I had been trying to spontaneously realize tea as if I could force satori, but my spirit wanted space for tea, for ascertaining slowly. Because tea is a path without an end, where only journey matters. One that can’t be taught from text or learned by rote. It’s a memory of the body. A graceful dance of tatami, bamboo, silk, and clay. A dance the body can’t be shown, but must be coaxed into deeply seeking, like the rhythm of the heartbeat, but deeper still. Tea is intimate, tea is shared. Tea connects with unuttered truths of the flesh and of the soul. Tea: simplicity and a moment.

     I race home from tea. I’m happy to be alive and my blood is pumping, a ward against the cold. From Asagaya Eki I exit, dash across the flashing blue down into the covered maze of shops: all the way through at breakneck speed; exit shops, then turn, then turn again; a sprint up the sidewalk past three crosswalks and a car rental; left past the new bicycle shop and the ancient musty niche of a bookstore. Towering stalks of bamboo leaned against the opposite building mean I’m almost there: my house, fourth lot down, left hand side.

     Walking, it is 15 minutes; 11 if I’m fast. Running start-stop against pockets of crowding, tonight I make it home in 7. Breathless. Happy. A rhythm I can feel.

     The entire family is bustling about the kitchen. Shamelessly inspired by the amazing swirl of aroma that consumes me as I enter, I exclaim, “Waaa! Oishisoo!! Tetsudaimashoka?” but I’m not needed; I’ll be called down in a bit, Okaachama assures me with a weak smile. She is somehow managing to keep an eye on each of the two younger girls, 5 and 7––one chopping onions with a special children’s knife and the other struggling with a stack of ceramic dishes––while still washing, chopping, and boiling vegetables herself. Otoochama is home from work too, and he helps with surveillance––and the plates. The eldest daughter at just 15 oversees, between cookbook and stovetop, three or four tasks at once.

     So I jet up the stairs and collapse on my bed instead, chest and brain still pounding. Have I raced home for nothing? But that’s absurd and I’m ecstatic to be alive. I flash a grin at no one, a happy girl-thing on my bed, and stretch toward the five directions.

 

     My seven-year-old sister is just out of the bath. Home late for dinner, I’m eating quickly at the table, just trying to hurry so I can get back upstairs to studying, when I glance up through two open doorways and take in this scene. The paper doors of her bedroom are open and her active child’s body gleams with the freshness of a hot bath; her mother is putting lotion on her legs to prevent dry skin. Her hair, which doesn’t come past her ears, is tousled and wet, her head thrown back. Knees bent with palms pressed to lower back, her belly arches out and elbows jut to either side: in the most unlikely of situations, I have spied the spitting image of an old man.

    

     The birds scream and screech their awful calls to one another. It’s a cold gray Sunday morning and I can’t see the blue. I work on stories, and allow the hours to pass into one another. In small lulls, I breathe deeply the coolness of the sky, and sometimes uncap a jar of peanut butter and drink in its fragrance too, lifting it with my right hand to my nostrils as my left hand finds a place below the jar. It’s a day for being lost in story. A soft, quiet, somewhere-else day.

 

     It is my time making a cup of tea. We are playing the game again and I am hurried, guided, shown, told, taught. I follow and try to remember everything. I impress everyone by remembering the exact way to hold the yuushaku, the larger bamboo scoop that takes the water from the okama, pot, to bring it to the chawan, tea bowl. I think the names in Japanese and English, trying to remember them simultaneously. I reach to lift the lid of the okama with the fukusaa, my bright orange silk cloth, and realize only too late that it is much heavier than I expected, it is metal, and the fukusaa is too smooth––the lid slips from my hand and falls into the ash of the––place whose name I can’t remember: the gaping hole.

     I gasp––and imagine everyone else has as well, but there is only silence and averted eyes––as the younger of my two senseis takes it quickly to wash it immediately, as if on cue, while the other sensei, who is sitting behind and cattycorner to me, boils over a diatribe of very fast Japanese. I repeat many times “gomenasai, gomenasai,” and though I am not reading body language or even understanding many of the words, it is amazing how much a familiar tone communicates. I continue nodding quickly and giving forth more gomenasais until the younger sensei returns and begins guiding me again through the next steps, and I force the anguished look from my face. My third bowl of tea, the day I dropped the okama lid. I have been tainted.

