One early spring morning, in southern Japan, I found myself squatting on a straw tatami floor amongst one hundred or so Japanese waiting patiently to participate in sado, a traditional tea ceremony. I was attending with my girlfriend and some Japanese friends. I had heard such ceremonies were attended mostly by women but, out of curiosity, decided to tag along. (Tea ceremonies, I later learned, originated in the 13th century when samurai warriors used the preparation and drinking of tea as a way of embracing Zen Buddhism).
The venue for this Zen ritual was Saga Castle on the island of Kyushu, a huge wooden structure surrounded by a wide rock wall fortress and moat. The castle, apart from being an important historical site in itself, is now a museum featuring exhibits documenting local history and history of the castle. The castle hosts tea ceremonies year round and holds them in a room specially dedicated to the practice.
As we sat and waited for our turn I asked my friends some questions about the ceremony, in a belated attempt to gain some basic understanding of it. I had lived in the country for a few months and was familiar with the Japanese tendency to absolve a foreigner’s clumsiness with local customs. But this seemed serious business: most ladies were wearing kimonos, a few had painted their faces geisha style and put their hair up in elaborate ways. They were all sitting quietly, keeping chatter to a minimum.
My Japanese friends did not know much more about the ritual than me and, besides, now it was our turn. With a much smaller group of people we were led along a hallway to the tea room where we were welcomed by our hosts – several young women in kimonos. We entered single file and sat down along the perimeter of the room. It was here I encountered my first problem: we were required to sit seiza style, which means kneeling with your bottom resting on your heels. Japanese learn this at a young age so it is natural to them. Many foreigners, however, are unaccustomed to the position.
After a minute or two my legs began to cramp and I had to shift positions. The room was very quiet now that our hosts were setting up so I became very conscious of my shifting and shuffling. Even in this state of discomfort I was able to reflect on how ironic it was that in this Zen ritual – where one is meant to feel relaxed and calm in the atmosphere created by the simple setting and the ambience of tea cooking on the hearth – I felt tense and sore. I decided I had to just grin and bear the pain.
There are a number of schools of tea ceremony, each following a different set of rules and procedures. It was evident, from the careful manner in which the women prepared the tea, that it is a much defined practice. Each bowl and every piece of the tea making kit was wiped with the appropriate piece of cloth and performed with exact movements.
Before the tea arrived we were served three bite sized sweets made from rice. The sweets were of a soft, pasty texture and took some time to consume. In fact it did not seem like food at all and realizing I could not eat my share I surreptitiously wrapped it in paper and stuffed it into my pocket. Not very Zen, it must be said.
The tea came next. It was brought out in small bowls and handed to guests in a ritualistic manner. Bowls had to be rotated and bows exchanged between guest and host, guest and guest. I took note of the ritual and, when my turn came, tried hard to replicate it. I was surprised by the colour and texture of the tea. It was of the matcha variety. Brought into Japan in the 12th century by a monk returning from China, matcha is unique in that it is ground into a powder and unfermented. It was thick, frothy and fluorescent green but tasted fresh and sweet.
Once the tea had been consumed all bowls were collected and the tea making utensils were washed and wiped, again following a ritualistic method. Guests were then summoned to the area where the tea had been prepared and shown the various equipment and utensils used in the process. By this time, having sat seiza style for more than ten minutes, my legs had thoroughly fallen asleep and I could only manage a pitiful limp. After taking photos and talking with our hosts we were then led out of the tea room and back to the main entrance of the castle. As I shuffled along, I seriously doubted whether I had successfully attained a state of Zen.
The venue for this Zen ritual was Saga Castle on the island of Kyushu, a huge wooden structure surrounded by a wide rock wall fortress and moat. The castle, apart from being an important historical site in itself, is now a museum featuring exhibits documenting local history and history of the castle. The castle hosts tea ceremonies year round and holds them in a room specially dedicated to the practice.
As we sat and waited for our turn I asked my friends some questions about the ceremony, in a belated attempt to gain some basic understanding of it. I had lived in the country for a few months and was familiar with the Japanese tendency to absolve a foreigner’s clumsiness with local customs. But this seemed serious business: most ladies were wearing kimonos, a few had painted their faces geisha style and put their hair up in elaborate ways. They were all sitting quietly, keeping chatter to a minimum.
My Japanese friends did not know much more about the ritual than me and, besides, now it was our turn. With a much smaller group of people we were led along a hallway to the tea room where we were welcomed by our hosts – several young women in kimonos. We entered single file and sat down along the perimeter of the room. It was here I encountered my first problem: we were required to sit seiza style, which means kneeling with your bottom resting on your heels. Japanese learn this at a young age so it is natural to them. Many foreigners, however, are unaccustomed to the position.
After a minute or two my legs began to cramp and I had to shift positions. The room was very quiet now that our hosts were setting up so I became very conscious of my shifting and shuffling. Even in this state of discomfort I was able to reflect on how ironic it was that in this Zen ritual – where one is meant to feel relaxed and calm in the atmosphere created by the simple setting and the ambience of tea cooking on the hearth – I felt tense and sore. I decided I had to just grin and bear the pain.
There are a number of schools of tea ceremony, each following a different set of rules and procedures. It was evident, from the careful manner in which the women prepared the tea, that it is a much defined practice. Each bowl and every piece of the tea making kit was wiped with the appropriate piece of cloth and performed with exact movements.
Before the tea arrived we were served three bite sized sweets made from rice. The sweets were of a soft, pasty texture and took some time to consume. In fact it did not seem like food at all and realizing I could not eat my share I surreptitiously wrapped it in paper and stuffed it into my pocket. Not very Zen, it must be said.
The tea came next. It was brought out in small bowls and handed to guests in a ritualistic manner. Bowls had to be rotated and bows exchanged between guest and host, guest and guest. I took note of the ritual and, when my turn came, tried hard to replicate it. I was surprised by the colour and texture of the tea. It was of the matcha variety. Brought into Japan in the 12th century by a monk returning from China, matcha is unique in that it is ground into a powder and unfermented. It was thick, frothy and fluorescent green but tasted fresh and sweet.
Once the tea had been consumed all bowls were collected and the tea making utensils were washed and wiped, again following a ritualistic method. Guests were then summoned to the area where the tea had been prepared and shown the various equipment and utensils used in the process. By this time, having sat seiza style for more than ten minutes, my legs had thoroughly fallen asleep and I could only manage a pitiful limp. After taking photos and talking with our hosts we were then led out of the tea room and back to the main entrance of the castle. As I shuffled along, I seriously doubted whether I had successfully attained a state of Zen.
Published in the Northern Star 23/12/06
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