A Tea Reader (10 page)

A Cup of Comfort

BY
D
OROTHY
Z
IEMANN

My father was diagnosed with lung cancer in October 1997. He was a lifelong smoker who had suddenly quit several months before due to a tentative diagnosis of emphysema based on a routine x-ray done at his annual physical. Turns out that what the doctor thought was emphysema was actually a tumor. Because of the location of the tumor, surgery was not an option and the only treatments offered were chemotherapy and radiation. My father took this in stride and entered this last battle of his life with the good grace and quiet optimism he had always shown when faced with adversity. So my mother and siblings did likewise. I, however, did not. I am a nurse by profession and knew how deadly lung cancer can be and how fast it can take a life.

My father was not an outwardly demonstrative man. I knew he loved me and he knew I loved him, but we didn't say it much. Since I knew our time together was limited, I wanted to spend as much time as possible with him. This was a challenge because I worked part-time and was busy raising a family. But it was something I needed to do.

The office where he received chemo was located about forty-five minutes from my parents' home. Each treatment lasted four hours and he received it three times a week, one week a month. I decided to take him to the appointments and stay with him. I brought my knitting with me and Dad brought a book, although much of the time he just slept. I was knitting him a sweater for Christmas even though I knew he would probably not get much wear out of it. He asked about the knitting but never realized it was for him.

One of the joys in my dad's life was fine food and beverages. This was something we had always shared. We had many of the same tastes; the only big difference was that he was a coffee drinker while I only drank tea. I love the way coffee smells but don't like the taste. My dad thought tea was a woman's drink. It was so sad that chemo had changed his tastes for food. I tried to entice him to eat by making some of his favorites. One night I got all the ingredients to make Maryland-style crab cakes. This was somewhat difficult, since landlocked Atlanta is not known for its blue crab. He ate them but I could tell he didn't really enjoy them. He just had no appetite at all. So I was surprised when he asked for a cup of tea one day while he was receiving chemo. I asked the nurse if she had any tea bags. She didn't. She also only had paper cups, not really conducive for making hot beverages. So I told my dad I was going to the store and would be back shortly. I bought decaffeinated tea bags because any caffeine kept him up at night and he was having a hard time sleeping anyway; I didn't want to make it worse. I bought two mugs and hurried back to the office. I made two cups of decaffeinated Lipton tea in the microwave and handed one to my father. He took a sip and sighed with a peaceful look on his face. “Dorothy,” he said, “I never knew tea was so soothing. I've really missed out, haven't I?” We talked and talked over that cup of tea. He talked about how proud he was of me and what I had accomplished so far in my life. He talked about how much he loved his granddaughters, my two girls, and his hopes and dreams for them. I told him how much I loved him and how much I appreciated everything he had done for me. I wouldn't be who I am without him. I said everything I had wanted to say out loud and I have no regrets about anything left unsaid.

I was used to drinking loose leaf tea brewed properly in a teapot. I was something of a “tea snob” and wouldn't normally drink tea bag tea, let alone tea bags obtained from a grocery store. But that tea I shared with my father on that dreary day in a chemotherapy office was the best tea I can remember drinking in my life. It tasted like ambrosia. I know I will never taste anything as sweet ever again.

That was the last afternoon my father and I spent alone together. He passed away shortly after and some of the light went out of my life. Now, every time I drink tea, I smile and think of my father and that cup we shared. We were not only sharing a beverage, we were finally sharing our feelings, our love, and our hopes and dreams. The memory of sharing tea with my father eases the pain of losing him. My father was right—tea
is
soothing. It has helped me grieve and it is still helping me heal these many years later. I look forward to sharing another cuppa with my father when we meet again.

THIRD STEEP

TEA RITUALS

Ceremony and Tradition

BY
K
ATRINA
Á
VILA
M
UNICHIELLO

The words “tea” and “ceremony” are frequently intertwined. When they come together, images of
tatami
mats, kimonos, delicate bamboo whisks, and small cups of
matcha
leap to mind.

The Japanese Tea Ceremony is a strikingly beautiful and peaceful experience. It combines reverence for art, nature, tea, and mindfulness with elegance and grace. This experience, also called
Chanoyu
,
is not, however, the only tea ceremony. There is an equally lovely Korean tea ceremony, as well as Chinese
gongfu
and English afternoon tea.

