Book Scanning >> Book Scanning
Japan in a Nutshell
+++ YOUR GUIDE TO JAPAN +++
Illustrated by Steve Solomon
Top Hat Press
BALTIMORE
_______________________________
CONTENTS
Origins
Islands
Fuji
Shinto
Zen
Bushido
The Buddha Crystal
Tea Ceremony
Battle of Dan-no-ura
Basho
The Bronze Buddha
Paper
Festival of the Dead
The Sacrifice
Hokusai
Spirit of the Sword
Foxes
Bowing
Godzilla
How to Fold a Paper House
A Boon from Benten
Moon
Going There
Where to Stay
Sightseeing
Bathing
Dos and Don’ts
Robots
Q & A
_______________________________
SAMPLE CONTENT
Tea Ceremony
1
“Tea gives one vigor of body, contentment of mind, and determination of purpose,” said the legendary Shen Nung, Fire Emperor of China. His subjects agreed with him; and over the centuries the beverage came into wide use in the Middle Kingdom—as a medicinal tonic and sociable beverage. Poets referred to it as “liquid jade”; and one of them enthused: “When I drink tea, I am conscious of peace. The cool breath of Heaven rises in my sleeves, and blows my cares away.”
As Buddhism, fine arts, and other achievements of Chinese civilization traveled to Japan, tea accompanied them. A major impetus to its use came from Eisai, the monk who introduced Zen Buddhism to the land. He also brought from China some choice tea plants, which he cultivated at his monastery. The monks drank the tea at their shrine to Bodhidharma, as part of a ritual.*
Eisai wrote a treatise on tea, in which he praised it as “the divine remedy and supreme gift of Heaven for preserving human life.” This claim was brought to the attention of the Shogun, who had fallen ill. He summoned Eisai and commanded him to administer his remedy. Fortunately for the monk, the Shogun recovered. And as word spread of its medicinal (and stimulative) effect, tea was on its way to becoming the national beverage of Japan.
2
Among its first devotees were samurai warriors, who held lavish tea-tasting parties. Large amounts of sake were also consumed (prompting such riotous behavior that the parties were eventually banned); and any tonic effect of the tea must have been offset by the toxicity of the alcohol. But the parties did serve to establish tea as a sociable beverage.
Around the same time, a special ceremony came into vogue in the castles of warlords. Inspired by the tea ritual of the monks, it involved the sharing of a bowl of tea by the warlord and important visitors. This formal event—a status symbol for the powerful—was held in a richly appointed chamber, with costly utensils. But the Tea Ceremony came to be modified in an important way. The man who modified it—and who is considered the patron saint of the Tea Ceremony—was Sen no Rikyu, tea master to Hideyoshi.*
Hideyoshi was drawn to the Tea Ceremony for its ostentatious display of wealth and the intimidating pomp of its ritual; and he gave Rikyu (his close advisor as well as tea master) a free hand in conducting and perfecting it. An aesthete of the first order, Rikyu took the Tea Ceremony and remodeled it into something wholly new in spirit.
What Rikyu introduced into the Tea Ceremony was what the Japanese call wabi—a concept that is difficult to translate. Wabi is an aesthetic term, referring to a quality of restraint—of plainness—of understatement—in a work of art. Its earliest associations were with Zen recluses living in the mountains. Their rustic ways, their rough exteriors (yet noble souls), the plainness of their dwellings—all this was wabi. Rikyu, who had studied Zen, was taken with its aesthetic values; and he set out to inject them into the Tea Ceremony.
His basic idea was that all things luxurious and pretentious— the gold utensils, fancy furnishings, elaborate dress—were anathema, and should be replaced with the plain, the natural, the (seemingly) artless. Indeed, Hideyoshi’s tea chamber itself—a spacious reception hall—had to go. So Rikyu began by constructing, on the castle grounds, a tea hut.With its thatched roof and log walls, this modest structure resembled a hermit’s shack. It was set in a garden—a simple, rustic affair of shrubs and small trees. To objections that his creation was scarcely the sort of place in which to receive the grand Hideyoshi, Rikyu quoted an earlier tea master: “‘A prize horse looks best tethered to a hut.’”