     And yet when it is over, I am not banned from ever coming again; I am not whipped or flayed or beheaded. If anything, my fellow tea students––all of whom are much, much more skilled than I––offer things like, “muzukashi, ne,” and “kyosukete, ne?” with soft, understanding smiles. And sensei, the one who had so easily poured forth such harsh-sounding words, is back to smiling with her whole face, and tacking on “chan” to the end of my name.

     I’m the only one she does that with, and it makes me feel loved, like everyone is looking out for me because I’m the newest––some women have been doing lessons for years, and I think I’ve discovered something brilliant in the thinking, Tea is a way of life, but I have no grid for comprehending this. It is just words, just sounds; but I am pleased with myself for it, and seek the little joys I can on this, the day of my failure. I hear “chan” and allow myself to be brightened, encouraged. I won’t allow my mistake to rule me, I think. I will master it.

 

     My best friend is doing kendo nearly everyday, and he text-messages me from his cell phone. “Do you think you’ll do tea back in the states?” I had never thought about it before but suddenly I want to. He has found a place only an hour away from home that offers kendo; it makes me think that I’m behind.

 

     He shows me the blisters, the calluses he is developing from kendo. Imitates his war cries with a sheepish glance down afterwards, “I think they think I’m taking it too seriously.” And he’s at the gym for hours at a time, relentless. Mastery over body and through body over mind: a path; a way. When he tells me of the cute girl behind the gym counter who giggles a little and once works up the courage to say, “mai nichi, ne?” I imagine her eyes carry a hint of the awe and respect in my own. He is becoming strong.

 

     Humbled and encouraged by his devotion, I dissolve my self in tea even further. It isn’t enough to manage the correct fold or correct movement and gain the “soo soo soo” every once in a while. I want to gain the respect of my senseis, I want to master body and mind in these small ways, in these tiny delicate movements and placements. Discipline my hands to grip perfectly the chashaku as I lift it and wipe it clean, the chasen as I stir three strokes, lift and slowly turn; stir three strokes, lift and slowly turn; stir three strokes, lift and slowly turn; agitate the tea with “shabu shabu shabu” until finishing with the artistic hiragana “no.” And through all of this, I must be aware of the rest of my body: my posture, my seiza, and the placement of my other hand, whether it must be on my thigh or on the bowl.

     My face, I hope, will someday take on the peace that the other women manifest, with that subtle determination. But for now, I think it’s okay just to look intense, as I push myself to find the movement with my right hand on the chasen and the placement of my left hand at all times. I am learning to become something more refined, more focused.

 

     I am staring at the peels of our mikans, and thinking, This is a moment. This holds meaning. Like in a story, when the setting, imagery, and symbolism all come together perfectly. It isn’t a moment of zen; it’s just a moment. His peel is covered and closed, hiding all the messy bits within large parts that wrap around each other. Like origami, it fits within itself, seams somehow not jagged. But it isn’t origami, because the peel is much thicker than paper–– thick, to keep out, and to keep in. Because I know him, I imagine I am acknowledging some deep insight. It fits, in this space, in this time. My peel is like a bowl of chaotic mikan mess. It’s not a mess all over the table; it’s contained chaos. That’s me, I think to myself. And in this moment I am certain. But it is only in this one isolated moment outside of time that this is who we are. And it doesn’t need to be anything more. My eyes fixate on my threads of citrus fiber, white and twisting like metal modern art.

 

     Too exhausted to think or act, my mind is filled with vaguely sexual colors as I evaporate into sleep.

 

     I’m settled in for a day of study. I want to be soaking up the sorely needed human interaction with family, substitute though they may be, but I have punished myself for some unknown sin by taking the maximum number of credits possible. So here I am, another day holed up in my room. Another day, isolated, alone. I fear the timid knock at the door of a host sister wanting to play––what I long for most.

     The timid knock comes and I cringe, say “hai” for her to enter. The door slowly creaks forward and a curious face peeks in––the 7 year old. She sees me stretched out on the bed, homework papers obscuring the bedspread while I read a coursepack, and disappears, closing the door quietly. I am relieved and crushed. I need so badly a human connection with someone, anyone, everyone. I feel raw, hated, ignored, invisible. I read haltingly for a few minutes more before the door creaks a second time, and when I glance up, it is to find the smallest, most unobtrusive girl, next to me, and making not a single sound. She has brought her own book to read.

