April’s Air

Finally, Winter’s cold seems like a memory as Spring’s first warm day is here. Birds call and breezes push through the trees whose branches now brim with red and green buds of the new season. April’s air is fragrant and fresh. So, too, is the soil, waking from its hibernation.

Shoots and seedlings push up from the wet earth, soaked and saturated by the weekend’s rain.

Stepping across the garden to huddle in my makeshift hut, I dust-off the floorboards and bring with me a bowl to make tea.

A whisk.

A 棗 natsume.

A wooden scoop of speckled bamboo that looks like dew, that looks like intermittent showers.

An old thermos filled with hot water.

A 建水 kensui to collect the dregs.

Sitting in my hut, I meditate. Wisps of incense smoke fade and the sound of a bird scratching at the moss upon the roof wakes me, rousing me to make tea.

I remove my rings and set them down beside me.

I arrange the wares to make an informal bowl of 薄茶 usucha.

The silk of my 袱紗 fukusa is folded and pressed against the lid of the tea caddy and then again against the surface of the tea scoop.

Bowl and whisk are warmed and in the sunlight that pours through the one window of my hut, steam is seen rising from wetted objects as they wait to be used to make tea.

Unlike Winter, the world of Spring throbs with life, pulsates with energy, and booms with noise and sound from all directions. The ring of the 茶杓 chashaku against the inner edge of the grey-glazed clay of my 井戸茶碗 Ido chawan pairs with the sound of a robin digging for worms outside my garden hut. The rush of water from the thermos into the bowl harmonizes with the song that wind and trees sing above me.

The back and forth of the whisk as bright green foam rises creates a rhythmic tune that syncopates against the hum of the warbler’s tune, the crow’s caw, the horn of the train, and the din of the town in the distance.

I am reminded that what we often call peace is just another word for chaos. What we often label silence is just a cacophony of sounds that blend and meld together.

Spring in full vigor is activity emerging from below the soil, from the wooded husks of once dormant trees, of the silvery swirl of clouds against a bright blue sky.

Tea alone at this moment is just that. A moment stolen from an otherwise busy world, on an otherwise ordinary Monday.

Time taken to reinvigorate the heart and remind the soul the the seasons are changing constantly.

Momentarily replacing the glowing screen and clicking keyboard for the dim light of a tearoom and the sparkling foam of 抹茶 matcha radiating from within a matte grey teabowl.

For this moment, the only thing I have to examine are the last drops of tea that remain.

The unctuous glaze that has collected and congealed along the 高台 kōdai of an antique chawan.

The rippling lacquer that shimmers atop a natsume.

The speckled pattern of black dots that nature has arranged upon the skin of my bamboo tea scoop.

As the incense burns down, the light of the day shifts, the call of songbirds collect and crescendo, I take my cue to gather-up my items again.

Dregs in a teabowl are wetted and wiped clean. Water evaporates off of the thin tines of an old and broken 茶筅 chasen as its set upon a folded 茶巾 chakin. The tea scoop is dusted-off and laid across the chawan’s ceramic rim.

Tea caddy and chawan set side by side before they are put away.

I screw the cap back onto my old metal thermos and open the door of my garden shed to walk back across the stone path that leads to the door of my studio.

Birds call. Wind blows. Branches shift. The soil softens and the first leaves of a radish pushes up to greet the sun. All of these moments combine and culminate together, contributing to April’s air. Fragrant and fresh. Sweet and fleeting.

April’s Air