Taken Nov 3, 2013 at Hampi
Gazing into the distance
he renders his assistance
to the mischievous monkeys–
making him a monkey flunky
A watchman of the langur pranks
yet not a part of their prankish ranks
He screeches warnings now and then
on sight of broom-wielding women
He neither seeks nor needs praise
just the occasional banana raise
He does it not for power or glory
just the occasional funny story
The Book of Tea by Kakuzō Okakura
My rating: 4 of 5 stars
This book is neither about tea the drink nor tea the plant; it’s about tea the experience. It’s about what the author refers to as “Teaism,” which is akin to Taoism and Zen and which extols the virtues of simplicity, purity, and humility. Teaism is a philosophy that exists around–and in conjunction with–so many familiar philosophies, but is not subsumed by any of them.
The book is divided into seven parts: I.) The Cup of Humanity; II.) Schools of Tea; III.) Taoism and Zennism; IV.) The Tea Room; V.) The Art of Appreciation; VI.) Flowers; and VII.) Tea Masters.
Part I gives us an overview of what Teaism is. One may get a better feel for the author’s view of Teaism through a few choice quotes than from my rambling description. (I’ll take advantage of the book’s 1906 birth date–and, hence, public domain status–to quote heavily from it.)
“Those who cannot feel the littleness of great things in themselves are apt to overlook the greatness of little things in others.”
“It’s [The Tea cult’s] very spirit of politeness exacts that you say what you are expected to say, and no more.”
“For Teaism is the art of concealing beauty that you may discover it, of suggesting what you dare not reveal.”
“Let us dream evanescence, and linger in the beautiful foolishness of things.”
The first part also devotes considerable space to contrasting East and West. The author defends the Eastern ways, which include an exacting and meticulous approach to tea, as not being backwards–as suggested by some in the West.
It should be noted that her commentary, while sometimes sharp in tone, isn’t an attack on the West so much as a defense of the East. It’s interesting to me that there was such conflict as Teaism sprang from Taoism, which is the individualistic strain of Southern China. There is much in common between the values of Taoism and Western liberal thinking. Both share irreverence for tyranny and authoritarianism, and a dislike of that which is forced on one by dictate.
The second part gives a mini-history of the development of tea, but soon sows more of the philosophy of tea in what becomes a lead-in to the following chapter. A couple more choice quotes:
“Perhaps we reveal ourselves too much in small things because we have so little of the great to conceal.”
“Teaism was Taoism in disguise.”
The third part is the core chapter. It discusses the like mind of Taoism and Zen, and how these systems made fertile soil for the growth of Teaism. It is the heart of the book, as it reveals most vividly what Teaism is by explaining the concepts of nothingness and duality.
“One who could make himself a vacuum into which others might freely enter would become a master of all situations.”
“In jujutsu one seeks to draw out and exhaust the enemy’s strength by non-resistance, while conserving one’s own strength for victory in the final struggle.”
“Truth can be revealed only through the comprehension of opposites.”
“The followers of Zen aimed at direct communion with the inner nature of things, regarding their outward accessories only as impediments to a clear perception of truth.”
Part IV describes the place in which the tea ceremony takes place. The key points are: The tea room should be small and simple, and emulate a Zen monastery. The entryway should be less than three feet high, so that all–Shogun or shepherd alike–can be reminded of the need for humility. The first requisite of being a tea master is the ability to sweep and clean. Earlier, Okakura mentions how the most senior monks in a Zen monastery do the most arduous tasks, rather than the novices. This point translates to Teaism. By becoming a master, one doesn’t escape the requisites of modest tasks, but must carry them out all the more skillfully.
Part V, on the art of appreciation, was summed up for me by the quote, “We classify too much and enjoy too little.”
Part VI is where the author goes a little astray in my opinion. She seeks to address the co-development of flower arranging with tea ceremony. She begins by bemoaning the waste of so many flowers–even more-so in the West than the East. “Why were the flowers born so beautiful and yet so hapless.”
Interestingly, she never bemoans the plucking of tea. She anthropomorphizes flowers–not, apparently, because they are living–but because they are beautiful. She imagines that they must feel the excruciating pain of being wrenched from a stem in a way that a rather lackluster looking tea-bud cannot. It’s her deference to the consensus of beauty as represented by the flower as opposed to the simple tea-bud in which she performs the greatest sin against her own philosophy.
Furthermore, she says, “The man of the pot is far more humane than the man of the scissors.” Failing to recognize that the flower planter and the flower harvester are, in most cases, one in the same person.
She eventually explains how those whose philosophy so despised the destruction of life and beauty came to engage in flower arranging. “We shall atone for the deed by consecrating ourselves to purity and simplicity.”
The final part tells us about the nature of the tea master–a monk of leaf and beverage, if you will.
“The tea-masters held that real appreciation of art is only possible to those who make of it a living influence.”
“He only who has lived with the beautiful can die beautifully.”
I recommend giving this thin book a read. I packs a lot of food for thought into a small package. The language is excellent. (The book was originally written in English, and directed toward a Western audience. Hence the extensive defense of Eastern thinking up front.Therefore, there is no worry about getting a particular translation.)
