Lost and Found

Reclaiming the old, the discarded. It has been the theme of this week it would seem. All seeming to coalesce two days ago, but only this morning is really sinking in.

Two days ago, coming across a little old tree that had been uprooted to make way for better curb appeal, I seized upon the idea of saving it. Fortunately it was being offered for nothing, fit in the car — sort of — and seemed like it might survive the relocation. Far from a conscious decision, it was one of pure instinct. This was the method employed by my teacher of tea. He always acted from the place of intuition, of instinct; always without hesitation. Some call this acting on impulse and disparage. It is also a principle feature of Zen training, and Cha Dao as taught by Master Ho. In this method, thinking is — at best — a secondary, remedial strategy.

I know very little about arbology, save having worked for a summer at a plant nursery. I simply felt that it could work, that this tree could be saved, but that this must happen now — or not at all. I personally believe in the interconnectedness of all things and occasionally act accordingly. Some rather cheeky teachers of spirituality, of Yoga, will question why one would develop clairvoyance when we have television; action at a distance when we have cell phones. I then suggest questioning why anyone would attend their class (and pay money) when there are books, the internet. This is perhaps neither here nor there, but, when a series of coincidences pile up at your door in short succession, it tends to make us feel they are not mere coincidence.

Immediately upon birthing the tree into the ground, watering, and arranging a few large stones as a proto-zen garden, the door bell rang. It was kettle from Japan, in the hands of the delivery person. This was a vintage kettle found online weeks before that seemed under appreciated and in need of a new home. It was about a hundred or so in age, but held water and the handle was stiffly in place. Clearly the kettle had sat for decades, the spout was half rusted shut and needed to be cleared with a stick. Along with the bits of rust came a partially burnt wood shaving which had been blocking the pour. Clearing this was the first step in reviving it.

The water from this kettle came out reddish and sour at first, though I could hear from the sound of the iron expanding that it was of a good quality material. The first pot of tea made with it was rather dreadful, both energetically and taste-wise. Fortunately I don’t give up easily, and after boiling that same tea in the kettle for an hour, could smell the iron was freshened and the water now brewed out sweet.

Looking at it now, as it calls to me to return to making tea, I find it quite different in aspect. The kettle is alive once more — woken up. My hope is that the fate of the pine tree proves the same. We find this with tea pots, teas, and all manner of things. In one set of hands the spirit of the thing is dormant, unwilling to show itself, while in another set of hands they will perform beautifully — like a temperamental actor. This sense of spiritedness I can relate to and so tend to respect in others as well.

Borrowed Time

Never underestimate the ability of the human body to transform and adapt, evolve. This instruction has come to me in different forms, though several teachers over the years. It could be seen as a common theme of my education in Asia. At first I wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. Trusting the process and believing my teachers, based largely on admiration for what they could do, led to results which — for me — could not be denied. Like many people, I enjoy flying in the face of the possible, the realistic —. the boring.

The level of plasticity of the. Mind, of genetics, matter in general, can lead us to conclude that what is termed reality is simply a contrasting layer of the dream state. Rarely taught, in the West anyway, is the power which the individual has to effect their environment, the fabric of this collective dream. The difference, or shift, comes when you subscribe to your own vision instead of someone else’s — arguments of the nature of individuality aside. For me, programming my own vision, and birthing it into reality begins in the still point of the tea ritual. It is right and true alchemy, as much as there ever was alchemy for the adepts of the ancient past. It is also one of the ancient paths which has remained largely undisturbed in recent centuries.

Perhaps the best part of the process is that there isn’t really much of anything to learn — though many will tell you there is. It is simply pouring water onto leaves and washing off the dust of the mirror of the mind/heart. Having done so, all things are then possible. This was the fundamental principle of Cha Dao, instilled at an early phase in my study of tea. It is what I view as the most essential and most important point in the classical, hidden teachings, of our shared — collective — art form.

Tea and the axis mundi

— Came across a post the other day, a quote on tea. It suggested thinking of the tea cup as the axis upon which the earth was rotating — the central pivot.

Although a point of focus for meditation, this concept is far more than a mind exercise. Often in writings on tea we come across this state described, one of feeling as though the entire world or universe is revolving around you. This type of thinking may be very well viewed as self-centered in the negative sense, but when thinking is removed entirely and this becomes a state of being. Then it is simply accepting the reality of our, so-called, holographic universE — Indra’s net of jewels.

Tea can help to reveal to us, first hand, concepts which — from an intellectual point of view — are largely useless or perhaps counter-productive (when mis-directed). In order to truly grasp the process of tea — in its original context – is to transcend the process of study, and in turn become the art itself. Similar processes of self discovery are laid out in the study of Zen, martial art, meditation, and at times sport.

The discovery of this new frontier of experience is recorded in every cell of our being and we are forever changed by it. It allows us the broader view of life, that suggests the wisdom of walking over running, and unfolds the riddle of the tortoise and hair — in real time.

Wisdom traditions are often seen as cryptic by nature. They are indeed cryptic, and will remain so until we have operated on this platform for ourselves. My teacher of tea once referred to the art of tea meditation as the process of cultivating enlightenment. With each glimpse of the farther shore, it becomes clearer, and we are able to find our way back more easily — should things go astray.

For my part, tea is a process of meditation which can hold my attention. And, it gives me something to do with my hands, while watching the world go by.

Yunnan of Old

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