As I was sitting seiza, kneeling on thin tatami mats with my legs folded tightly underneath my thighs, my feet began to go numb. Our host had yet to even enter the room, still outside of it preparing the utensils on her tray. I had only been seated in the position for a few minutes and was already concerned about the lack of blood flow to my ankles. I worried I wouldn’t make it through my first Japanese tea ceremony, let alone any of my future lessons.
One of my instructors, Drew, was busy explaining the hanging scroll in the cove in the corner of the tea room — too busy to notice my very visible physical discomfort. On this snowy morning, the scroll featured Japanese calligraphy and the characters for beautiful, moon, and flower. “It serves as a reminder that beauty can still be found even in the depths of winter,” he said calmly, “and that the snow will eventually melt its way into spring.” I did my best to embrace his message as I felt my body shivering from the cold draft entering the tea room from outside.
Below the hanging scroll rested a narrow vase with a simple flower arrangement, which Drew also pointed out to our small class. “The flowers chosen for each tea ceremony will always represent the current season. I picked these from my garden this morning,” he said proudly. Every other student in the room listened carefully and attentively while I fidgeted in my spot, struggling to focus on anything besides the lack of sensation in my legs.
This was my first of many Japanese tea ceremony classes, which I attended for four consecutive weeks at the Shofuso Japanese House and Garden in Philadelphia. Early every Saturday morning, I rushed to get ready in my messy studio apartment and make it to my 9 AM lesson on time. When I arrived, I shuffled out of my puffy winter jacket, slipped out of my salt-covered boots, and tied a wide sash around my waist before gliding onto the tatami mat flooring in my mismatched socks.