The service unfolded mostly in silence. Mesmerised, we watched the monk ladle water into a heated pot, and whisk the matcha, each movement precise, graceful. It was like a slow dance. Each gesture had purpose, infused by ritual; nothing existed without meaning. It had taken our host 10 years to master the art.
Every chanoyu is uniquely crafted to honour the guests, the season, and even the time of day. This attention to context was reflected in the scroll hanging in the tokonoma alcove bearing the phrase “every day is a good day” – undoubtedly more poetic in its original Japanese – and in the carefully selected seasonal tsubaki, or camellia, flower arrangement.
Our host set before each of us a black lacquered plate so perfectly polished it resembled a lake at midnight, bearing a seasonal wagashi sweet with a kuromoji wooden skewer. To my untrained ear, the red-bean sweet’s name sounded like “haru ulala” which he explained was meant to capture “the bright, clear quality of the season”. Siri later informed me that the name of the sweet likely rhymed with haru uta, a traditional Japanese song performed only in spring.
As he prepared the matcha, our host shared insights that shaped our appreciation of a traditional chanoyu. The earthen tea bowl’s shape should respond to the seasons – flared lips for summer to cool the brew, tighter rims for winter to preserve warmth. Even the selection of the bowl reflects the gender of the tea master.
Pale green powder in hot water became frothy liquid as he worked the bamboo whisk with both grace and an economy of movement, every gesture choreographed by centuries of tea lore.
Eventually, he rose from his seat. Padding towards us on white-stockinged feet, he placed the bowl of frothy matcha beside the wagashi. “Please eat the sweet first, then drink the tea,” he murmured. He noticed my rings. “These are low-fired bowls, so they are delicate. Best to remove metal jewellery before handling.”
AloJapan.com