In as many countries as tea is consumed, there are ceremonies and traditions that have taken root. Within these countries and regions, household traditions have also been established.

In a world where so much changes and feels out of our control, we cling to our traditions. We seek to perfect them, to experience them more fully, and to hand them down to future generations. It is our way of ensuring the unbroken link between the parents of our parents' parents and the children of our children's children. Tea can be that link.

Saké and Tea

BY
S
IR
E
DWIN
A
RNOLD

Excerpted from
Seas and Lands
,
1897.
¹

Ariosto has, in his great poem, a canto commencing “
Donne! e voi ch'avete le donne in pregio,”
whereby he begs that no lady will read the severe reflections which follow upon the foibles of her sex. I, on the contrary, venture most respectfully to invite all ladies to read this present letter, that they may know how distinguished is the origin of the teacup and the tea-tray, what immense social and historical effects their favorite beverage has produced, and with how much grace and ceremony the simple act of tea drinking may be, and is, in this gentle land of Japan, constantly invested. For my own part, a perfectly new sentiment has been kindled in my breast towards the whole mystery of the teapot since I had the honor of being entertained at the
Chano-yu,
in the “Hall of Clouds.” Over the spirit of everyone who arrives as a stranger in Japan, whether or not, by habit or by taste, a votary of the tea leaf, a change in this respect slowly and surely steals. The importance and dignity of tea reveal themselves in an entirely new light when he finds a whole population of some forty millions concentrated, so to speak, round the teapot, and all the dwelling-houses, all the habits, all the tastes, the very language, the meals, the diurnal duties and associations of town and country folk alike, circling, as it were, about the tiny cup. Insensibly you also fall into the gentle passion. You learn on your road while journeying, or when arriving at its end, or in entering a friend's house, or while shopping in the “Ginza,”
²
to expect and to accept with pleasure the proffered draught of pale yellow, fragrant liquid; which at first you only tolerate, appearing as it does without milk or sugar, but afterwards begin to like, and lastly to find indispensable. Insensibly the little porcelain cup becomes pleasantly linked in the mind with the snow-pure mats, the pretty, prostrate
musumës
,
³
the spotless joinery of the lowly walls, the exquisite proprieties of the latticed
shojis,
adding to all these a charm, a refinement, a delicate sobriety and distinguished simplicity found alike amid high and low, emanating, as it were, from the inner spirit of the glossy green leaf and silvery blossom of the tea plant—in one word, belonging essentially to and half constituting beautiful, wonderful, quiet, and sweet Japan.

All this arises from the entertainment with which I was honored (with a) Japanese banquet in the “Hall of Clouds” and the
Cha-no-yu
(or “Tea of Honor”) which followed it for myself and a select few. Dinners in the native fashion have now become so familiar, by my happy fortune in making friends among the native gentlemen, that I am conscious of having lost those first impressions which enable one to paint accurately a novel scene. But I have not lost my early admiration of them, and still continue to regard a well-appointed and properly-served Japanese dinner as one of the most elegant and agreeable, as well as satisfying, forms of “dining-out” which the genius of hospitality ever invented. Like the dwellings, the apartments, and the appointments of Japan, one of these entertainments closely resembles another in the methods and the
menus.
I sat—or rather kneeled—lately at a large banquet given by Mr. Okura, a very wealthy merchant, at his country seat in Mukojima, a suburb of Tokyo. The ride thither took us clear through the vast city into a rural quarter upon the bank of the chief river. The guests, including many of the present Ministers of the Emperor's Cabinet, assembled first of all in a smoking pavilion, overlooking the stream, richly adorned with carvings and chased brass ornaments, and warmed by a huge
hibachi,
or fire-box. Here we were served by kneeling
musumës
with tea, vermouths, and little balls of sweetened millet; and then proceeded through many passages glistening with polished pine and cherrywood to the
shuko-do,
or dining chamber. Sitting here on little square cushions—every guest having his fire-box beside him—a girl in flowing embroidered robes and bright satin
obi
appears before each, and places the first tray within his reach. There will be upon it a little lacquered bowl of soup, a saucer of
légumes,
a tiny dish of cutlet, or ragoût, a bowl of snowy boiled rice, a saké-cup, and a pair of new chopsticks. The guest of the evening gives the signal to start by beginning to wield these latter, and then all is festivity and joyous chat
sans gêne
.
⁴
Your pretty
musumë,
having well started you, kneels in front of your tray, armed with a porcelain flask of rice-wine, warmed; and if she can help it she will not allow your little red saucer to remain unbrimmed.