The interior of the hut was equally austere. Its unadorned walls, somber colors, and dearth of furnishings lent Rikyu’s tea room a monastic air. For utensils—drinking bowl, kettle, and other implements of the ceremony—he had sought out unrefined pieces of folk art. And he began to conduct, in this lowly venue, a version of the Tea Ceremony that had an entirely different feel to it.
Amazingly, Hideyoshi appreciated and participated in the new aesthetic (although he continued to hold lavish Tea Ceremonies at well). The warlord who had sought out the most ornate utensils (usually imported from China), now gathered plain, homespun items—the beauty of which his tea master had taught him to discern. Returning from an invasion of Korea, he brought back a trove of rough—yet exquisite—Korean pottery. With it came a group of captured potters, who would establish the style in Japan.
With Hideyoshi’s support, the renovated Tea Ceremony flourished. After Rikyu’s death (he had a falling out with Hideyoshi that proved fatal), it was preserved and refined by his disciples. And as it spread from castle to castle, and to private homes (the merchant class was eager to join in), the Tea Ceremony became a hallmark of Japanese culture— which it has remained to the present day.
The irony, of course, is that a ritual with airs of poverty has been practiced mainly by the well-to-do. The means to maintain a hut and garden; the leisure to sip tea all afternoon; and the good taste to be drawn to such a ceremony— these are not the advantages of the poor. But among the tastemakers of Japan, the wabi-infused Tea Ceremony became a cherished custom. And it came to exert thereby an enormous influence on Japanese art and culture.
How is it that the sipping of tea, amid circumstances of artificial poverty, could have had such an influence? What is the Tea Ceremony all about? And why has it endured, virtually unchanged over the centuries?
To find out, let us attend a typical session.
3
At the appointed hour, the guests (a maximum of four*) begin to arrive at the home of their host. They are neatly and soberly attired (no Hawaiian shirts), in kimonos or contemporary dress. In a reception room they sample the water that will be used, and don special sandals. Then they are led outside to the garden.
There they are seated on a bench and left alone for a while. They savor the fragrances, listen to the hum of insects, enter into a contemplative frame of mind. When everyone has arrived and is ready, one of the guests rings a gong.
The host appears and leads them along a winding path. Surrounding them is a rustic simplicity. A backyard enclave of pine trees, moss-covered stones, bushes, and ferns has been artfully contrived for a natural effect. Everything is tranquil and harmonious. Already the guests have left behind their ordinary thoughts, in this sanctuary from the hurly-burly of the world.
On reaching the hut, the guests remove their sandals. (In olden times, samurai would also remove their swords and leave them in a rack.) Then, one by one—in order of age, refinement, or relationship to the host—they enter the hut. This is effected via an unusual doorway. Only a few feet high, it resembles a low window. Each guest must crouch and crawl inside.*
The guests find themselves in a room that is nearly empty. Its walls are bare plaster; its ceiling is unfinished wood. Straw mats (tatami) cover the floor. A subdued light filters in through paper windows. Everything is immaculately clean. (As part of his artistry, the host himself has swept and dusted.)
But the tea room is not entirely devoid of furnishings. For in the tokonoma (“alcove of honor”), two items have been placed. One is a scroll bearing a delicate ink painting. The other is a vase, in which a sprig of leaves and buds (cut by the host at dawn) has been carefully arranged.*
The guests approach the tokonoma and acknowledge it with a bow. Then they seat themselves around a brazier in the center of the room. In silence they let the chasteness of the decor—the lack of furnishings and ornamentation— give rise to a certain mood.*
The host now enters and joins them at the brazier. He lights the fire, using charcoal that has been cut into prescribed lengths and shapes. From an engraved case he takes chips of incense and adds them to the fire. He hands the case to the principal guest, who has asked to see it. The principal guest praises its design and inquires as to its history. The case is passed from guest to guest.
