A moving meditation: Finding serenity in tea ceremony across space and time

Japan Times

26-05-2025

Softly, a door slides shut. There's a faint rustle of silk and the whisper of feet clad in tabi (split-toe socks) over tatami. After a pause, a bamboo ladle taps a small stand, its slender handle inaudibly dropping to the floor.
And it's here — crouched in the garden outside of the tea room, holding my breath, eyes closed in concentration — that I sense my signal to quietly roll up the slatted sudare (bamboo screens) hanging outside the paper-covered windows.
I can't see what's happening in the tea room where the host and five guests are gathered, but it's my responsibility to know.
At this formal chaji (tea ceremony), I'm a behind-the-scenes assistant making sure that things run smoothly. It's Rikka, the first day of summer according to Japan's traditional calendar, and everything about the event is planned to highlight the vibrant new season, from the motifs on the tea bowls to the fresh irises in the alcove.
The sunken hearth of winter is now closed, replaced by a charcoal brazier for heating water. A hanging scroll selected for the occasion displays the kanji for seki — a Chinese character that signifies a literal gate, but also implies the threshold to a new chapter.
For the guests seated inside, the timing of my actions brightens the space, shifting the atmosphere from in (yin) to yō (yang), just as the host begins to prepare tea — the main event.
This task seems simple, but it took many years to get here. Only by playing a role on the other side of the window — whether practicing the same procedures as the host, or watching it all as a guest — was I able to eventually memorize the movements and timing.
Weekly o-keiko (lessons) with my gracious teacher and a dedicated group of fellow students have given my life a reliable rhythm. While my career as a writer and strategist continues to evolve and I've changed addresses a few times since moving to Japan in 2017, I find a steadiness in studying tea. Chadō, the way of tea, puts life's ebbs and flows into a broader context of natural cycles, where even a fleeting microseason is something to be cherished.
My journey began two decades ago in another Japanese garden, on the other side of the world.
I was working as a journalist in the United States, but found myself traveling often to Tokyo for summer vacations, craving a deeper cultural connection after getting a degree in East Asian studies.
Then I found out that Rohoen, the Japanese Friendship Garden of Phoenix, Arizona, was accepting volunteers. I started showing up early on Saturday mornings to help rake bamboo leaves, prune shrubs and sweep the walkways before the doors opened to the public. A joint project between Phoenix and its sister city of Himeji, Hyogo Prefecture, the garden was (and still is) a surprising oasis of Japanese-ness in a desert metropolis surrounded by rugged, rocky mountains.
Volunteering at Rohoen felt like a homecoming. I was especially drawn to the tea garden, with its tsukubai (stone wash basin) tucked inside of a bamboo gate and stepping stones scattered across the mosslike lawn, all leading to a low, square door on the side of the tea house. I knew you had to duck and kneel to enter it, but I had no idea what went on inside.
Meanwhile, after months of volunteering — and noticing a group of women in kimono who faithfully visited each month for tea practice and public demonstrations — curiosity eventually got the best of me. All of my nervousness about joining the tea ceremony group dissolved when I received a warm welcome by my teacher and classmates for the first time. Someone even brought a spare kimono for me to wear and helped me put it on properly.
Together, in the cozy 4½-tatami mat space, we learned to slow down and appreciate subtle things like the sound of water boiling in the kama (kettle), the delicate flavors of traditional wagashi (Japanese sweets) and, of course, the savory-sweet aroma of matcha.
It was admittedly difficult and often painful to sit in seiza, the formal kneeling posture, but my senses were so engaged with all the other details that I was compelled to keep going. Even today, I have to put my mind over matter when sitting for a long time.
I first began practicing tea at a time when I was focused on growing my career. Being busy at work felt like a badge of honor, but I was also starting to feel the strain of prolonged periods of stress. I didn't realize how my attraction to tea ceremony may have been a manifestation of my desire to attain balance — a balance that the ceremony itself instills through quiet moments of mindfulness and gratitude.
When I learned that entering the rōji (tea garden) represents crossing into a different world — one where everyday concerns should be left outside the bamboo gate — the magnetic appeal of that garden suddenly made perfect sense.
At times, practicing chanoyu — 'hot water for tea,' the literal meaning of the term for tea ceremony — feels like a moving meditation.
As with many traditional artforms, there's plenty of repetition to refine each movement and sharpen one's focus. In my earliest lessons, I learned how to fold a silk fukusa cloth down into a palm-sized rectangle for wiping utensils. It's an essential technique for every ceremony, from the simplest to the most complex. I've practiced this countless times and will never tire of it. Since the items for preparing tea are already spotless to start with, it isn't about literal cleaning, but symbolic purification of the spirit.
Michele Laudig (right) and fellow practitioners of tea ceremony perform at Ginchakai, an open-air event held in Ginza, in October 2024. |
Courtesy of Michele Laudig
For me, the initial allure of chadō was how it wove together many threads of my fascination with Japan into a bigger, richer picture. My interest in philosophy, literature and history gave me an appreciation of the names of utensils and the Zen-infused wisdom of hanging scrolls.
Learning how to wear a kimono also taught me how to move differently. And finally, I learned the proper way to navigate those spaces that used to seem mysterious, appreciating the garden and traditional architecture with a different kind of awe. It was the ultimate way to connect the dots between so many different aspects of Japanese culture and aesthetics.
Then, as it continued to pull me into its world, tea ceremony became more of a familiar, comfortable place. Even though I accepted it as a lifelong learning path, full of ever more topics to explore, I also got to a point where I had a solid foundation that would serve me anywhere I went.
I could relocate to New York City and join an entirely different group of teachers and students, but still have a common language of movement and ritual. I could uproot again, move to Tokyo for a new job and still find the same sense of calm in folding my fukusa under the guidance of my current sensei. I could strike up conversations with absolute strangers and find kinship when we discover our shared devotion.
All of these years, I didn't quite realize that I was following my passion as I navigated life's changes. In hindsight, perhaps it wasn't my career after all that precipitated my movements, but the desire for a deeper relationship with tea ceremony and Japan — through one gateway, and on to the next.