and to travel to distant lands.

How do I thank the Japanese people for cherry and plum blossoms, sake and sushi, indigo dye and silk kimonos. What is there to say to the genius of Hokusai's 100 Views of Mt. Fuji and Basho's Narrow Road to the Deep North.

What do I say to a culture whose trains run on time and fly like the wind. Whose simple food is designed like fine art and whose art celebrates nature in its most sublime form.

How do I thank my guides to the world of Chanoyu, the Tea Ceremony. Both Mrs. Hamano and Minnie Kubose, now sadly passed, and Joyce Kubose (very much alive) who for the last twenty years have taught me Japanese culture hands and knees on.

What can I say about the tea, flowers, ceramics, architecture, calligraphy, wood work, gardens and ultimately, the philosophy that ties Chado, the Way of Tea, together and without which my life would be sadly diminished.

What is there to say on this warm autumn day floating on the river, but a heartfelt domo arigato gozaimasu.

Meditation

First let me state that I do not meditate, at least in the conventional sense. I am not a cynic; just have too much nervous energy to sit. This has not prevented me from trying though. In high school and college I dabbled with meditation to no avail.

One night, determined to reach nirvana, I settled on my bed in the lotus position. Donning my headphones, I concentrated all my psychic energy (what there was of it) on the tip of my nose. I had read about this technique in one of the many pop-psychology books that were so prevalent in the 70’s. After what seemed like an eternity, I emerged from my self-induced stupor, promised to redouble my efforts the next day and fell fitfully to sleep.

Awakening early the next morning I felt good about my accomplishment. My mind was clear and any doubts of my purpose were set aside. Funny thing though, I could not shake the tingling sensation centered on my nose.

Rising from bed, I headed for the nearest mirror and was horrified to see a large red proboscis starring back at me. My efforts of the night before had left me with a grape-size carbuncle on the tip of my nose. The scarlet protuberance, unsettling as it was, convinced me of the power of meditation.

I thought it wise to stop focusing on body parts and instead began to practice meditation in motion: building boats, suturing complex hand wounds, welding steel into sculpture, sailing off the coast of Chicago and practicing Chanoyu, the Tea Ceremony.

All have been attempts at meditation, though I realize not in the formal sense. I think of my pursuits as adaptations to life in America and a busy career.

The more involved I get with various projects, the more amazed I am at the preparation that goes into right practice. For most professionals, be it medicine, law, science, religion or art, study goes back to childhood. We see only the tip of the iceberg.

How does this expertise come to pass? Book learning only provides the basics. A common complaint of students−that school does not teach anything practical−is completely understandable. Life, it turns out, is more of an apprenticeship and though facts play a large role, education is about problem solving and not purely memorization.

In high school and college we are afforded ample opportunity to practice. Schedules, financial aid, libraries, professors and even roommates provide case studies for the problems we will encounter as adults.

But what does this have to do with meditation. Meditation is the process by which facts, and the thoughts they engender, are organized. It relieves the brain from goal seeking, allowing it to choose its own path of inter-connectivity. It is the creative side of consciousness. It is intuition.

It took me years to understand that the mind is constructed organically, not machine like. Similar to the branching of trees or the spread of roots, to the flow of rivers and not canals, thus linear thought seldom reveals truth.

We say, "think out of the box", but the box represents our formal training, and as much as we may have suffered through academic training, familiarity leads to comfort and comfort to complacency. Meditation throws a wrench into the system. Even as practitioner’s sit and look peaceful to the out side world, inside they are pitted against Mt. Everest without oxygen to assist in their march to the summit.

Chanoyu presents this challenge. At first glance it is a beautiful pastime easily mastered, but with increasing mastery comes increasing complexity. Of course there are no guarantees, but if you persist with the meditative practice that is Chanoyu one day while seated before precisely placed utensils with fire drawing air through embers, tea is whisked, offered to your guest and tranquility envelops you.