Sir!

I definitely agree with you when you write that coffee can be a
beautiful thing. I took care to go back and insert "mainstream coffee"
just because of that, actually! When it comes to taking it slowly,
doing it right, and enjoying some good bean, I'm definitely with you in
spirit.

There are two other points that you raise which really resonated with
something inside me.

The first was your mention of hand-thrown cups. I've been thinking
recently about the spirit of the tools and utensils that we use, while
I was sitting in a little riverside cafe in the Alps last week (trying
to avoid the French soccer fans, naturally, heh). They served a
darjeeling in teapots that they had made on the premises, and provided
little cups and saucers to match. They were totally uneven, wobbly,
patchily glazed, but boy did they feel good. There was a charm in the
spirit of that sunny evening, which made a slightly-above-average-tea
into a truly unforgettable drink, courtesy of the lovely teapot and
cups. I imagine that you get a similar thrill on a regular basis from
using your own (you lucky expletive).

When I do zazen, I do it on a cushion stuffed by myself, and sitting
on a mat made for me by my infinitely generous wife. The spirit of the
event is fresh, vital. The thrill of using hand-made tools, and using
them functionally, regularly is a wonderful thing. They infuse the
entire event with that thrill of the hand-made darjeeling pots. When I
consult the I-Ching, I throw yarrow stalks made for me by my
father-in-law, onto another little mat made for me by aforementioned
generous wife. Similar to the zen, and to the tea, it's a very special
thing.

That was my first thought on reading your post. My second one was
the beauty of human fallibility. You mentioned how you loved to see
your human imperfections impinge on the carefully-learned rituals and
processes. This spirit pervaids my entire belief in making tea. In
drinking coffee. In writing poetry, well, maybe in most things, and I
hope you'll permit me to indulge myself by exploring this a little more
with you, because it's a very fascinating thought.

Have you come across Basho, the Japanese poet responsible for some
very fine haiku (and in making the genre much of the way it is today)?
As I'm sure you already know, he told his students that "we must learn
the rules, and then forget them." I think that I must quote this to
the poor souls that I know on a biweekly basis. It's a very important
point, though, and resounds with your words.

His point, of course, was that we should first learn how to do
something properly. That is, really learn it. Do it over and over
again, study the books, learn from the teacher, emulate the master,
until you're capable of doing it "by the book", whether it be writing a
haiku about bamboo or making tea in the gongfu style. Then, forget the
rules, and do it subconsciously. Introduce that element of spontaneity
and human frailty that you allude to. Live in the instant, completely
aware (in the Zen sense), and don't *try* to do it - just do it.
Perhaps that's a bit Yoda: "do or do not, there is no try".

The result is, as you say, a wonderful thing. Processes that we have
learned to do "correctly", which then evolve around the personality and
capability of the practioner. This infuses every act with a charm, an
individuality, and a freshness that a stolid "follower of the rules"
can never quite achieve.

It's a satisfying conclusion, because all of these rigid processes
become the fluid consequences of fulfilling a regularly-performed
*function*, and that for me is the spirit of a good life: that it's
functions are elegant and fresh, but not contrived and studied.

Human fallibility is a wonderful thing.

I noticed a small chip in the underside of my favourite Yixing zisha
hu, and smiled to myself for exactly this reason: it was no longer
perfect, it was fallible, and that frailty had come about through being
used and loved in the pursuit of its daily function.


Toodlepip,

Hobbes

> I drank coffee, I used a French press and a little
> electric spice chopper/powderer. I carefully chose my
> little coffee scoop, usually a wooden one made in Haiti,
> and the mug I intended to use, usually one I had thrown
> myself or one that had been thrown by a friend. I
> arranged things on the counter, not to mention myself,
> just right. And then, upon completion, I took my mug
> to the livingroom to the coffee chair where I would
> peruse the morning paper, coffee mug carefully placed
> on the old crude milking stool that served as coffee table.
> Lots of ritual, personal, and slowly developed over time.
>
> But, alas, no more coffee for me. With tea of course I
> get great pleasure out of doing things right, but I get far
> greater pleasure out of doing it wrong; that is, allowing
> my personal predilections to impinge upon the classic
> styles I've taken so long to unlearn.
>
> Michael