My fortunate cushion was placed between the American Minister's and that of Count Saigon, the President of the Imperial Marine Department, whose brother headed the Satsuma rebellion many years ago and lost his head. The Count was loyal, and has risen to high office—a frank, hearty, English-looking statesman, whose merry conversation made one often neglect the choice dishes which followed the first service in lavish variety. At perhaps the third tray—when the second soup and the thin slices of raw fish, the
daikon
⁵
and the vermicelli with almonds, have appeared, and many a cup of saké has warmed the “honorable insides” of the convives—the sound is heard, behind the screen at the end of the room, of the
samisen
⁶
and the
koto
,
⁷
and, being pushed back, it reveals the musicians and the dancers. These last—the geishas—wear always very festive apparel, and are extremely well trained in their graceful
odori
.
⁸
But you would be wrong to think that any Japanese woman may put on the splendid and showy
kimonos
borne by the
Maiko.
⁹
There is a very strict social rule in Japan that after the twenty-first year of her age a girl must no longer don bright colors; she then assumes the sober tints of gray, dark-blue, dove-color, and brown; so that, practically, only the quite young female people assume the gorgeous garments in question. When the geishas have finished one or two well-known dances, and have been applauded with words of approval and clapping of hands, one comes back to the little trays, now encircling each guest as boats surround a ship in harbor, and plays again with the chopsticks among the
entremets,
the cakes, the candied fruits, and perfumed “kickshaws” which complete the service. Or one lights a cigarette, or
kiseru;
¹⁰
or rises from his cushion to go, first to the host, and afterwards to every well-known friend in the circle, kneeling down before him, and saying, “
Ippai Kudasai,”
“Permit me to drink with you in my own cup.” The person thus invited rinses his saké-cup in the hot-water bowl, and hands it to you; you raise it to your forehead, and presenting it to the
musumë
to be filled, quaff it, rinse it anew, and hand it to your friend, who lifts it to his head, has it replenished, and drinks, bowing low, adding such a sentence as, “
0 me ni kakaru kara taksan o tanoshimi gozaimas”
—
i.e.,
“I am very happy to have hung in your honorable eyes.” By this time the conversation has grown animated; the companions of the banquet are gathered in friendly groups; the gaily-clad
musumës
flit about with vases of rice-wine, or converse lightly and prettily with the guests, who may offer them a cup of saké
,
and flirt a little. If you have known how to select the most satisfactory dishes, and have not made the mistake of swallowing whole what looked like a sugared chestnut, and turned out, too late, to be a lump of fiery mustard, cayenne, and soy, the entertainment has abundantly satisfied the appetite, besides gratifying the sight, the hearing, and the spirit generally. When, amid a buzz of joyous farewell talk, your
musumë
wraps you in your fur coat, and, while you slip again into your shoes on the threshold, knocks her pretty brow upon the matting, murmuring,
Sayonara! mata o ide nasare
(“Goodbye! be pleased to come again”), you enter your
jinrikisha
¹¹
and roll off through the streets glittering with paper lanterns and lively with thousands of clattering feet, repeating to yourself, “Fate cannot harm me. I have dined today!”

