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Tea Journey With Chris Malcomb
Following is an excerpt from an essay shared by Teance customer Chris Malcomb. Chris muses on his tea journey and the interconnecting possibilities in a cup of tea:
On
meditation retreats I learn about interconnection. The act of sitting
on a cushion, following my breath and observing bodily sensations,
invites communion with countless people who are engaging - or have
engaged - in the same practice. Sometimes I marvel that someone in a
tiny monastery in Tibet, or a temple in Thailand, or a living room in Paris, may be following their breath - in and out, in and out - at the very same moment.
The
vastness of this unseen web is baffling, and reminds me of a favorite
passage by Thich Nhat Hahn: "If you are a poet, you will see clearly
that there is a cloud floating in this sheet of paper. Without a cloud,
there will be no rain; without rain, the trees cannot grow; and without
trees, we cannot make paper. The cloud is essential for the paper to
exist." He goes on to tie the paper to other things: the sunshine that
grew the forest, the logger who cut the tree, the parents who raised
him. Without these things, the paper does not exist.
And
so I think: Why not the same with tea? While I don't believe that
mystical transformation is its true purpose, I've come to believe that
the tea experience is itself a gateway to interconnection. Watching the
water boil, or feeling the smooth warmth of the gaiwan, or absorbing
the sounds of clinking glass and subtle aromas of jasmine and honey all
invite stillness and precise attention. When sipping tea I taste leaves
from green, mountainside trees and bushes that have been farmed by
generations of families. I soak up faraway sun, mist, and clouds; I
feel the energy of women handpicking leaves on steep terraces; I touch
the discernment of the tea master, the toil of the ship captain, the
artistry of the potter who crafted my delicate porcelain cup.
Right
now I am drinking the second infusion of Lu Shan Clouds and Mist. It is
sweet and buttery, with a tinge of saltiness. I remember the first time
I tasted a perfectly steeped cup of Lu Shan, so good that my fingers
tingled and my chest pulsed with a quiet wave of emotion. While I
didn't hear music or see angels, I knew that something had shifted. I
felt soft, warm, and open. I felt connected.
Sometimes
I consider how the tea I am drinking may have tasted a year ago, or
ten, or a hundred. I love how weather influences each year's new crop,
and chuckle at stories of deceased tea masters being buried next to
their favorite tea bushes, forever informing the flavor of subsequent
harvests. Yet I know that despite these fluctuations, there is
something unchangeable in these leaves. Their story is a repeating
secret available to those with patience enough to coax it forth. I am
learning that patience, enough so that I see that even now I could be
sipping the same second infusion as an old man inside a shack halfway
up Lu Shan mountain. The true beauty of tea is that it knows no
boundaries. Here, there. Then, now. We sip together, and experience the
same bliss.
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