A light meal is served. Then it is time for tea. The host brings out his utensils, which include pot, drinking bowl, and caddy of powdered tea. The guests compliment him on his taste in selecting these. The bowl receives particular attention. Irregular in shape (another hallmark of wabi) and unglazed, it has an almost primitive look. As the guests pass it about, they ooh and ah. They praise its patina of age—a weathered look that bespeaks years of service. They inquire as to its past owners. Is it a valuable antique—the bowl of some renowned tea master? Has it acquired a name (based on its appearance, or on the craftsman who made it)? The host smiles and modestly relates its history—including the circumstances of any faults it has acquired. For chips, cracks, and repairs are seen as enhancing the time-worn look of a utensil.*
When his utensils have been inspected and admired, the host brews the tea. Quality water and costly tea unite; and that “liquid jade” is born. Everyone bows in unison to O Cha, orHonorable Tea. Apologizing for its poor quality, the host—with a practiced gesture—pours tea into the bowl.
The principal guest takes three sips, then passes the bowl on. The next guest wipes the rim with a napkin, turns the bowl clockwise, and sips. As the bowl travels from guest to guest, they comment (in a restrained, non-effusive manner) on the high quality of the tea, and praise again the bowl. When everyone has sipped, the group bows in gratitude.
After a second bowl and a serving of sweets, the guests loosen up. They begin to converse, in a relaxed, spontaneous manner. Certain topics—such as contemporary affairs, or anything controversial or scandalous—are avoided. Rather, they touch upon the signs of the season; the artistry of the scroll in the tokonoma; the skill of the flower arrangement. Someone recites a poem. Philosophical and artistic questions are discussed.
Then everyone sits in silence, savoring this unique occasion. They listen to the hum of the kettle…the chirp of a cricket…the brushing of a branch against the roof.
Finally the guests take their leave. After final compliments to the host and an exchange of bows, they file through the garden and are gone.
Now the host sits and takes tea alone, beside his bubbling kettle. He gives himself over to the mood of the tea room; to the harmoniousness of his surroundings; to a sense of oneness with the world. Eyes half-closed, he murmurs pleasurably.
As the last rays of sun illumine the tokonoma, he gazes up at the flower in the vase. How lovely it is, he thinks— and how transitory. It started the day as a bud; bloomed at midday; and has begun now to droop and wither. A poignant symbol of our own mortality.
He sips tea.
A breeze rustles the roof.
4
What is the point of all this? What has so attracted generations of Japanese to the Tea Ceremony? And what has been its influence on their civilization?
A clue to the significance of the Tea Ceremony may lie in its monastic origins. For much that is associated with Zen monasteries is characteristic of the tea hut as well. Beneath its thatched roof is to be found the same air of asceticism and tranquility. And like a monk, the tea-sipper seeks to escape the turmoil of the world; to embrace simplicity; to enter into a meditative frame of mind. Only their aims differ: an aesthetic experience for the one; enlightenment for the other. And while the Tea Ceremony is not explicitly religious, it is grounded in Zen. It is a spiritual path—one that adores the beauty to be found in ordinary things and acts.
Such a path would seem to have a multiple attraction to the Japanese. For one thing, it speaks to a yearning in the national soul for wabi—for the aesthetic pleasure of plainness. It satisfies, too, a craving for discipline in daily activities. And it appeals to a love of ceremony. All this converges in a social occasion—a communing with friends amid agreeable surroundings. No wonder the Tea Ceremony has endured.
But for a definitive analysis, no less an authority than Rikyu himself is available. In the pages of theNanbo-roku* he discusses the Tea Ceremony—“an ascetic discipline based on Buddhist Law and aimed at spiritual deliverance” —at length. But the real lowdown comes in this brief verse, delivered in the best Zen, head-bopping tradition:
You ask me what transpires in this room?
It’s simple, sir: boil, brew, consume.
That simple act—highly ritualized and perfected—was Rikyu’s gift to his countrymen. Yet his legacy does not stop there.
