In the summer, the cicadas sing.
It’s morning and I’ve already had my walk. Now it’s tea time. My favorite part of the day.
In the matcha bowl my mom got me for my recent birthday (47. Wasn’t I 40 yesterday? Wasn’t I 23 the day before? Wasn’t I 10 and all-knowing the day before that?), I whisk water and matcha powder and think of the mindfulness book I read some years ago that said something along the lines of: When you are drinking tea, let that be the only thing you do.
Actually, if memory serves me, it might have said: When you are washing the dishes, let that be the only thing you do. As a reminder that there are too many moments we rush through in our days with “dread and haste” (words taken from a Mindfulness of Doing the Dishes meditation script) and, in the process of hurrying through them, we risk missing out on life itself.
For the moments all add up.
For years, I’ve wanted a matcha tea set; the matcha (chawan), the bamboo tea scoop (chashaku), the whisk (chasen), and the whisk stand (chasen stand). Several times, I nearly bought one for myself.
But I always put it off. It would be one more thing to pack away in those times when I wander off to adventure. Or it would be one more tricky, breakable thing to try to stuff into my carry-on luggage when I do travel. It would be something else with which to clutter up my mom’s kitchen counter. It would be an indulgence. An unjustified expense.
So many reasons.
In the end, I’m saved from overthinking when my mom gives me my birthday present. And it’s perfect. “I always wanted this,” I tell my mom with a grin, copying my six-year-old nephew’s words. In my case, it’s nearly true (though “always” is still a stretch even for me). My mom knows how to find treasures. The exact right ones.
I’m pleased as punch, as my grandmother might have said. Actually, she would have said, “Tickled pink.” I’m tickled pink about my matcha tea set.
A day or so later, after I make an offhand remark about needing a special tea tray to keep from cluttering up my mom’s kitchen counter, my mom orders me a little tray.
A surprise. A thoughtfulness. A listening. A kindness.
I’m tickled even pinker.
Though I’ve been living here for years now (where does that time go? Why does it fly by so fast?), since before my dad died, I’ve resisted trying to (also as my grandmother might have said) build my own nest. For if I can pack my things away, empty the drawers, and leave, then I don’t actually live here, do I? I’m just in between places.
But lately, I’ve been thinking about doing just that. Building my nest. Making the space I live within more mine. More me. I’ve been thinking about Being Here. Where I am.
In this kitchen, in this house, in this state, in this summer. Here.
The pamphlet, titled: “Preparing the Perfect Bowl of Matcha Green Tea,” that came with the fancy matcha tea my mom gave me along with the tea set says, “Begin with a slow, back-and-forth stroke, then agitate the mixture to a froth with quick strokes.”
Shifting from slow to agitating, it’s all in the wrist, I change the mindfulness line to: When you are making tea, let that be the only thing you do.
But it is still nice.
For too often lately I myself have been agitated. About myself. The state of the world. This anger. That rage. The future. Money. Time. My physical being. My work. My sense of home. My sense of humor (or the lack thereof). All of humanity. The planet. Creativity. Productivity. All the other “ivities.” My longing for the mountains, forests, winter, cold weather, for anything besides than this city, humidity, and heat. Whisked around, finding irritations in the littlest things and the biggest ones.
Worse, not liking who I am in the middle of these irritations.
Can’t I be better? Can’t I be kinder? Why must I snap instead of answering calmly, gently, contentedly? How can I go about “Preparing the Perfect Me”? Where’s the pamphlet for that?
When I’m whisked (and aren’t we all whisked at all times, every day?), I’d like for the resulting froth to be a pleasing one rather than something bitter and bad.
Being human is hard. Oh to be 10 and all-wise again. Oh to recognize beauty in all its forms and be taken by awe. Oh to wonder and laugh with ease.
Perfection is unattainable. But excellence is always a good goal.
I am learning to make an excellent cup of matcha. How can I go about preparing a more excellent me?
Well, for starters, by being mindful. For another, by being intentional. For another, by not taking myself so seriously.
G.K. Chesterton said, “Angels can fly because they can take themselves lightly.” Which always gives me a smile (“That gave me a smile” is something my dad used to say). I don’t need to be an angel (no matter what definition is being used) but I do want to be the best human I can be. The best version of myself. A version that comes closer to what one of my friend’s children told me long ago when she said, “You’re nice, you’re fun, and you’re always happy.”
Wanting now, as I did then when she said it, for those things to be more true than untrue.
I pour the milk over the tea. One day, I might try to learn how to make latte art designs. But for now, I can take this one step at a time.
Picking the chawan up with care, I put my hands around the curve of the bowl and sip slowly.
