The Unexpected as a Teacher
Last year taught me to embrace the unexpected as a teacher.
Following a whirlwind year-end work trip to Dubai for a climate conference, I felt compelled to start the new year with a Japanese tea ceremony to rediscover rest. But just three days into the year, I was hospitalized with an unexpected diagnosis – my second chronic health condition in two years.
My life was on track or so I thought. I completely trusted my passion for work as a gift, pushing myself to go the extra mile, craving for greater success following the growing momentum at work. But grinding at work came at the expense of my family, who longed for more of my time, and eventually, my own health. Little did I realize that I had been acquiring harmful work attitudes and habits.
How could I keep ignoring my health warnings? These were clear signs that something had to change. I needed to set healthy boundaries in how I approached the world. Instead of diving back into work and pursuing another Master’s degree, I took up the courage to step back and plunged into an unplanned journey.
I cleared my calendar, canceling everything except my doctors’ visits. Somehow, I also kept the scheduled tea session with Dairik Amae. A week before, he had thoughtfully asked if I had any dietary restrictions so he could customize the sweets that came with the matcha. “I was just hospitalized and diagnosed with diabetes. But a small amount of sugar is not a problem”, I admitted.
It hit me in that moment – abrupt and awkward as it was – this was now my new reality.
Awakening the Senses through Tea
It was a gray and damp Thursday morning. The air carried the quiet, fresh scent of rain-soaked earth as scattered showers dotted the stone-paved streets of Daitoku-ji, a historic Zen temple complex in Kyoto. Nestled within its tranquil grounds was Dairik-san’s tea house – where I was about to step into a world I barely understood then.
I have heard about chado, the Japanese tea ceremony, but knew nothing about it. What is the hype beneath this seemingly mystical tea practice?
Dairik-san warmly greeted me at the entrance. He suggested that I leave my bag at a corner, similar to how samurai warriors once set aside their swords before entering a tea room. This gesture mirrored the ideals of harmony (wa), respect (kei), purity (sei), tranquility (jaku), central to the Japanese ritual of tea.
He told me that the tea room embodies the spirit of ichigo ichie (一期一会) or each moment only once, a reminder to cherish every moment given the fleeting nature of life. Samurai embraced the tea ceremony for a moment of shared presence beyond worldly concerns, knowing each cup of tea could very well be their last.
The scent of the tea room drew me in first. The stillness, the simplicity, and the invisible energy of the moment that surrounds everything in the room all felt surreal – I had to steady myself to make sure that this was not a dream. Time slowed, as if the world had softly paused, welcoming me to fully immerse in the present and to return to what truly matters. A tea room is an invitation to meditate, to just be, to slow down by tuning in to the senses.
A Yearning for Timelessness
The subtle scent of incense blended with the soft, grounding aroma of heated charcoal lingered in the air, infusing the rainy day with a distinct warmth and depth that softened its dullness. It comforted me, transporting me back to my childhood in Malaysia, back to the days when rice was slow cooked with charcoal. In the air was also a delicate hint of bamboo and the earthy smell of tatami mats. There was a calming and sacred presence to these all – evoking solitude yet a yearning for timelessness.
My ears curiously followed the ro, the sunken hearth centerpiece within the tatami floor mat. The iron kettle rested there, its rhythmic whispers of rising hot steam harmonized with the gentle chirping of the birds outside – grounding the tea ceremony in a deep connection between human ritual and nature.
As I sat on the gentle support of the textured tatami mat, I was drawn to the sights within the pristine frame of the tokonoma alcove reflecting the seasons. Each element seemingly carefully placed to evoke harmony and quiet beauty – the lone red camellia flower bud in the vase, the rich green musubi yanagi willow with long trailing branches tied in a loop, the loosely-hanged Zen calligraphy scroll inscribed in black ink inspiring introspection.
Unexpectedly, this tea room felt like a sanctuary into another world. A world apart from what I have just been thrown into with insulin injections three times a day, dizziness, blurry vision, hair loss, the constant anxiety-induced tracking of blood sugar levels – the overwhelming shock of a life suddenly changed.
Cleansing the Mind to Cultivate Inner Peace
Each movement of Dairik-san was graceful, meticulous, and steeped in mindfulness.
With slow and careful motions, he gently slid open the translucent shoji bamboo screen side door to start the ceremony, a respectful nod to the space itself. With the same quiet and thoughtful precision, he lifted and wiped the tea utensils, one sequence after another, almost as if he had become one with them. Only later did I understand that the act of cleaning was never just for physical cleanliness but a ritual of cleansing the mind to cultivate inner peace.
His whisking of matcha was delicate with every action rhythmic, every gesture flowing yet purposeful, almost like a harmonious dance. There was a quiet beauty in the way his gestures mirrored the seasons’ shifting rhythms. As he moved, occasional sunlight filtered through the shoji screens, casting a soft glow on the tatami mats, illuminating the space once wrapped in still darkness, bringing to light the very essence of wabi.
That morning, something in me stirred. A crisis, I realized, is a kind of stripping away of the unnecessary from the familiar to expose what truly matters. The tea room, in its quiet simplicity, is the result of a thoughtful process of removal. Every scent, sound, sight, and movement that flowed in harmony was deliberate – free from excess, distraction, and noise to enhance a space where presence was not only possible but inevitable.
What it Truly Means to be Human
I realized that the same principles apply to time.
As a working parent consumed by multitasking and relentless striving, I had often overlooked time itself. Perhaps I had mistaken motion for meaning, urgency for importance. I had been mindlessly filling my days instead of mindfully deepening them. What if I had set healthier boundaries with care, embraced doing less, and allowed time to unfold rather than always trying to master it?
