Tana of the Day: sugidana. (Literally: cedar shelf.) Much like the others, except that it has a sliding center shelf that must be slid forward and back to get at the mizusashi sitting below it. Not worth the trouble, in my untutored opinion.

After lunch the Midorikai men dashed back to the dorm to put on hakama. I doubt I can do better than my Japanese dictionary, which defines hakama as “man’s formal divided skirt,” though it does raise the possibly insoluble question of where the line is that separates divided skirts from giant pants. Anyhow, hakama are expensive swaths of pleated fabric that you step into from the top; the seam dividing the skirt pulls the bottom of your kimono up and restores some of your mobility. We only get to wear them for formal occasions, which is sort of a pity, because despite the extra hassle, they look really good. The top edge covers the obi almost completely, and four long fabric ties crisscross around the waist and hips to secure the thing. And then all you have to worry about is stepping on the bottom hem when standing up from seiza, which will happen.

We approached the school again to see the concrete and asphalt outside being watered down in our anticipation of our arrival. In the ideal setting, of course, guests would approach the tearoom through a garden path, which would be likewise sprinkled with water to give a cool, fresh feeling, but tea practice also boasts an ethic of making do with what’s available, and I found charm in the treatment of our unremarkable little urban side street.

We waited in the first floor of the shokudō with the other guests for the chakai, the Japanese 1-year course students, until being summoned. Hamana-sensei explained to us the gifts that guests at such events customarily bring: something edible for the behind-the-scenes helpers in the mizuya, and cash (in uncirculated bills, of course) to help defray the cost of the function. The bills should be put into an envelope with their fronts forward; the envelope can be handed over in a variety of classy ways: on an opened fan, in the fold of a kobukusa, wrapped in a small furoshiki with the folds arranged carefully in a manner traditionally said to prevent good luck from falling out the bottom of the package.

Then we filed across the street to the school building and signed a guest book with brush and ink–as if my Japanese handwriting using familiar media weren’t embarrassing enough. Past the entranceway where we took off our zori and left our bags, the tea rooms where we spend so much time had been made almost unrecognizable. Portable folding walls hid service hallways and mizuya from sight, and the sliding doors separating rooms 5 and 6 had been taken away to create one large, long room to serve first as our waiting place, or machiai.

On the far end of the room, in room 6’s tokonoma, hung a scroll with a spirited painting of the god Shōki, expeller of demons and protector against disease and misfortune, and guardian of children–if I’ve got my facts straight. Here he looked less fearsome than robust and heartily amused: a distant cousin to Dickens’s Ghost of Christmas Present, perhaps, sitting with his hands on his thighs and his head tossed back. (Not that I’d swear to the accuracy of my memory of the thing.) In room 5’s toko hung a simpler scroll, with energetic calligraphy that read katsu, according to Hamana-sensei–though which of the many katsus in the language it was, he didn’t say. (And I didn’t think to ask.)

The tabakobon was a tray of unlacquered wood decorated with cut-outs in the tsubotsubo pattern that the Sen family uses as a sub-crest; on it sat a hiire I never got a good look at and don’t remember any secondhand information about either. While we waited, small portions of hot (well, warm, anyhow) water flavored with what I took to be dried plum were served to us in tiny cups of blue and white sometsuke porcelain in which what might have been plum blossoms floated. (If they were, in fact, perhaps they’d been preserved dry; those blossoms were gone from the trees before I arrived here. Anyhow, I liked the effect. Very fūryū.) While we drank our osayu, one of the 3rd-year students sat in the room as hantō, or helper, and held forth on the dōgu.

After which the doors at the west end of the room were opened to reveal that rooms 3 and 4 had been combined just as 5 and 6 had, to make space for the honseki–the main seating. The items displayed in the tokonoma gave us our first overt indicators of the chakai’s theme. (After Hamana-sensei had explained them to us, that is.) At the heart of the theme was an old legend holding that a lowly fish who could swim upstream past three waterfalls would be transformed into a mighty dragon; the gakuensei used the legend to describe our studies at Urasenke. So the single white tessen blossom, sparkling under a fine mist of water, hung from a chain in a boat-shaped bamboo flower holder called a suribune; its bow faced the “lower” end of the toko, an out-of-the-ordinary signifier of departure: here, our separation from homes, friends, family to study in Kyoto. On a sheaf of thick paper on the bottom of the toko sat a red incense box (indicating that sumidemae, the charcoal-laying procedure, would not be performed) in the shape of a koi, the lowly fish. Us. The scroll, written by Daisōshō, read ryūsui kandan nashi: “in running water there are no interruptions,” perhaps. Don’t look to me to explain this one to you. Perhaps its a Zen counterpoint to the fish-dragon legend. (That is, it’s obviously Zen; I’m making up the rest.) The waterfalls don’t actually exist. There is no spoon.