For it is a startling fact that most subsequent Japanese art harkens back to Rikyu and his infusion of wabi into the Tea Ceremony. The plainness of his hut—its chaste, impoverished air—became the basis for Japanese architecture. His garden became the prototype of the Japanese garden. The meal he served before tea—austere yet exquisite—became the norm of Japanese cuisine. The sober hues to which he was partial became standard in dress and decor. His sprig in the tokonoma inspired the art of flower arrangement. His taste in scrolls significantly influenced painting; his taste in utensils, ceramics. The list goes on.
In short, the aesthetic values of Sen no Rikyu—embodied in the Tea Ceremony—became those of the nation. It is a remarkable achievement. In linking tea with a Zeninspired sense of beauty, he endowed his countrymen with a ritualized expression of their deepest sensibilities. Indeed, so central did tea-drinking become to the culture that a Japanese insensitive to the finer elements of life is said to have no tea in him.
What are we in the West to make of this? Certainly, we can attend—and take pleasure in—a Tea Ceremony. But can we arrive at any understanding of the soul of its practitioners? Of their sensibilities? Of their Zen-influenced worldview? Can we ever come to have any tea in us?
The story is told of a university professor who came to visit Nan-in, a noted tea master of the Meiji era. The professor— a westernized individual—was frustrated by his inability to understand Zen, and asked Nan-in to explain it to him.
Nan-in declined to speak on the subject. Instead he led the professor into his tea room, sat him at a table, and brewed tea.
When it was ready, Nan-in bowed to the steaming pot. Then he poured tea into the professor’s cup. He kept on pouring. The cup filled and overflowed onto the table.
The professor stared in dismay at the growing puddle. At first—out of a deeply-ingrained politeness—he said nothing. But finally he cried out: “Stop, my cup is overfull! It will hold no more!”
“Just so,” said Nan-in. “And you too are overfull—of your own thoughts, opinions, and preconceptions. How can I teach you about Zen until you have first emptied your cup?”
_______________________________
If you wanna readmore the book, you can download the book in digital version from link below :
Link 1
+++ YOUR GUIDE TO JAPAN +++
by Professor Solomon
Illustrated by Steve Solomon
Top Hat Press
BALTIMORE
_______________________________
CONTENTS
Origins
Islands
Fuji
Shinto
Zen
Bushido
The Buddha Crystal
Tea Ceremony
Battle of Dan-no-ura
Basho
The Bronze Buddha
Paper
Festival of the Dead
The Sacrifice
Hokusai
Spirit of the Sword
Foxes
Bowing
Godzilla
How to Fold a Paper House
A Boon from Benten
Moon
Going There
Where to Stay
Sightseeing
Bathing
Dos and Don’ts
Robots
Q & A
_______________________________
SAMPLE CONTENT
Tea Ceremony
1
“Tea gives one vigor of body, contentment of mind, and determination of purpose,” said the legendary Shen Nung, Fire Emperor of China. His subjects agreed with him; and over the centuries the beverage came into wide use in the Middle Kingdom—as a medicinal tonic and sociable beverage. Poets referred to it as “liquid jade”; and one of them enthused: “When I drink tea, I am conscious of peace. The cool breath of Heaven rises in my sleeves, and blows my cares away.”
As Buddhism, fine arts, and other achievements of Chinese civilization traveled to Japan, tea accompanied them. A major impetus to its use came from Eisai, the monk who introduced Zen Buddhism to the land. He also brought from China some choice tea plants, which he cultivated at his monastery. The monks drank the tea at their shrine to Bodhidharma, as part of a ritual.*
Eisai wrote a treatise on tea, in which he praised it as “the divine remedy and supreme gift of Heaven for preserving human life.” This claim was brought to the attention of the Shogun, who had fallen ill. He summoned Eisai and commanded him to administer his remedy. Fortunately for the monk, the Shogun recovered. And as word spread of its medicinal (and stimulative) effect, tea was on its way to becoming the national beverage of Japan.