Such was, in slightest outline, our dinner at Mukojima, where I left the Minister of Marine deep in a cheerful discussion with two geishas and a
musumë,
as to the proper words of a celebrated song. The banquet at the “Hall of Clouds” being in connection with the University, and largely attended by imperial professors, wore somewhat graver aspects, and there were present, besides, some distinguished Buddhist abbots, as well as the youthful head of one of their sects. The chief priest, by the way, though he went through the friendly ceremony of drinking from my cup, raised it simply to his forehead; either he did not touch what the Buddha forbade, or would not let me see him do it. There were also no dancing and no music, for the
Cha-no-yu
was to follow, and nothing in the least frivolous must mingle with that. Duly, when the dinner was finished, the chief guests, six or seven in number out of the forty or fifty present, repaired to the little room set apart for the ceremony. Approaching its entrance we all washed our hands with water from a small wooden ladle, out of a white wooden tub. Above the door were written characters which meant “Hospitality, courtesy, purity, tranquility!” We passed into a tiny apartment, of spotless appearance, provided with mats, cushions, an antique tea equipage, a glowing hearth sunk in the floor, and one hanging picture, very old, which we were directed to admire and criticize. Our places are prescribed round the floor, with careful politeness, by the aged servitor. Sitting thus quietly but gaily in the little snow-clean alcove, the talk turns upon the origin of the
Cha-no-yu,
and what it has done, not only for Japanese art, manners, and national life, but, if anybody reflects rightly, for the whole civilized world. It is really to Buddhism that civilization owes the tea leaf, and its immense place at the present day in the affections and the commerce of mankind. The plant is indigenous to Japan, but the “calm brethren of the yellow robe” brought with them into Japan, along with their gentle religion, the art of using it. Up to the time of our Wars of the Roses,
¹²
tea in Japan was still so rare that soldiers received small pots of it as gifts of honor, and infused it in special feasts among their friends as a precious beverage.

The great Regent Yoshi-tsunè, retiring from power, personally established its universal use in Japan, and indirectly gave, by his far-off foresight and refined taste, five o'clock tea to the Duchess in Belgravia; and also to the student, the washerwoman, and the seamstress “the cup that cheers.” He and his friend Shuko, a Buddhist priest, invented the tea pavilion, and drew up the first rules of the
Cha-no-yu.
But though these great minds so early popularized tea drinking in Japan, and doubtless intended to simplify it, the fashion long remained aristocratic. The nobles were wont to sit over their teacups gambling for gilded armor, and even for precious sword-blades, which the winner would often lightly give away to the pretty flowery-robed geishas, who danced, sang, and waited for them. It was reserved for the low-born but powerful and accomplished tycoon, Hidéyoshi, “the Augustus of Japanese History,” to stamp the cult of the tea leaf with that enduring grace, simplicity, and charm which have made tea drinking the central act of Japanese life, and even built all their houses and apartments on the same undeviating pattern. Hidéyoshi had for his Maecenas Senno-rikiu, another Buddhist priest, and the two together reformed the
Cha-Seki
by making it before all things intensely simple. Ostentation was ostracized.

The four great qualities which the
Seikasha
—
the Tea Drinker—was to celebrate and cultivate over the sacred cup were hospitality, courtesy, purity, and tranquillity. The apartment must be plain, but elegant, with spotless mats and simple joinery; the utensils must be uncostly, but exquisite in shape and fitness. Temperance must be absolute; if food and wine mingled with the little feast nobody must exceed one bowl of rice and three saucers of saké. Nor was it solely for love of grace and the four chief virtues of the tearoom,
Ka-keisei-jaku,
¹³
that the famous tycoon inaugurated the cult of the tea leaf. His great mind saw that if he could give Japan a national and tranquil habit, easy of practice for the poor and attractive to the rich, he would do much to sheathe the sword and humanize his people; and so it has turned out. Never, in truth, had a statesman's subtle device such grand success. The teacup, as I have said, is today the central fact of this fair and gentle land. It decides the architecture, binds together the societies, refreshes the fatigue, and rewards the day's work of high and low in Japan. The perspiring
jinrikisha
man is satisfied with the warm infusion; the Minister and the Mikado himself are only happy when the “honorable tea” exhales its delicate fragrance from the hands of the kneeling
musumë.
And there are little gracious ceremonies even about the most ordinary tea drinking in humblest houses, which everywhere elevate it above a mere beverage. Good manners in Japan prescribe a sort of soft solemnity whenever the little cup is being filled, and no hut is so lowly but its kettle, its teapot, and its tea equipage display something about them of distinction, taste, and the love of a chaste and perfect art.