Then the sweets were brought out, and I thought ruefully of my inability, that day at Oimatsu, to consistently do something as basic as pressing sugar into a mold. The gakuensei had themselves prepared gorgeous kuzu manjū, colored bean paste suspended in a translucent hemisphere made somehow of arrowroot starch, I think; these were named ryūmon, “Dragon Gate,” for the three colors in each: pink, yellow, and green–one for each waterfall.

A young woman entered the room next to prepare usucha using the furo and mizusashi that rested on a long lacquered board called, in Japanese, “long board” (nagaita). (With these two dōgu sitting on the nagaita, I’ll add just because I can, the temae is called futatsuoki: “two things put.” Not everything about tea is as impenetrable as the scrolls.) Now, I sat far from the place of preparation, and couldn’t get a close look at any of the dōgu before we were shuffled to the next room, so much of the following is secondhand. The kama itself was a tall, nearly cylindrical one that tapered toward the top (I’m counting on somebody posting the proper name for this geometric shape in the comments) called–because of shape or finish or what, I don’t know–unryū, “Cloud Dragon.” A kettle optimistic that we’ll achieve transformation, it was! The mizusashi was blue Italian glass with what looked from a distance like wave patterns and, it was said, Daisōshō’s crest on the underside of the lid. The natsume was likewise said to bear a wave design. The chashaku was a rather precious (compared to my 500-yen bamboo special) one made of old wood from Kinkakuji; really wish I’d gotten a close look at that one.

While our teishu made two bowls of tea–first in a black raku bowl made by a (current? former?) student’s father (I think), next in a not-black not-raku (I didn’t get anywhere near these, remember) bowl whose name came to me as aokaede–green maple–the smilingest of all the students here (and a real cutie, I think I can add here without creating trouble for myself) played hantō and said stuff in Japanese while somewhere behind me, but unfortunately just out of earshot, Hamana-sensei provided a certain amount of English. I just enjoyed my tea (brought from the back, like all but the the first two bowls; mine came in a chawan with the glaze done, if I recall correctly, in the technique called mishima) while attempting to ignore the mounting agony in my knees.

On the way out of the room I had time enough only to take a quick peek into the black lacquer tabakakon (style: fumibako, because something about it supposedly looks like a letterbox) to see the green-glazed oribe hiire, made by the mother (I think) of the student whose father (I think) made the black raku bowl. But the last stage of the chakai awaited us: a tenshin meal prepared by the gakuensei and served in the room 5-room 6 complex, which had been redecorated in our absence with an ikebana-style flower arrangement (as opposed to chabana–flowers for tea–which have their own rules) with lotus blossoms floating in water alongside some unidentified flowers (meaning, their names were most likely given but I don’t remember them) in toko #5; and a scroll in toko #6 with a painting of a fish mid-flop, which certainly describes me on my way up–or possibly down–the waterfalls.

I won’t lie: by now my knees hurt far too much for me to fully enjoy the meal. Still, I recognized and admired the skill with which it had been executed. Trays were set down in front of us bearing sticky cakes of rice studded with green peas and pressed into the shapes of gourds; the rice was from some student’s rice-famous home prefecture and the peas were just in season. Also there were choice nuggets of tai fish; bites of bamboo shoot and other tasties I couldn’t identify; flower-shaped dishes full of more delicious mystery stuff. And boiled egg halves, each cooked for exactly nine minutes. Sake was served in the small red saucers that always make me wonder who exactly first thought putting liquid in a basically flat container was a good idea. Taking my etiquette cues from Hamana-sensei, I drank three servings. It was good stuff, from some sake-famous prefecture–possibly the same one the rice came from. And then the nimono came out in covered bowls: delicate sōmen noodles in the mildest fish stock, topped with another chunk of tai and exactly two julienned strips of carrot, and concealing a tiny seed-like granule of I-don’t-know-what that had the most remarkably strong, cleansing, and otherwise indescribable flavor. Though maybe Sen-Sen isn’t too far off.

