Meditation is a Contact Sport

In the past I was very often resistant to the topic of meditation, and to the word itself. Like most words, it is a bit inefficient and clumsy in trying to bring across the value of the Form. Also, at the time, many of the people who spoke the most about meditation were those that I least aspired to be like.

In reality we are all meditating to some degree throughout our day, and that all of these acts of meditation — whether they be in a temple or at the end of a meal — produce their own predictable results. Where awareness goes energy flows and all of that.

Some might call my preferred mode of tea service a meditation, or tea practice. I’m, not sure if fiddling with a kettle and then staring at my tea pot or at a point in the wall requires any particular nomenclature. The true values for me, is what I get out of this process. The resetting of the mind, or at the least a distinct slowing down of the bodily processes in order that afterward they work much more efficiently.

Ultimately, I came to get over some of my hang ups with the word meditation, by coming at it from another direction. The path of Qi Gung (kung fu), merged with the practice of tea ritual, were the alternate gate which led to the palace of realization.

What appealed to me most about the Way of Tea was that there were no rules to it per say. My teacher once used a play on words to define this Cha Dao (Way of Tea), as simply the pouring out of a pot of tea (dao cha 倒茶). This was clever on his part, but belies a hidden truth in the experience of the Way of Tea. That being, by letting go we may gain a grasp of everything.

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.