2
Among its first devotees were samurai warriors, who held lavish tea-tasting parties. Large amounts of sake were also consumed (prompting such riotous behavior that the parties were eventually banned); and any tonic effect of the tea must have been offset by the toxicity of the alcohol. But the parties did serve to establish tea as a sociable beverage.
Around the same time, a special ceremony came into vogue in the castles of warlords. Inspired by the tea ritual of the monks, it involved the sharing of a bowl of tea by the warlord and important visitors. This formal event—a status symbol for the powerful—was held in a richly appointed chamber, with costly utensils. But the Tea Ceremony came to be modified in an important way. The man who modified it—and who is considered the patron saint of the Tea Ceremony—was Sen no Rikyu, tea master to Hideyoshi.*
Hideyoshi was drawn to the Tea Ceremony for its ostentatious display of wealth and the intimidating pomp of its ritual; and he gave Rikyu (his close advisor as well as tea master) a free hand in conducting and perfecting it. An aesthete of the first order, Rikyu took the Tea Ceremony and remodeled it into something wholly new in spirit.
What Rikyu introduced into the Tea Ceremony was what the Japanese call wabi—a concept that is difficult to translate. Wabi is an aesthetic term, referring to a quality of restraint—of plainness—of understatement—in a work of art. Its earliest associations were with Zen recluses living in the mountains. Their rustic ways, their rough exteriors (yet noble souls), the plainness of their dwellings—all this was wabi. Rikyu, who had studied Zen, was taken with its aesthetic values; and he set out to inject them into the Tea Ceremony.
His basic idea was that all things luxurious and pretentious— the gold utensils, fancy furnishings, elaborate dress—were anathema, and should be replaced with the plain, the natural, the (seemingly) artless. Indeed, Hideyoshi’s tea chamber itself—a spacious reception hall—had to go. So Rikyu began by constructing, on the castle grounds, a tea hut.With its thatched roof and log walls, this modest structure resembled a hermit’s shack. It was set in a garden—a simple, rustic affair of shrubs and small trees. To objections that his creation was scarcely the sort of place in which to receive the grand Hideyoshi, Rikyu quoted an earlier tea master: “‘A prize horse looks best tethered to a hut.’”
The interior of the hut was equally austere. Its unadorned walls, somber colors, and dearth of furnishings lent Rikyu’s tea room a monastic air. For utensils—drinking bowl, kettle, and other implements of the ceremony—he had sought out unrefined pieces of folk art. And he began to conduct, in this lowly venue, a version of the Tea Ceremony that had an entirely different feel to it.
Amazingly, Hideyoshi appreciated and participated in the new aesthetic (although he continued to hold lavish Tea Ceremonies at well). The warlord who had sought out the most ornate utensils (usually imported from China), now gathered plain, homespun items—the beauty of which his tea master had taught him to discern. Returning from an invasion of Korea, he brought back a trove of rough—yet exquisite—Korean pottery. With it came a group of captured potters, who would establish the style in Japan.
With Hideyoshi’s support, the renovated Tea Ceremony flourished. After Rikyu’s death (he had a falling out with Hideyoshi that proved fatal), it was preserved and refined by his disciples. And as it spread from castle to castle, and to private homes (the merchant class was eager to join in), the Tea Ceremony became a hallmark of Japanese culture— which it has remained to the present day.
The irony, of course, is that a ritual with airs of poverty has been practiced mainly by the well-to-do. The means to maintain a hut and garden; the leisure to sip tea all afternoon; and the good taste to be drawn to such a ceremony— these are not the advantages of the poor. But among the tastemakers of Japan, the wabi-infused Tea Ceremony became a cherished custom. And it came to exert thereby an enormous influence on Japanese art and culture.
How is it that the sipping of tea, amid circumstances of artificial poverty, could have had such an influence? What is the Tea Ceremony all about? And why has it endured, virtually unchanged over the centuries?
To find out, let us attend a typical session.
3
At the appointed hour, the guests (a maximum of four*) begin to arrive at the home of their host. They are neatly and soberly attired (no Hawaiian shirts), in kimonos or contemporary dress. In a reception room they sample the water that will be used, and don special sandals. Then they are led outside to the garden.