I’m pretty sure that by this time I’d given up on seiza entirely and was just kneeling upright. As is customary, I pulled tissues out of my sleeve to wipe down all of the utensils I’d eaten off of, starting with the nimono bowl’s cover, to put the condensation on its underside to good use. Into the plastic bag in my other sleeve (the left one, where dirty things go) I put the tissues and the only inedible part of the meal, a decorative leaf. The business ends of our chopsticks, having until now rested over the left rim of the tray in a show of cleanliness, were now rested on the flat of the tray; traditionally, the sound of an in-unison chopstick drop alerts the host that the trays are ready to be collected. One last cup of tea (Bancha? Maybe.) and the event was over. I limped home exceedingly impressed with the gakuenseis’ efforts, and looking forward to writing the thank-you letter I now owed them.

Changed into samue and did pitiful battle with furo ash until just before the cafeteria closed. Ate. Had a couple of drinks. Wondered when Friday nights stopped being occasions. Slept.

We took a quiz this morning. The questions would have panicked me four weeks ago; now most of them seemed almost like common sense. I’ll find out tomorrow how I did on the trickier ones. (Out of what material is the hook in the tokonoma on which the scroll hangs made? a.)Metal b.)Wood c.)Bamboo d.)Rattan.)

After the quiz, we met Furiya-sensei, a young academic-looking type (that is, without the knack for shaving cleanly or wearing a necktie gracefully) who happens to actually be an academic. He’s a specialist in ceramics, and he came to tell us about the parts of a tea bowl and give us a very quick overview of the classification system for tea bowls. (Some are named according to their shape; others according to the glazing technique.) Furiya-sensei also brought show-and-tell: four impossibly valuable tea bowls (in excess of some $200,000 all told), the oldest a rough yellowish Korean chawan almost 400 years old. He insisted that we pick each up, run our fingers over every surface, appreciate the weight and thickness and glaze of each. One of the things I truly, deeply love about tea is its tactility. (Imagine my surprise at finding that “tactility” actually appears in the dictionary.) Everything is meant to be touched; in general, things aren’t appreciated from behind glass. Granted, none of the bowls we saw today will likely be used for making tea very often–not by us, certainly–but I’ll stand by my generalization. I’m amazed still that we were permitted to handle the bowls we saw today. (My favorite was the Raku chawan by the 6th-generation master, surprisingly light and warm in the hands.)

After lunch we changed into samue for an afternoon of spring cleaning. May 1st in the tea world is the day on which we change from the ro, the square hearth sunk into the tatami floor, to the furo, the portable brazier that sits slightly farther away from the guests to keep them more comfortable during the hot months. While the Japanese upperclassmen pulled the ro out of the floors and removed the ash from them, squads of other students gave the school a top-to-bottom cleaning. Midorikai worked on the second floor, wiping down tables, chairs, and floor, removing dust from ventilation grates, and cleaning windows. Because the building is cleaned so well and so often, none of this was particularly taxing, and some combination of fine spring weather and whatever was in the foamy aerosol glass cleaning spray had us all in fine, giddy moods.

Mine turned just as soon as we finished cleaning and I went to work on my haigata. I could almost swear that every time I attempt the task I get worse at it. There’s either too much ash in the furo or not enough. My angles are off, and I can’t smooth my slopes. The best advice I’ve gotten is Hamana-sensei’s recommendation to set a strict time limit for each step of the process, and to move on to each next step without obsessing over the condition of the previous. Dragging the operation out over longer than an hour doesn’t produce better results–just madness. As it was, my fifty-minute haigata almost overwhelmed me, by the end, with an impulse to drive my pointed ash scoop into my thighs. Also to break every nearby window. And scream.

I was more or less recovered by the end of supper. Knowing that I’d receive my monthly stipend the next day, I felt liberated to spend 300 of my last 2000 yen on some straw blinds and hooks at the 100-yen shop; my sheer curtains don’t keep out any light, and the sun coming through my east-facing window often wakes me up earlier than I want or need to be up some days.

I finished the day with a lesson from Szymon on how to put on and then properly fold a kimono. Once I had it on, he encouraged me to sit down on a tatami mat in his room and try some tea-preparation movements. The change in clothes may turn out to be more significant than I have been imagining; it’ll take an afternoon of practice before I’m confident to write more on the subject. We’ll make the change on Friday.

Sean and I had heard that besides soaking, walking may do knees some good, so we left the dorm early and headed east toward a large swath of trees I’d seen from the roof of the building. The rain had returned overnight; this round will probably finish stripping the sakura bare. Twenty wet minutes of walking brought us to the walls of the vast park surrounding the old imperial palace. One look at a map posted at one of the entrances told us that we would be able to so much as circumnavigate it in the time we had, so we cut through its shorter length on a broad tree-lined path before returning to the dorm resolved to revisit the park and palace at leisure during better weather.