Quality of mind is, after all, quality of life. There is a Zen expression, “when the mind it still, the tea is fragrant 心静茶味香”. Just as a good cup of tea engages all our five senses, ultimately, it is the state of our mind that matters. In the quiet rhythm of the room where each element seamlessly connected, I could focus – nothing weighed me down, yet everything moved me. Just as light and shadow coexist effortlessly within the tea room, soo too can discomfort and peace exist within me simultaneously.
As a host, Dairik-san had offered me more than just tea. He showed me a glimpse of an alternate pathway – one sparked by awe into a deeper way of being. Here is an invitation to unclutter, to create more space, not just in my surroundings but within myself. I began to wonder what it would mean to view the world not just as a checklist of tasks and accomplishments to be reached, but also an unfolding moment to be fully lived.
And that first tea session with Dairik-san turned into subsequent lessons, piquing my continued curious interest into tea, meditation, nature, culture, spirituality – and what it truly means to be a human.
Receiving Whatever Appears
“Zen is about rediscovering the truth again and again” – Toryo Ito, Zen Monk.
I can still recall the day when I meditated at the Ryosokuin Zen Temple. We sat outdoors facing the tea garden, where lush shadows danced on the emerald green grass with a touch of brown, revealing the extension of branches from the majestic pine trees.
Our soft cushions rested on the nightingale temple floorboards as I tried to reach for stillness on a sunny but incredibly windy early spring day.
We were first guided to walk barefoot across the temple floors. Each step releasing a humorous, melodic squeak. The more I tried to contain the sound by softening my steps, the less “Zen” I felt, growing more self conscious while confronted by my misconception. I had thought that Zen was purely a state of calmness, but it can also be dynamic, much like the flow of life.
From walking meditation, we then transitioned to seated meditation with the option of having our eyes half opened or fully closed. As the wind picked up speed, the creaking sound of the temple’s wooden door hinge echoed in greater resonance. I squeezed my eyes closed, tighter. It was hard not to be “distracted”.
Instead, Toryo-san encouraged us to relax and embrace each sensation, treating the moment as an opportunity to notice and receive whatever appears. In acceptance, one finds assurance. Like a wave rising and retreating, even in the darkest days of Winter, the quiet stirrings of change are beginning to take root. When Winter comes, Spring is not that far away.
And just like tea, Zen is not about the pursuit of perfection but a true awareness of our internal and external surroundings – an awareness of one’s state of mind in the present moment. And it is only through direct personal experience that Zen understanding can be reached, beyond the grasp of any languages or words.
A Daily Ritual of Acceptance
Pausing with space has led me to confront my past, revealing the fundamental disconnect between the life I thought I had under control and the reality of it. Before my hospitalization, I was consumed by work, failing to notice the warning signs of my health and the toll my mindlessness took on my family and my children.
Meditation has now become my daily ritual, grounding me to be in the present moment. I meditate in the mornings before my kids wake up and even while traveling by adjusting the length of my meditation session. Upon waking, I light an incense and sit on a cushion on the floor, starting with light stretching. I will then meditate for at least 20 minutes, sometimes with the help of guided meditation apps like The Way or Waking Up.
First, I settle into a seated position, close my eyes, and focus on the breath. It is much easier to focus on my breath if I do it intentionally – inhaling the world, then exhaling all of myself – centered on the dantian, two finger widths below the naval.
The first part is focused, calming the body, while the second half of my meditation practice is more free-flowing, allowing thoughts, feelings, and sensations to rise and fade like fallen leaves going down a slow stream, as I soften and become more receptive like a mirror, without jumping to react.
Meditation is not easy when I am tired or busy. But I find the true essence of the practice is in its consistency. Meditation is my regular exercise of acceptance, an acknowledgement that while I am imperfect, it is only by embracing each part of my journey – rough or gentle – can I begin to change.
Touching the Whole of Time
For years, I have been working with international development organizations via the lens of policy and systems change. It is a highly competitive working environment with a tight grip driven by the spirit of doing more, going faster and better, quicker wins, and scaling up for outsized impact to save the world. And perhaps, an overconfident illusion of control.
But the crisis that I was faced with taught me that life is not always linear. Instead, life can be full of unexpected twists and challenges. It taught me to focus on what truly matters, accept what comes, and to find balance through mindful pauses amid a life of striving.
It showed me a path where lasting change starts within.
Tea and meditation taught me not to be so quick to disregard the old but wise ways of the past. Japan’s philosophies from Shintoism (its native belief system), to Taoism and Zen (both rooted in Chinese culture) are deeply connected to nature.
Everything, like a drop of water to the ocean, is interconnected and part of an ongoing flow. Nature does not hurry – our gentle reminder to be mindful, even as we rush towards our seeking of mountains and oceans however fleetingly.
Being Good Ancestors for Future Generations
I have since found footing following the shocking hospital diagnosis. But I am now at a juncture, continuing to reflect on my current place in the world – of how I can begin to reintegrate my familiar past of wanting to drive broader social change with the mindful path that I have now discovered.
It made me realize the value of emotional resilience at the individual level and our connection to a larger, interconnected ecosystem. Systems and individual change, both are necessary for sustainable change as we face complex challenges from climate change, an aging society, to a fragile community – anxious, disconnected, and lonely.
Tea and meditation, the rituals, the mindfulness, the pauses, seem to have a mysterious allure of drawing us into a moment where past, present, and future blend into something timeless – touching the whole of time.
Perhaps by reflecting on the past and rediscovering ancient wisdom, we can learn to strengthen our bond with others, with nature, and be good ancestors for future generations.
As we seek growth and expansion, perhaps we can also learn to rest, reflect and remember to empty our cups. Amid our busy pursuits, perhaps we must not forget to wake up and rediscover the truth again and again.
