Tea
I pour my elixir –a shade of “rabbit’s blood”–, or the Turks say given the way it’s tinted, a dark red mixed with brown.
It is a potion I’ve concocted with care, a shade achieved by boiling leaves through the means of fire and air.
Having traveled east to west, it exists in almost every part of the world, a drink considered so mundane as to be overlooked while sipped; except in Japan where the symbolism of its warmth, hospitality and simplicity has been recognized to be powerful enough for ceremonies to be conducted in its honor; the secrets of these ceremonies safeguarded by the Samurai for centuries and conveyed by masters to the keepers of their schools.
Tea.
As a weirdo who grew up swimming through different cultures and not knowing where I quite fit in, I learned of the significance of tea for the Japanese after coming across it in the passage of a book. The Japanese have devoted centuries to preserving “The way of Tea”, their distinguished Tea Ceremonies built on the principles of making others feel welcome within a small, tea gathering while inspiring guests to find immense beauty in things that are often overlooked—like a blossom that’s been carefully clipped, the season in which it has bloomed and its choice of vase; a scroll on a wall containing a profound message; the placement of prized utensils, cups and dishes–all blending to foster a sense of unity with nature and guests; learning to hold a stirring spoon properly, sometimes taking a lifetime to master, or ensuring the tearoom is deliberately small, so that when guests enter through the door, they must crawl, as to foster a sense of equality once inside. From a western perspective, one built on rationalism, the notion of tea being served from the heart might come across as a sentimental or cheesy, but this precept rests on eastern philosophy revolving around a different set of values. The tea used in the ceremony is a different than the one I’m pouring, theirs being matcha, a powdery green with a leafy taste, distinct from the black variety I pour.
After the last drops of “rabbit’s blood” trickle into two cups, I take them, walking from the kitchen to hand a cup to my lovely mother. She is lounging in the family room on a blue sofa, the edge of her scarf dangling past her shoulders, as she pulls a of string prayer beads. She looks up at me. Though I’m a married 28-year-old woman, I still haven’t quite left the roost as I’m here all the time, which also means I’m chided, doted on, fed, complained to, complained about, cared for and loved all the time. One need not be in the same house to be the recipient of all that–but being under the same roof calls for a more heightened experience I seem to enjoy.
“Make sure you eat something, did you find the pilaf in the fridge?” she asks, her round face scrunches up in worry, her cheekbones rising higher. Always worried about me, she looks me up and down—from my raven hair to my toes. I’m not terribly thin, but I’m thin enough to have that slight pooch at my waist be noticeable, paired with slouched shoulders give me the look of an inverted question mark–much like how I feel about my existence most of the time.
“will eat later , sorry mom, I have to do stuff downstairs…
“What? Haven’t you put in enough effort for these ceremonies?” she calls after me. By this time, I’ve returned to the kitchen, opening my parents’ basement door and flip on the light, treading down the burgundy carpeted-stairwell, swinging my mug–its drops drizzling on my fingers like burning mist. A mini volcano.
A Heritage Museum
It’s not much of a descending hike reaching the base of the stairs where I turn on another outlet. Eureka! My eyes light up at the many artifacts all over the basement–relics of my cultural heritage; containing miniatures of Sultans; my late grandfather’s daggers; a painting of an impressionable Timur Lenk, referred deridingly as Tamer the Lame, who to me resembles King Midas as he’s donned with a crown and draped in wealth; various hats pinned to walls; a shelf with cobalt bowl cups and a matching teapot with white designs on them, symbolizing cotton, also referred to as white gold due to the economic value it holds for the 4 countries represented by their flags on a poster I walk past—Uzbekistan, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Turkmenistan; my feet brush past the colorful mats sprawled on carpet; somehow this all evokes the feel of a museum, the look my mom had sought to achieve.
Tea Ceremonies
Like a curator seeking a valuable piece to add to their collection, my eyes rove, scouting for cultural props to enliven the tea ceremonies my friends and I engage during Sunday nights. Having been inspired by the Japanese tea ceremony, I’ve cajoled my friends to create our own tea ceremonies–not to appropriate anything from the Japanese tradition–, nor could we if we tried, but to find a feeling of connection to all of life by incorporating peaceful, cultural elements. While I bring items relevant to the cultures on the poster to these ceremonies, others bring elements holding the same underlying intent from the cultures with which they identify; in case, someone doesn’t relate to any particular culture, they share something that holds peace for them as an individual since the overall purpose is to highlight a shared human story.
I always come down to this trove of a basement, as I do now, adding items to the ones we already use in the ceremony circle, placing them alongside the items friends have donated, too.
The Main Goal
Our ceremonies must be perfect to introduce them as meaningful fundraising events to the public as to raise funds for our ultimate goal: the Teahouse.
To provide a much optimistic mission statement, the Teahouse intends to explore the meanings we have of existence and how Culture influences how we see things to solve meanings we have within ourselves holding us back from establishing greater peace. I imagine the Teahouse being an actual place where people gather, sitting crossed legged on these mats, or on chairs for those who have difficulty sitting on the floor, to discuss existential meanings,–including values, challenges, beliefs– whether it be their own or that of others, over a cup of tea; tea serving as a symbol of humanity and life in terms of containing 4 unifying elements — Water, Earth, Fire, Air; as well as being a beverage having traveled from East to West, denoting hospitality and warmth in a multitude of cultures while being considered a small, calming delight amid the backdrop of the mundane.
Funds
My not having a job means no source of income or funding, so my efforts at these kinds of fundraising efforts, 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, momentarily distracted by items in stacks of boxes, most of them containing a hint of a retro flair.
The Radio–and Family
Among these items is my mom’s transistor radio peeking over the ledge of the topmost box, its dials and antenna beckoning me over– 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. Referring again to that poster on the wall, my ancestry traces to Uzbekistan, one of several Turkic countries that often enough appear to the west as belonging among a pack of inconsequential stans; and like many countries around the world with rich histories, it lay on the ancient Silk Road–the Silk Road being the ancient predecessor of the highway and internet, a series of trade routes having connected the world for centuries and along which tea traveled to mark its presence in a majority of cultures.
In the 1970s, my paternal grandparents immigrated to the United States. Preservation of language and culture was central in our household, perhaps in protest toward the commies who sought to obliterate any sort of identity, with the exception of being a “comrade”, driving millions off millions from their homelands who disagreed with their ideology, massacring millions more. Perhaps this explains the longing see here in our family museum; a wistful tie to our ancestral roots, “Turkistan”, the land of the Turks, (which along with the four countries on the poster, includes Turkey, Azerbaijan and a whole list of territories).
The Signal
Meanwhile, unlike the stories of our family history I never brush off, I’ve pulled 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.