Latest news with #teaceremony
CNA
12-07-2025
- CNA
What's it like to attend a traditional Japanese tea ceremony, or chanoyu?
An unusually hot April sun blazed over Kyoto as we arrived for a private tea ceremony, or chanoyu, in a centuries-old temple usually closed to outsiders. Our rare access came through Aman Kyoto where we were staying, and our travel consultants Blue Sky Escapes who had organised our three-week Japan journey. At the imposing wooden gate, we were greeted by an imperiously statuesque, monk, the hauteur of his high cheekbones matched by dignified black robes with white trim, an elegant fan in hand. We were immediately struck by the simplicity and beauty of the perfectly manicured garden of small shrubs and young saplings, its soft green punctuated by granite boulders and bordered by stone pavement – all compactly set against interlocking, single-storey buildings of black-tiled roofs and shaded porticos. Shadowed eaves provided welcome shade from the heat, and a profound stillness enveloped us. Dating back to 1631, the temple exists in another dimension entirely. I won't name it here out of respect for its privacy. Many of Kyoto's sacred sites maintain their seclusion not from exclusivity, but to preserve their essential purpose as places of worship rather than tourist attractions. The cultural treasures housed within also require thoughtful preservation, and daily spiritual practices would lose their essence if constantly intruded on. Our host monk led us along shaded timber corridors framed by a second interior garden. Like the first, this one contained few colours beyond varying shades of green, its moss-cloaked rocks, peppered with azaleas, pine and maple trees, showcasing a restrained palette typical of Zen aesthetics. Every so often, he'd pause and direct our attention through sliding fusuma doors to high-ceilinged rooms lined with exquisite paintings, including works by masters of the Kanno school dating from the 16th-century Momoyama to early Edo periods. Polished cypress floors, cool underfoot, and beautifully aged cedar doors spoke of centuries of care. Rather than using the traditional tea house, made of bamboo and tree bark, tucked at the back of the grounds, we entered a vast tatami room with perfectly framed views of the garden – a kindness toward foreign guests unaccustomed to kneeling in the traditional seiza position for long periods. Here the contrast was striking: Inside this quiet sanctuary, time seemed to slow, while just beyond this room, tourists hurried through Kyoto's more accessible attractions. 'The tea ceremony you'll experience today is abbreviated,' our host explained as he settled behind a low table dressed with pots and utensils. 'The full traditional version takes over two hours.' Shorter than Avengers: Endgame, I thought. The service unfolded mostly in silence. Mesmerised, we watched the monk ladle water into a heated pot, and whisk the matcha, each movement precise, graceful. It was like a slow dance. Each gesture had purpose, infused by ritual; nothing existed without meaning. It had taken our host 10 years to master the art. Every chanoyu is uniquely crafted to honour the guests, the season, and even the time of day. This attention to context was reflected in the scroll hanging in the tokonoma alcove bearing the phrase 'every day is a good day' – undoubtedly more poetic in its original Japanese – and in the carefully selected seasonal tsubaki, or camellia, flower arrangement. Our host set before each of us a black lacquered plate so perfectly polished it resembled a lake at midnight, bearing a seasonal wagashi sweet with a kuromoji wooden skewer. To my untrained ear, the red-bean sweet's name sounded like 'haru ulala' which he explained was meant to capture 'the bright, clear quality of the season'. Siri later informed me that the name of the sweet likely rhymed with haru uta, a traditional Japanese song performed only in spring. As he prepared the matcha, our host shared insights that shaped our appreciation of a traditional chanoyu. The earthen tea bowl's shape should respond to the seasons – flared lips for summer to cool the brew, tighter rims for winter to preserve warmth. Even the selection of the bowl reflects the gender of the tea master. Pale green powder in hot water became frothy liquid as he worked the bamboo whisk with both grace and an economy of movement, every gesture choreographed by centuries of tea lore. Eventually, he rose from his seat. Padding towards us on white-stockinged feet, he placed the bowl of frothy matcha beside the wagashi. 'Please eat the sweet first, then drink the tea,' he murmured. He noticed my rings. 'These are low-fired bowls, so they are delicate. Best to remove metal jewellery before handling.' Even the way one drinks the matcha is prescribed. With the bowl balanced on the left palm, you turn it clockwise with the right hand so the front, marked by a delicate design faces you before drinking. The tea was intensely bitter yet complex in a way that demanded complete presence. Our host, a member of the Myoshinji sect – one of Kyoto's eight major Zen Buddhist lineages – explained that the chanoyu isn't merely about tea but about creating a space apart from worldly concerns and drawing participants fully into the moment. As I held the warm ceramic bowl, I felt inexplicably connected to something timeless. We were also refreshed in a way that surprised us. The intentional slowness had created an internal clearing for reflection that's rarely possible in our usual pace of life. I understood then why so many of Kyoto's most precious spiritual sites remain closed to the general public. For what we had experienced wasn't a performance but a practice – one that has continued for centuries, preserved not as a relic but as a living expression of a philosophical approach to life. At the end, as we passed back through the gate into the afternoon heat and crowds, I carried with me a tangible sense of ma – the Japanese concept of negative space that isn't empty but charged with possibility. In the measured pauses of the tea ceremony, we had found something increasingly elusive in our hurried world: A chance to simply stop, breathe and be present.
