夏
told by the keeper of the tea house
A new story steeps every morning.
Leave the road here.
The stones remember your feet.
The kettle heard you coming.
hung by the door this morning
The koi are listening. Touch the water.
The long story
The mountain keeps no clock.
Fireflies wind it each evening.
It runs slow on purpose.
The sand garden
Your hand is the rake. Draw slowly. The sand remembers for a while, then forgets, which is what it is for.
From the keeper's list of one hundred quiet things, today's is
Walk the garden before you go in
水
The stone basin
Rinse your hands here. The basin sits low on purpose: it asks you to bow to the garden before it lets you drink. The moss took nine years to arrive and will outstay us all.
門
The crooked gate
Hung badly, in love and in a hurry, a very long time ago. It has never once kept anyone out, and it never will. The hinge is quiet now. Someone saw to it.
楓
The old maple
Half silver since the lightning, half green out of stubbornness. The bare side holds the nests, the living side makes the shade. It is all one tree, dividing the work.
梅
The plum by the well
It decides on its blossoms in autumn and keeps its word in spring, without one day of decent weather to reassure it. Once, they say, it bloomed in deep winter. Ask on a quiet night.
Noted at the tea house, today
At the fire tonight
The incense knows no hurry. Neither do you, for the length of this room.
Someone asked the keeper, this week
Whatever the season, the pot is warm
Stay a moment longer
Sit with the lantern light a while. Three slow rounds is plenty.
A real three minutes, timed by the house. The tea will tell you when.
Ring it once. Let the sound finish before you go.
Go gently.
Take the quiet with you.
The door is never locked.