Taken Nov 10, 2013 at Bannerghatta National Park
The lion is a kingly beast
Whose eyes no lies can abide
If you don’t wish to be his feast
Please act with tact and don’t chide
He doesn’t take to teasing well
He’s still but to kill is in his blood
His placid face may look swell
But a strong heart pounds THUD-THUD…
THUD-THUD
&
another thing
He may look like a big plush toy
But he’s no fun for a girl or boy
Don’t get your kid a big feline
Unless your exit is a swift beeline
Taken November 2, 2013 at Hampi.
These little lizards were one of the most common animal lifeforms at Hampi. They blend into the rock quite well despite the broken white or yellow line of dots on their backs, which itself blends into the splotched pattern of the creature.
I believe they are called Psammaphilus Dorsalis, Peninsular Rock Agamas, or South Indian Rock Agamas. [However, I know nothing about lizards and am open to correction by a herpetologist.]
Walking by Henry David Thoreau
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
Thoreau paints a portrait of walking in such grandiose terms that one will cease to think of putting one foot in front of the other as one of life’s mundane tasks. He’s not talking about just any walking, however. He’s not talking about the mall walkers who briskly exercise in temples of consumerism. He’s not talking about those who walk through the park with top 40 hits blaring from their iPod ear buds.
Thoreau is talking about those individuals he calls saunterers. To saunter, as to stroll, is to walk in a leisurely and aimless fashion. Thoreau’s walking is that which:
-takes place in nature.
-leaves worldly worries behind.
-is not a trivial time commitment.
-is more an exercise of the mind and spirit than of the body.
To the mall walker, Thoreau would point out the error of a missed opportunity to get away from mankind’s chaos and enjoy nature. As he puts it, “The most alive is the wildest.” and “…all good things are wild and free.” He’s also clear in that walking for exercise misses the point by injecting hurriedness into a time that should be about slowing down.
On those with iPods, cellphones, or other contrivances that distract one from the environs, Thoreau is equally clear, “What business have I in the woods if I am thinking of something outside the woods?”
Thoreau’s essay broadens as it progresses. From a commentary on the virtues of sauntering, the essay turns to the glories of nature, the character of America, and the state of thought in his contemporary society. These may seem like unrelated concepts, but there is a string of logic that connects them.
The connection to nature and the virtue of wildness should be clear. It’s nature that is the optimal backdrop of sauntering. It’s in nature that one can be set free from the troubles of the world of man and obtain a glimpse of god. It’s in nature where creativity breeds with chaos turned down and native brilliance turned up.
Thoreau’s discussion of America is tied to the theme of walking in a couple of ways. The first is as a land made for walkers. For example, he points out that a man could pitch a tent almost anywhere in North America without great risk of becoming a meal. The same couldn’t be said of India or Africa or Siberia, where man isn’t the sole predatory creature. The second is America as a place with room to venture out into uncharted territory. Thoreau points out that we may look to the East for the lessons of our predecessors, but a person should look West for opportunities to grow in one’s own right. Of course, Thoreau’s America was different from today’s America.
The end of the essay broadens out even further. Thoreau comments upon mankind and the state of ideas and thought. He echoes Socrates when he talks about that age-old question of whether it’s better to be ignorant (to know one knows little) or deluded (to think one knows a lot, but be drowning in false knowledge.) A reader may suggest that this is a false dichotomy. Why can’t one know most everything and not have a one’s body of knowledge rife with false knowledge? I can’t say, but all of the evidence suggests that if such a state exists, it’s the domain of God or gods (if such entities exist.)
Thoreau also bemoans what he sees as the decline of thinking man. What does this have to do with walking? I think Thoreau answers in the following quote:
“So it would seem few and fewer thoughts visit each growing man from year to year, for the grove in our minds is laid waste—sold to feed unnecessary fires of ambition, or sent to mill—and there is scarcely a twig left for them to perch on.”
I think that everyone should read this thin book–really an essay and not a full-scale book. The problems Thoreau notes have only gotten worse in our modern age. Far too few take the time to walk, and to acquire the benefits of sauntering.
Taken November 2, 2013 at Hampi.
The Hampi area is painted from a different palette than most of Karnataka. Instead of uniform green, the brownish-red of the boulders dominates, and, while green lines the spaces between the rock, the vivid yellow of these flowers decorate the base of many hills. Of course, there remain islands of green, in the form of corn fields, banana plantations, and palm groves.
Taken October 20, 2013 at Fireflies Ashram.
Indian cities don’t whisper. They are often lovely, always lively, but offer little relief from bombardment of the senses. Horns are relentless. Bus and truck air-horns can make a person jump from one’s skin. The smells may be pleasing or putrid, but they’re never faint. There is sign pollution, wherein it’s often impossible to find what one is looking for in the sea of signage–even when it lies right in front of one’s face. Colors pop and glow, not smooth pastels, but oranges and purples that you can practically taste.