CNA
12-07-2025
- CNA
What's it like at a traditional Japanese tea ceremony, or chanoyu?
An unusually hot April sun blazed over Kyoto as we arrived for a private tea ceremony, or chanoyu, in a centuries-old temple usually closed to outsiders. Our rare access came through Aman Kyoto where we were staying, and our travel consultants Blue Sky Escapes who had organised our three-week Japan journey. At the imposing wooden gate, we were greeted by an imperiously statuesque, monk, the hauteur of his high cheekbones matched by dignified black robes with white trim, an elegant fan in hand. We were immediately struck by the simplicity and beauty of the perfectly manicured garden of small shrubs and young saplings, its soft green punctuated by granite boulders and bordered by stone pavement – all compactly set against interlocking, single-storey buildings of black-tiled roofs and shaded porticos. Shadowed eaves provided welcome shade from the heat, and a profound stillness enveloped us. Dating back to 1631, the temple exists in another dimension entirely. I won't name it here out of respect for its privacy. Many of Kyoto's sacred sites maintain their seclusion not from exclusivity, but to preserve their essential purpose as places of worship rather than tourist attractions. The cultural treasures housed within also require thoughtful preservation, and daily spiritual practices would lose their essence if constantly intruded on. Our host monk led us along shaded timber corridors framed by a second interior garden. Like the first, this one contained few colours beyond varying shades of green, its moss-cloaked rocks, peppered with azaleas, pine and maple trees, showcasing a restrained palette typical of Zen aesthetics. Every so often, he'd pause and direct our attention through sliding fusuma doors to high-ceilinged rooms lined with exquisite paintings, including works by masters of the Kanno school dating from the 16th-century Momoyama to early Edo periods. Polished cypress floors, cool underfoot, and beautifully aged cedar doors spoke of centuries of care. Rather than using the traditional tea house, made of bamboo and tree bark, tucked at the back of the grounds, we entered a vast tatami room with perfectly framed views of the garden – a kindness toward foreign guests unaccustomed to kneeling in the traditional seiza position for long periods. Here the contrast was striking: Inside this quiet sanctuary, time seemed to slow, while just beyond this room, tourists hurried through Kyoto's more accessible attractions. 'The tea ceremony you'll experience today is abbreviated,' our host explained as he settled behind a low table dressed with pots and utensils. 'The full traditional version takes over two hours.' Shorter than Avengers: Endgame, I thought. The service unfolded mostly in silence. Mesmerised, we watched the monk ladle water into a heated pot, and whisk the matcha, each movement precise, graceful. It was like a slow dance. Each gesture had purpose, infused by ritual; nothing existed without meaning. It had taken our host 10 years to master the art. Every chanoyu is uniquely crafted to honour the guests, the season, and even the time of day. This attention to context was reflected in the scroll hanging in the tokonoma alcove bearing the phrase 'every day is a good day' – undoubtedly more poetic in its original Japanese – and in the carefully selected seasonal tsubaki, or camellia, flower arrangement. Our host set before each of us a black lacquered plate so perfectly polished it resembled a lake at midnight, bearing a seasonal wagashi sweet with a kuromoji wooden skewer. To my untrained ear, the red-bean sweet's name sounded like 'haru ulala' which he explained was meant to capture 'the bright, clear quality of the season'. Siri later informed me that the name of the sweet likely rhymed with haru uta, a traditional Japanese song performed only in spring. As he prepared the matcha, our host shared insights that shaped our appreciation of a traditional chanoyu. The earthen tea bowl's shape should respond to the seasons – flared lips for summer to cool the brew, tighter rims for winter to preserve warmth. Even the selection of the bowl reflects the gender of the tea master. Pale green powder in hot water became frothy liquid as he worked the bamboo whisk with both grace and an economy of movement, every gesture choreographed by centuries of tea lore. Eventually, he rose from his seat. Padding towards us on white-stockinged feet, he placed the bowl of frothy matcha beside the wagashi. 'Please eat the sweet first, then drink the tea,' he murmured. He noticed my rings. 'These are low-fired bowls, so they are delicate. Best to remove metal jewellery before handling.' Even the way one drinks the matcha is prescribed. With the bowl balanced on the left palm, you turn it clockwise with the right hand so the front, marked by a delicate design faces you before drinking. The tea was intensely bitter yet complex in a way that demanded complete presence. Our host, a member of the Myoshinji sect – one of Kyoto's eight major Zen Buddhist lineages – explained that the chanoyu isn't merely about tea but about creating a space apart from worldly concerns and drawing participants fully into the moment. As I held the warm ceramic bowl, I felt inexplicably connected to something timeless. We were also refreshed in a way that surprised us. The intentional slowness had created an internal clearing for reflection that's rarely possible in our usual pace of life. I understood then why so many of Kyoto's most precious spiritual sites remain closed to the general public. For what we had experienced wasn't a performance but a practice – one that has continued for centuries, preserved not as a relic but as a living expression of a philosophical approach to life. At the end, as we passed back through the gate into the afternoon heat and crowds, I carried with me a tangible sense of ma – the Japanese concept of negative space that isn't empty but charged with possibility. In the measured pauses of the tea ceremony, we had found something increasingly elusive in our hurried world: A chance to simply stop, breathe and be present.
