Early Autumn and Dragonflies Abound

By Scott Norton

The ever-changing seasons are a constant source of inspiration for the practitioner of 茶道 sadō (lit. “The Way of Tea”). In Japan, tea culture is developed side-by-side with the gradual shifts that mark the evolution of each year from Winter to Spring, Summer then Fall. In the early months of Autumn, as Summer’s heat still prevails, insects emerge in large numbers, and their imagery often makes its way into the tea room. Their bright, often noisy, and quick arrival, followed, subsequently, by their eventual death, are a reminder of the ephemeral nature of life, a theme that is core to the practice of 茶の湯 chanoyu.

In early Autumn, the dragonfly, above all other insects, finds its way into the tea space, taking on a variety of forms. They appear in poetry that is written and hung in the alcove. They show up in the cast metal lugs that help to suspend the iron tea kettle in the colder months. They find their way onto the silk garments worn in the tearoom. However, too, the tea person can incorporate their imagery in other, often more subtle forms.

During this time of year, when the weather is both too hot and too unpredictable within the mountains and streams of the Hudson River Valley, I often opt to make tea in the cool climes of my studio. Overlooking my overgrown garden, I let the hum of cicadas overcome me, their sound melding with that of my boiling kettle. On busy days, between work and taking care of my wife and young daughter, I sit for tea. 

Following the regular cadence of preparation in a traditional tea gathering, I make a bowl of 濃茶 koicha first. For this, I utilize a small ceramic tea container enrobed in a silk brocade pouch. The 仕覆 shifuku is tied with a woven silk cord (組紐 kumihimo) in a particular manner that is almost exclusively reserved for this time of year. The wide-body of the 大海茶入 daikai chaire comes with a shifuku that is tied with a special long cord. The 長緒 nagao (lit. “long thread”) is tied in the shape of a dragonfly.

Untying the cord and removing the chaire, I scoop and pour powdered tea into the teabowl to make a delicious bowl of koicha. The knot lies undone. The dragonfly is gone.

After a moment of pause, a walk in the garden, and a check-in with my wife and daughter, I return to my boiling kettle. From a small wooden box, I remove a lacquered tea container and proceed to place scoop after scoop of freshly sifted 抹茶 matcha powder into it. I set this beside a wide summer tea bowl and begin to prepare each item to make a bowl of thin tea (薄茶 usucha). 

With my purple silk 袱紗 fukusa, I purify the tea container, a dark cinnabar lacquered 金輪寺棗 Kinrin-ji natsume. Atop the smooth surface, rendered in gold 蒔絵 maki-e are tall, slender grasses, above which hover 蜻蛉 tombo (dragonfly). The artist, Takeuchi Kōsai 竹内幸斎, included small disks of iridescent abalone shell as their eyes.

The small yet stunning piece shines in the low light of my studio. As I finish my final bowl of tea for the day, I look along the cleaned interior and exterior of the wide-rimmed 茶碗 chawan. Upon careful inspection, where each drip in glaze occurs on its surface, a small raised bubble of vitrified glass appears. Here, too, is the dragonfly, as the presence of this kiln-fired attribute is known poetically as 蜻蛉の目 tombo no me, “dragonfly’s eye”.

Each time one sits for tea, the time of year is present. And like the beautiful dragonflies that dart and settle on blades of tall grass in my overgrown garden, such instances arise and then disappear. When this moment is over, all we are left with are the artistic renderings that they’ve inspired: ink on paper, lugs on a kettle, threads that secure a pouch, gold on lacquer, and glass that forms on glaze.

Photo @ Scott Norton