 

     Tea is a place that exists in a room of 8 tatami mats. It is contained, it is safety, it is comfort. It is warm on cold days, cool on hot days. It’s a thousand years ago and a thousand miles away from all the woes and worries of the day. It’s the camaraderie of women, of all ages, from middle school to gray hair and curled, knobby toes. It is a source of strength and of peace.

     We wear aprons that run the length of the upper torso and mimic the folds of the front of a kimono. In this, we carry a folding fan, a fukusaa, and a folded bundle of special napkins. In the crease of the napkins, within the innermost fold, we carry a tiny blunt-edged knife in an embroidered flat sheath. It is for cutting and eating softer treats that would otherwise get your fingers sticky. The blade is wiped on a napkin, as are the special ohashi used to lift treats from the dish to one’s neatly folded napkin.

     It is very comforting to think there is a correct manner for doing everything. A manner in which all things become effortless, and beautiful. I have never been graceful or deliberately thoughtful or slow in anything. And since coming here, I have had this feeling of being large, awkward and clumsy. My movements are too careless, wide, unthinking, quick. I am learning, am seeking, to become more like these Japanese women.   

     Between teas, I practice walking. It’s 3 steps across the short length of a tatami mat, 3 from one edge diagonally across to the other side’s middle. If I were to match the combined length of my feet against these 3 steps, they would almost be exactly equal. So my first goal in becoming graceful is this infinitely minute, infinitely difficult detail––mastering small, purposeful steps that overlap almost half the length of one of my feet. Instead of walking, it is like gliding, and the scuff of white sock against tatami grain adds to its natural beauty. Tiny steps. I am learning an essence of femininity. I think of the men in kabuki who have learned to make their shoulders slight, their postures diminutive, their motions graceful. Sometimes it has to do with closeness to the body. Male movements are wide, exaggerated, large. Females encompass small spaces. I practice my steps across this way, across that way. 1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3, slide slide slide. Even writing about it now, I pause to press my hands together and rub up, down, up, recreating a semblance of that pleasing sound. I have spent 20 years of my life being loud, exuberant, and carefree. I crave the discipline and beauty of these three, small steps.

 

     I’m pissed off and spiteful and bitter and hateful and raging. I stomp to my room––relatively softly but the feeling is there––shut the door with a fierce grimace––it would definitely be too disruptive to slam the door, and would require too much irritating explanation later––and (finally an aggressive action) crash into the chair at my desk. In all the miles of this spanning metropolis city, there’s not a single space for me and my anger. Like a caterpillar writhing against its cocoon, body bandaged in a second skin so tight it goes purple. In less than a moment I’m furiously typing at my computer, and what pours out of me is violent fucking. Not a story of making love or of having sex. Fucking. I channel my frustration and furor into soulless genderless frenzied forms with dead eyes and slack jaws, slamming against walls and tables and into one another, breaking and bruising and hurting for the sake of violence and destructive, crushing, consuming need. A mutual rape. They are not characters. They are little more than poorly defined programs of repeated movement and mindless malice. I imagine the two halves of my brain lurching violently at one another like maddened slugs, slushing painfully against one another as the lightning arcs and sparks and crashes.

 

     Seiza is a different kind of discipline. You are sitting with your legs tucked under you so that your thighs create a surface and your knees are its edge. The heels of your feet press into your buttocks and bear the weight of your upper half, while your feet curve into one another behind you. The feet are always covered by white socks so the tips that peek out from underneath, next to the fan you place behind you, are clad in purity.

     It was my impression at first that women kept their hands crossed in the middle whereas men kept a palm pressed to each leg, but that was incorrect. Hands in the middle is the guests’ position, and hands on either side, palm pressed to the thigh, is the server’s stance. It doesn’t have to do with gender, but with a shared humility; hands in the middle is politeness in receiving; hands to each side is politeness in giving. The back is kept straight at all times, even when bowing low to the ground. Massugu. Like a hand with fingers straight and as if bound together that remains rigid as the hand bends only at the wrist. This is the way we bow. The arms move, but the back is always straight.

