Illustration by Jasmine Zhang
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There’s a Japanese print you’ve probably seen. A giant wave born of churning waters, three barely perceptible boats, likely about to be swallowed up by the sea, but somehow managing to remain afloat. In the distance, framed and dwarfed by the crest of the Great Wave, sits Mount Fuji. And even amidst the artfully contained yet palpable movement, the eye is drawn to its stillness.
Several years back, or perhaps it was several lifetimes ago, I lived in Japan – itself a beautiful, undulating ocean of culture and kanji script, whose very language resembles waves rising and falling, vertically and horizontally on the page. Indeed, it has written itself onto my bones.
I still dream about it often. When I remind myself to be mindful, I can still feel the stillness. I can hear the soothing din of chatter in a language I can barely speak conversationally; lilting, melodic background noise, insisting I soften. An entire world comprised of frenetic motion and utter stillness. Chaos kept in check by a near-militant sense of ceremony, all elegantly woven into the fabric of day-to-day life. Intentional anchors.
Consider the tea ceremony, a ritual with which I had become particularly taken. A beautifully, meticulously codified construct, the ceremony itself commands just as much reverence as the tea. Tools are handled with such exquisite care, such intention. Nothing is just an object. Each item holds inherent value: A bamboo whisk, a teapot, a hot water vessel; an earthenware bowl from which tea is quietly sipped. Everything is placed just so. Water is poured so seamlessly it’s an extension of the pot.
The result is a pristinely frothed bowl of vibrant green matcha, sipped slowly, peacefully, and paired with a tiny, sweet confection for contrast. But the result does not matter.
It’s not about the tea.
The ceremony itself is the thing. The ritual. Elevating something as common as “tea” to sacred, otherworldly levels. The actions, the utensils, even the cloth napkins, are worthy of respect, simply because they exist.
I inhale the swirling, matcha-scented steam; a fragrant smoke signal. The world around me expands and contracts, as though time itself is breathing.
Remember this, I tell myself without words.
Back in the West, several lifetimes, countless cups of tea, and a tiny human later. I am now in a new strand of life called “mother.”
There is nothing peaceful or still about this particular set of moments so clumsily thrust upon me. I am plunged directly into this new life a boat in a strange sea, searching for a point of stillness that might not exist.
I function on instinct and instinct alone. Every twinge in my gut is amplified, priming me, or a prehistoric version of me still wired to harpoon a whale’s ancestor, for action of some kind. It is constant. Unrelenting. Primal.
There is no self.
There is only this other, this creature I vaguely remember producing, its unmeasured cries piercing through me like fiery knives, but for whom I would do literally anything, sacrifice everything, without so much as a thought.
I am reduced to a source of food, physical comfort and an infinite array of shushing sounds. I am constantly swaying. My mushbrain does not know what day it is.
Everything about me is tethered to this other’s existence, each item of clothing on my body marked with milk, saliva, tears – most of it not even mine.
I cry at nothing and everything. I don’t have an appetite, but surely the vessel should be filled with something to fuel the shushing and the swaying. Someone will have to boil the water. Pour the tea. Consume the tea. I watch someone’s hands fill the kettle and switch on the stove.
They are my hands.
I am the someone.
I hear the rhythmic click click click of the gas burner, the satisfying whoosh of the catching flame and suddenly, for the first time in many moons, my mind is set alight.
It’s not about the tea.
In that moment it becomes clear that I am in desperate need of some grounding, something tangible to help rein in the feral, abstract frenzy of my current existence. I need a ritual.
I begin by cleansing my face every morning, a daily reminder I’m still here. Gradually, I tack on additional elements: After washing, apply serum, smoothing a silky dot across each cheek. My hands are intentional. Deliberate. My ritual expands.
Moisturize the vessel.
Floss the vessel’s teeth.
This is not about appearing younger or having bouncier skin or staving off wrinkles or tooth decay. If there’s anything Japan has taught me, it’s that the end result does not matter.
The ceremony itself is the thing. The ritual. Elevating something as common as “mother” to sacred, otherworldly levels.
Click click click, whoosh.
Water churns wildly on the stove, a tiny ocean, confined only by a kettle. Moments later, the gurgling settles as it’s poured into a sturdy, earthenware bowl and whisked with powdered leaves.
Matcha-scented metamorphosis.
I raise the bowl to my lips and close my eyes, inhaling its swirling, bittersweet steam.
Beside me, a baby breathes, inhaling the world.
Remember this, I tell myself without words.
I take a sip.
Bev Spritzer lives in Toronto.