There they are seated on a bench and left alone for a while. They savor the fragrances, listen to the hum of insects, enter into a contemplative frame of mind. When everyone has arrived and is ready, one of the guests rings a gong.
The host appears and leads them along a winding path. Surrounding them is a rustic simplicity. A backyard enclave of pine trees, moss-covered stones, bushes, and ferns has been artfully contrived for a natural effect. Everything is tranquil and harmonious. Already the guests have left behind their ordinary thoughts, in this sanctuary from the hurly-burly of the world.
On reaching the hut, the guests remove their sandals. (In olden times, samurai would also remove their swords and leave them in a rack.) Then, one by one—in order of age, refinement, or relationship to the host—they enter the hut. This is effected via an unusual doorway. Only a few feet high, it resembles a low window. Each guest must crouch and crawl inside.*
The guests find themselves in a room that is nearly empty. Its walls are bare plaster; its ceiling is unfinished wood. Straw mats (tatami) cover the floor. A subdued light filters in through paper windows. Everything is immaculately clean. (As part of his artistry, the host himself has swept and dusted.)
But the tea room is not entirely devoid of furnishings. For in the tokonoma (“alcove of honor”), two items have been placed. One is a scroll bearing a delicate ink painting. The other is a vase, in which a sprig of leaves and buds (cut by the host at dawn) has been carefully arranged.*
The guests approach the tokonoma and acknowledge it with a bow. Then they seat themselves around a brazier in the center of the room. In silence they let the chasteness of the decor—the lack of furnishings and ornamentation— give rise to a certain mood.*
The host now enters and joins them at the brazier. He lights the fire, using charcoal that has been cut into prescribed lengths and shapes. From an engraved case he takes chips of incense and adds them to the fire. He hands the case to the principal guest, who has asked to see it. The principal guest praises its design and inquires as to its history. The case is passed from guest to guest.
A light meal is served. Then it is time for tea. The host brings out his utensils, which include pot, drinking bowl, and caddy of powdered tea. The guests compliment him on his taste in selecting these. The bowl receives particular attention. Irregular in shape (another hallmark of wabi) and unglazed, it has an almost primitive look. As the guests pass it about, they ooh and ah. They praise its patina of age—a weathered look that bespeaks years of service. They inquire as to its past owners. Is it a valuable antique—the bowl of some renowned tea master? Has it acquired a name (based on its appearance, or on the craftsman who made it)? The host smiles and modestly relates its history—including the circumstances of any faults it has acquired. For chips, cracks, and repairs are seen as enhancing the time-worn look of a utensil.*
When his utensils have been inspected and admired, the host brews the tea. Quality water and costly tea unite; and that “liquid jade” is born. Everyone bows in unison to O Cha, orHonorable Tea. Apologizing for its poor quality, the host—with a practiced gesture—pours tea into the bowl.
The principal guest takes three sips, then passes the bowl on. The next guest wipes the rim with a napkin, turns the bowl clockwise, and sips. As the bowl travels from guest to guest, they comment (in a restrained, non-effusive manner) on the high quality of the tea, and praise again the bowl. When everyone has sipped, the group bows in gratitude.
After a second bowl and a serving of sweets, the guests loosen up. They begin to converse, in a relaxed, spontaneous manner. Certain topics—such as contemporary affairs, or anything controversial or scandalous—are avoided. Rather, they touch upon the signs of the season; the artistry of the scroll in the tokonoma; the skill of the flower arrangement. Someone recites a poem. Philosophical and artistic questions are discussed.
Then everyone sits in silence, savoring this unique occasion. They listen to the hum of the kettle…the chirp of a cricket…the brushing of a branch against the roof.
Finally the guests take their leave. After final compliments to the host and an exchange of bows, they file through the garden and are gone.
Now the host sits and takes tea alone, beside his bubbling kettle. He gives himself over to the mood of the tea room; to the harmoniousness of his surroundings; to a sense of oneness with the world. Eyes half-closed, he murmurs pleasurably.
