A few years ago, I took a small class of students to experience a Japanese tea ceremony. We traveled to a rural area of western NJ to a large, old farmhouse. The ceremony's master led us to a small tea house in the backyard, nestled in a quaint Japanese-style garden. The tea house was seemingly no larger than a shed, but we were able to fit 8 people comfortably (?) inside, seated on the floor. Two attendants appeared from behind a paper screen to begin the ceremonial boiling of the water and steeping of matcha tea. The tea master began by making a cup of tea, drinking it and then passed the empty cup to the next patron, so they could inspect his cup for its beauty and imperfections. They received a separate cup to drink from, which they subsequently passed, empty, to their neighbor. The flower display on the mantle was a small raku vase with a sprig of cherry blossom. The tea master also noted to the children that they should take in this sight, as if they came back tomorrow, that flower arrangement would be different and would represent a wholly new scene.
The students sat rapt in attention, their quiet filling the small space. As the ceremony continued, they began to politely discuss the taste of the tea and the sweets offered to them. Going last in the procession, I noticed how the students' behaviors adapted to the new, unusual situation. Unlike most every American experience, the ceremony's rituals were understated. With no cell phones in hand and having no literal space to escape to, the students had to confront each other (and themselves) in that small tea shack. Either we made polite conversation or we didn't. And either way, it was OK.
In the aftermath of the experience, the students wandered lazily around the Japanese garden, lounged around a small reflecting pool with koi, sticking their hands into the water to try and pet the fish. The tea master and his partner laughingly encouraged their attempts. As we spent a good portion of our day at the estate, I came to appreciate the break from the schedule of our regular day, and, from their relaxed behavior, I could tell the students did as well. Even the short break from their phones while we were in the tea ceremony seemed to help them focus more. Those in-between moments, the ones we usually fill with silently staring at our own personal devices were now brought back to the forefront through this trip. These students will likely not change their patterns of behavior in any real way due to this experience, yet I do hope that it had as much of an impact on them as it did me.
As a person who grew up without a computer until late high school and without a smart phone until a year ago, I am still not ready to give into the temptation of constantly being able to be connected. Perhaps it is due to my introvert nature, but constant contact feels like an obligation I don't want to fulfill and see little positives in. Most of my students tend to be on an extreme end of this spectrum - constantly in contact with everyone and anyone through social media apps and texting. They will often claim that this is unhealthy as they scroll through endless posts, compelled to see more. What are they missing by looking down into their screens all of the time? Well, they end up missing some of those more unusual moments in life. Again, as an introvert, I have a habit of people-watching and appreciate what I see ("people are strange, when you're a stranger...). Are these moments life-changing? Most definitely not. But they do remind you, more than anything, that we are fallible creatures that are somehow both amazingly similar to each other and utterly unique at the same time. As we become more accustomed to seeing the same type of edited posts and pictures that people share about themselves online, it can be jarring to realize that no one is that put together in real life.
This week, a friend recommended an album to me, which, in one of those weird moments of aesthetic attraction, has become an immediate obsession (very occasionally, I will buy an entire album on a gut feeling after hearing one track. This was such an album and I haven't regretted that decision). The lyrics to this song, "Southern Gothic" relate to this feeling I often have - that I am speaking of things no one cares about anymore - but here's the real rub - I think they really do care about them, but have been conditioned not to. About a month ago, the NYT magazine ran an article about a website where people write in with descriptions of books they read and cannot recall the author or title (oftentimes, children's books). Bizarrely, this dead-end for memories led to a poignant essay about the humanity encapsulated within all of us, "The posts on Stump the Bookseller are far more utilitarian than they are sentimental, but...[they] routinely bring tears to my eyes. Each one forces an overwhelming rediscovery of just how real other people are. a confrontation with the fact that everyone's mind is cluttered with images that are incidental, almost partly lost, affecting in ways that are subtle, unpredictable and impossible to explain." And, I think, when we let our guards down long enough to talk to each other, like really sit down and talk face to face, or engage in a shared experience, we'd actually feel better not only about ourselves but about the world in which we live.