Anita and I were responsible today for the journal and the flowers. The journal records student absences, morning lecture content, and information on the afternoon’s practice: what was done and with which natsume, flower container, scroll, etc. Even the maker of the day’s sweets and their name gets preserved in the journal. (Yesterday’s sweets were steamed balls of dough filled with bean paste and decorated with a smudge of green representing grass and two horizontal streaks representing mist; they were called harugasumi: “spring mist.”)

Hamana-sensei lectured during first period on the role of fire in tea. He gave us a brief history of the fires that have ravaged Kyoto through the centuries, including the one in the late 18th century that destroyed much of Konnichian, the old Sen family compound. Two main buildings survived that fire; the legend has it that an ichō (ginkgo) tree planted by Sen Sōtan dropped its leaves to smother the fire threatening those buildings. Ever since, the ichō leaf has been the emblem of Urasenke.

Taoist cosmology, which came to Japan some 1500 years ago, considers fire one of the five elements of the universe. The influence of that model is memorialized in many of the implements and procedures of tea that were developed to subtly balance wood, fire, earth, metal, and water. These things are no longer thought to be particularly important as such, but we do still revere and respect fire for its simple, crucial role in heating the water for tea and for its intimate, comforting psychological effect on those who gather around a glowing hearth.

Hamana-sensei’s second-period lecture concerned mizuya design and philosophy. As the place of preparation for the making of tea, the mizuya must be clean, orderly, and well-organized; we say that to see a tea person’s mizuya is to see the reality of his spirit. Hamana-sensei insists, in fact, that the preparation area is just as important, if not more so, than the tea room itself. He followed his theoretical discourse with photographs and names of a great number of implements I’ll be expected to recall in the near future. I am hoping it won’t be the very near future. Finally Sensei demonstrated his favorite way to fill a natsume, subtly different and clearly better than what Szymon showed us on Saturday, and shaped fine ash in a bowl with his haisaji to show us what we’ll be learning next week.

After cleaning the classroom (another student task; Urasenke employs no custodial service, in fact), I had soba noodles with seaweed for lunch before dashing back to the practice rooms to help Anita arrange flowers. Following traditional Japanese home design, every tea room contains an alcove for displaying precious things: the tokonoma. A tea room’s alcove will always have two things on display: a wall hanging, often a scroll with a poetic phrase executed in flowing calligraphy; and a simple (but extremely deliberate) arrangement of flowers. One Anita had selected a small bud, a leafy twig, and a vase, and arranged them more or less to her satisfaction, we misted the arrangement with water to create a fresh spring feeling before practice started.

We new students met a new teacher today: Imagawa-sensei, a soft-spoken, gentle, and infinitely kind and patient young man who revisited everything we’d been learning from Hamana-sensei to further refine our postures and movements. We sat down, stood up, turned, walked in circles around the room. (The feet lightly scuff the tatami and each other to create a pleasant sound; the back and neck are held straight, ears above shoulders and nose aligned with chest; a full length of tatami should take four steps to cross.) We folded and refolded our fukusa, purified and re-purified our natsume and chashaku.

The best I can report concerning my knees is that I am quite obviously not alone in my distress. Although I do have a twinge in my right knee that feels like some residual injury, probably from the marathon training I did in the fall, it doesn’t seem to be getting any worse; the general blinding pain I’ve been feeling in both knees after sitting in the seiza posture for some minutes is afflicting us all. Assuming things continue in this wise, then, if I wash out of the program, we all wash out. Which probably means that all of us will get to stay, just learning to endure pain.

Anita and I completed our journal, put away our flower paraphernalia, ran home to change, and met again to clean the third-floor bathrooms. Then we met the others for dinner: fried fish and tonkatsu. (And the inevitable miso soup and rice and tea and various little pickles and salads and sides.)

There lives nearby an elderly retired Urasenke teacher whose joy in life now, it seems, is to give a free calligraphy lesson each week to Midorikai students. Virtually the whole group has been visiting him every Thursday for months now; they say he lights up to have the company. As much as I like to make people happy, and as much as I’d like to learn calligraphy, and as much as I hate to be the odd man out, though, I had to pass on the activity this time, at least. I was two and a half days behind in writing this account, and I have on my hard drive a fearsome amount of raw video that isn’t editing itself. And though I truly do hate being the odd man out, I also thought a break from this group of nine in which I spend virtually all of my waking moments might not be an altogether bad thing. So I stayed home and wrote, and did laundry, and even got a bit of that video cut. And then there was the bath, and after that, bed.