It shouldn’t have surprised me when I got to the southern edge of the city to find one of the major land uses was Ashrams. Ashrams in all shapes and sizes, from the small but authentic Narayana Gurukula (mentioned a few DAILY PHOTO installments back) to the massive Art of Living International Center–headed by Bangalore’s most famous guru, Sri Sri Ravi Shankar. Out Kanakapura Road, where monkeys sling through trees and fields of corn remind me of my own Hoosier upbringing, lies a diverse collection of houses of spirituality and reflection. They offer a much-needed island of tranquility amid a sea of chaos.
I stayed for nine nights at one of the most singular of these ashrams, Fireflies. One way in which it’s unique is that it’s a “guruless” ashram. That may seem oxymoronic. The terms “guru” and “ashram” seem to go hand in hand. Guru means teacher. My dictionary defines ashram as, “the home of a small community of Hindus.” [I think this definition could be challenged both on the necessity of “smallness” and “Hindu-ness.” As indicated, there are some pretty massive ashrams and there are ones that are associated with non-aligned spiritual groups.] It’s true that the typical ashram has a spiritual leader or yogi as its head. At Fireflies the gurus come and go with the groups that visit. While I was there, besides our group of Thai Yoga Bodywork practitioners, there was a group of psychotherapists and an organization of past life regressionists. Rather than housing a single unified set of beliefs, at this ashram a diverse and sometimes conflicting set of beliefs are harmoniously housed.
As I have little experience with ashrams, I can’t speak authoritatively about other differences. However, it’s my understanding that one other difference between Fireflies and many–more typical–ashrams is that the latter often have limited or non-existent staff. This means that the visitors may do much, if not the bulk, of the work. Fireflies has a staff that does the cooking and takes care of many needs of the visitors. This isn’t to suggest that it’s like a hotel stay. There’s somewhat of an expectation that visitors will take care of the things that they can do for themselves, and the accommodations are basic.
I found the experience of my stay to be beneficial, if not always stress-free. The main source of my stress had little to do with the Ashram. I received my phone sim card right before I left. After a couple of days I got my phone working for a day or two only to have the phone company turn it off because no one was home when they randomly dropped by to verify my address. [Showing up unannounced in the middle of the day and then treating you as non-existent if no one is home is one of the annoying little hallmarks of Indian institutions (corporate and government) that I’ve experienced on more than one occasion.] I will admit that it is a mark of both society’s and my own wussification that we can’t go a few days without being in contact with home and news of the world. Twenty years ago no one would have expected to have such constant verification that all was well in the world. People could go days back then without worrying that the sky was falling. While it wasn’t pleasant to be cut off, it was an eye-opening experience. [I will note that the Ashram property is on a slope and at the low end I got no reception at all, but on the high end I’d get a bar or two–enough to do the job if the phone company wasn’t screwing me over.]
It was also useful to go without brain candy for a while–that is without television and related entertainment. Part of what I hoped to learn from my stay was whether I was prepared to take the 10-day Vipassana meditation course in the spring. The Vipassana course is considerably more spartan level of existence than that of Fireflies.
On some levels, I proved ready, and on others I have yet to do so. I did just fine eating two vegetarian meals and a snack for dinner each day. (I could have had three full meals per day, but I wanted to make sure I was ready to cut my intake adequately. Therefore, I stuck with a snack in the evening and ate reasonable portions for breakfast and lunch.) I found the meals at Fireflies to be quite good, and I had no complaints in that regard. It should be noted that the ashram is not an easy walk to any restaurants or substantial stores (there are a couple small shops up on the corner, but they’re geared toward locals and don’t necessarily have what a traveler needs) so it’s not easy to go out for something–though I did see one auto-rickshaw around the premises at times.
The true test of preparation for the Vipassana course is that there are no books or notebooks allowed. This will be my greatest challenge. I finished two novels and two nonfiction books on Kindle during my stay, plus probably another 100 pages of other books, and I filled 2/3rds of a journal–mostly with notes from the TYB workshop.
Also, at the Vipassana meditation course one is not allowed to speak to anyone but the instructor at a specific time when they take questions about the course. I wasn’t nearly so cut off from humanity at Fireflies. The workshop participants and teachers were around all day and I had occasional conversations in the evening with others at the ashram. Furthermore, I’m a fairly solitary creature.
It was interesting that during the weekends there were so many people around, but during the middle of the week there were few. For a while I thought I was the only non-staff member person at the ashram—though I later found that to be incorrect.
So my time at the ashram was Spartan, but that’s part of the beauty of it.
I should point out that there are some impressive stone carvings located throughout the property. The artists are international in scope. Each of these carvings or sculptures offers its own story. I’ll attach a few pics for your edification.
Taken September 21, 2013 in Nandi Hills, India.
This garden sits behind a little inn at the top of Nandi Hills. In the background is a town and farmland as seen from the hilltop.
The background in this photo is the Hindu temple that is on the site of Tipu Sultan’s Palace, but which predates the Sultan’s Indo-Islamic teak structure. There is a simple but beautiful garden in between the palace and the temple that displays various flowering plants.
Taken September 3, 2013 in Lal Bagh Botanical Gardens