As the last rays of sun illumine the tokonoma, he gazes up at the flower in the vase. How lovely it is, he thinks— and how transitory. It started the day as a bud; bloomed at midday; and has begun now to droop and wither. A poignant symbol of our own mortality.
He sips tea.
A breeze rustles the roof.
4
What is the point of all this? What has so attracted generations of Japanese to the Tea Ceremony? And what has been its influence on their civilization?
A clue to the significance of the Tea Ceremony may lie in its monastic origins. For much that is associated with Zen monasteries is characteristic of the tea hut as well. Beneath its thatched roof is to be found the same air of asceticism and tranquility. And like a monk, the tea-sipper seeks to escape the turmoil of the world; to embrace simplicity; to enter into a meditative frame of mind. Only their aims differ: an aesthetic experience for the one; enlightenment for the other. And while the Tea Ceremony is not explicitly religious, it is grounded in Zen. It is a spiritual path—one that adores the beauty to be found in ordinary things and acts.
Such a path would seem to have a multiple attraction to the Japanese. For one thing, it speaks to a yearning in the national soul for wabi—for the aesthetic pleasure of plainness. It satisfies, too, a craving for discipline in daily activities. And it appeals to a love of ceremony. All this converges in a social occasion—a communing with friends amid agreeable surroundings. No wonder the Tea Ceremony has endured.
But for a definitive analysis, no less an authority than Rikyu himself is available. In the pages of theNanbo-roku* he discusses the Tea Ceremony—“an ascetic discipline based on Buddhist Law and aimed at spiritual deliverance” —at length. But the real lowdown comes in this brief verse, delivered in the best Zen, head-bopping tradition:
You ask me what transpires in this room?
It’s simple, sir: boil, brew, consume.
That simple act—highly ritualized and perfected—was Rikyu’s gift to his countrymen. Yet his legacy does not stop there.
For it is a startling fact that most subsequent Japanese art harkens back to Rikyu and his infusion of wabi into the Tea Ceremony. The plainness of his hut—its chaste, impoverished air—became the basis for Japanese architecture. His garden became the prototype of the Japanese garden. The meal he served before tea—austere yet exquisite—became the norm of Japanese cuisine. The sober hues to which he was partial became standard in dress and decor. His sprig in the tokonoma inspired the art of flower arrangement. His taste in scrolls significantly influenced painting; his taste in utensils, ceramics. The list goes on.
In short, the aesthetic values of Sen no Rikyu—embodied in the Tea Ceremony—became those of the nation. It is a remarkable achievement. In linking tea with a Zeninspired sense of beauty, he endowed his countrymen with a ritualized expression of their deepest sensibilities. Indeed, so central did tea-drinking become to the culture that a Japanese insensitive to the finer elements of life is said to have no tea in him.
What are we in the West to make of this? Certainly, we can attend—and take pleasure in—a Tea Ceremony. But can we arrive at any understanding of the soul of its practitioners? Of their sensibilities? Of their Zen-influenced worldview? Can we ever come to have any tea in us?
The story is told of a university professor who came to visit Nan-in, a noted tea master of the Meiji era. The professor— a westernized individual—was frustrated by his inability to understand Zen, and asked Nan-in to explain it to him.
Nan-in declined to speak on the subject. Instead he led the professor into his tea room, sat him at a table, and brewed tea.
When it was ready, Nan-in bowed to the steaming pot. Then he poured tea into the professor’s cup. He kept on pouring. The cup filled and overflowed onto the table.
The professor stared in dismay at the growing puddle. At first—out of a deeply-ingrained politeness—he said nothing. But finally he cried out: “Stop, my cup is overfull! It will hold no more!”
“Just so,” said Nan-in. “And you too are overfull—of your own thoughts, opinions, and preconceptions. How can I teach you about Zen until you have first emptied your cup?”
_______________________________
If you wanna readmore the book, you can download the book in digital version from link below :
Go Home : Scanning Document
