Tea Ceremonies
Thus, I seek items here containing these kinds of human
stories to bring to
the tea ceremonies I’ve created, having cajoled my friends into joining every
Sunday night. Inspired by the Japanese tradition that I could never
appropriate, even if we tried, our ceremonies are built on finding unity with
humanity and nature through cultural elements/pieces that build peace. Every
week I’m here in the basement, looking for a new item to bring to the ceremony up from the trove. We’re all to bring pieces containing
memories, some however bring pieces of meaning to them, regardless of whether
they bear any cultural significance.
Another Sort of Blood–We’re Not Vampires!
In the ceremonies, sipping in place of what virgin’s blood, we’ve got
“rabbit’s blood”,
(based merely on its color–and we don’t drink blood!)”; the tea also representing earth, water, fire and
air, the gold would be the people’s stories, the stories each person brings to
explain what make them human, enabling them to connect with other participants
on a deeper level. The tea also itself also represents a collective, human
story, as tea had traveled across the ancient silk road, the predecessor of the
internet and modern-day highway (relative to 2016), having connected the world
for centuries.
The Main Goal
The tea ceremonies must be perfect in
order to fundraise for our ultimate goal being the Teahouse. If
everyone were to look at their own “Who Are You?” form, the answers would be so
varied,; so the Teahouse would be an actual place where people gather, sitting
crossed legged on these colorful mats, or on chairs for those who have
difficulty sitting on the ground, to discuss existential meanings,–including
values, challenges, beliefs– whether it be their own or that of others, over a
cup of tea; reflecting on how Culture influences how we see things to solve
meanings we have within ourselves holding us back from establishing greater
peace. A group of question marks.
Funds
Unfortunately, my not having a job means no source of income or funding,
so my efforts at
these kinds of fundraising efforts to get the Teahouse, might seem like heaping
pennies through child’s play; but with enough innovative pizzazz a “child’s
lemonade stand” could morph into a bold entrepreneurial move amassing millions,
or, uhh.. maybe just enough for the first day of rent in a building somewhere.
We could even luck out and gain
the sympathies of a
generous donor or a grant by some governmental agency, insisting, “we see the
promise behind your creative, humanitarian, endeavor, please let us pick up the
tab.”..
None of this sounds like sound
business advice, but
my eyes scout anyway, while I press the hat to my heart then put it away,
choosing to bring this artifact to another ceremony practice.
Instead, I catch sight of my mom’s transistor radio, left over from her
days in 90s as an international-broadcaster. During those years, she was
stationed in Washington DC to Uzbekistan for Voice of America, leading up to
the toppling of the iron curtain–the fall of communism.
The Signal
I walk over to this box containing other items with a retro flair. Unlike the stories of our family
history I seldom brush off, I pull out the radio from the box whose dust I do, blowing the
surface as I flip on the switch, giving a dial a whirl. It works fine. I whirl,
spin, hearing programs, one after the other; funnily, a Russian pop song
blasts, followed by a news program in Spanish, and in the sequence of other
whirls are songs and programs I interpret as Korean, German, French,
interspersed with languages I don’t recognize. Once I hit the 90 bracket, I
hear static, cracks, interrupted at 96.6 am by a man who says, “back to our
regularly scheduled programming” then unceasing silence. My fingers continue
following the knob’s etchings, arriving at 97.7 FM, where I again hear static..
but then something unusual– a faint kind of sound, with an otherworldly feel,
pulling onto itself– a raspy breathlessness complemented by a soft
chime.
I can’t tell whether the sound is external or in my
mind.
The song ends, leaving me to the sound of static and
goosebumps. It feels lonely down here. I latch the handle of the radio, the only “artifact” I
seize, then scurry up the staircase, tea erupting like volcanic bubbles in my
hands. I turn off the lights, and slam the door.