     I got in trouble once for slouching. After my first lesson or two, instead of just saying, “chanto shinasai, ne” to everyone in general, the elder of my two senseis came to sit by me and said (in Japanese), “Your bow is very skillfully done; maybe too skillful? You really don’t have to bow except about half that low, like this,” she guides a bow from my body with a steady hand on my lower back, and stops me at an angle with a palm against my shoulder. “But your posture is always very poor. This is something you need to be thinking about all the time, okay?”

     My mood is light, and the explanation that springs to mind is already on my lips: in my broken Japanese, “Well since coming to Japan, I always feel like I’m too tall, so I try to make myself smaller.” I start to crouch to show what I mean and tears are in my eyes. I glance away quickly and blink them back, flash a quick smile. I didn’t realize such a simplistic explanation would strike a chord so deep, but in this place of tea, it’s as if my skin is open. As if the walls of this room are so protective and strong that I can be safe to explore deeply and find lasting, important truths. I have found one and I do not like it; when I touch it I am open and raw. Refusing to be undone, I tuck it away for contemplation later, but I have been shaken, and I am more serious for the rest of this lesson.

 

     I hadn’t even realized it but fleetingly, in thoughts about how everyone here is so thin, small, cute, beautiful, perfect. I’d never felt large, fat, ugly before––it’s a stinging blow. Like realizing breasts are an inevitable development: shoulders thrown forward and crowded inward and shoulder blades protruding out to hide the growing, glaring shame. My height, which set me apart to be stared at and judged, pulled my body in these same directions. Was affecting my posture, my mind. I could not allow this to touch my haven, my tea.

     Now that I know, I make my goal to always have the tallest, straightest posture; and every time I push my spine up and solid, I remind myself that I am beautiful, just as we all are beautiful. I can use this to encourage myself because my spirit believes it of everyone else. Tea is helping me relearn it about me.

 

     The sensation of flashing, slowly. With quick flickering, as in the case of movie scenes where a character is shocked and sees a series of images in super speed, there is no immediate processing, no ability to. Slow flashing then, as the sense of sensory overload and quick repetition inherent in the above, but with some impossible slowing of time to allow each scene to feel simultaneously an instant long and a slow-motion eternity, where everything can be analyzed and wondered at in length. This is the sensation I sometimes get on trains, standing at the door and gaping into the deep beyond.

 

     My two senseis at once both endlessly encourage small things done correctly (or corrected) and demand the highest level of concentrated excellence––causing in me a sort of fearful exhilaration. I got the same apprehensive, hopeful feeling once when I asked a sensei of mine to look over my kanji. I had poured hours into the inscribing of so many countless pages of characters, and yet the sensei had poured so many more years into the study of perfecting an art. I was infinitely afraid of being crushed by harsh criticism, and unreservedly craving of some tiny uplifting acknowledgement of my work. This seems to be the way I live life: affected by everything.

     I recall, relive: I hesitantly enter the office, the bundle of papers tucked protectively inside a textbook held in shoulder-bag at my side. I bring it out as if unwrapping a delicate bean paste treat, then hesitantly hand it over. Eternity of silent seconds. And then, easily and readily the sensei delivers a praising of the merits and a constructive critique of the flaws in my work. Seamlessly. As I leave the office, a slow-dawning sense of love for the universe creeps over my brain, and joy bubbles up from somewhere deep behind my sternum.

     I decide instinctively that he is “who I want to be when I grow up.”

     This is the sensation of tea. And it cultivates in me the simultaneous need to please others, and to master––for myself.

 

     I write myself a critique of my own work, “return to the source. seek out truth and simplicity. begin again. strip down further. become real.” I am frustrated and discouraged––I see the goal and no path connecting it and myself. I close my eyes and think green. Tea as center.

     Because I am not Japanese, and after many, many failed attempts at waka and haiku, I finally revert to simple prose: I will miss the sway of the train, the towers everywhere. The umbrellas; our silly mustard yellow building; walking home. Tea. Rob’s class, Richi’s class. Crowds, bikes, shops everywhere. Crows and cats and dogs in sweaters. Yen money. Japanese children. Walking everywhere. The sway of the train, and the rooftops passing by. The sway. The rhythm. The lull. Mamonaku, america. america desu.