Tiger owned a tea house at the edge of the village.
She liked to think her name came from the small mountain just beyond the village, Tiger’s Leap. But once her father said it was because when she was born a tiger roamed the area, and people spoke of little else until it left one day, never to be heard of again. That was fifty years ago.
Tiger was not actually sure how old her tea house was. Her parents ran it, as did her mother’s parents before. After that it all becomes vague. Maybe her mother’s mother’s parent. One of them. Or not. What she knew is that the tea house continued on in the family as the family’s living for a long, long time.
She never married. Just not interested. Beyond her work she had a long-time spiritual discipline and regularly attended the rites and festivals of the intimate way. That seemed enough. The truth be said if she hadn’t had the responsibility of caring for her parents, perhaps she would have become a nun. She still thought of it occasionally, but not deeply. Life was good.
And as far as her spiritual life went, it hadn’t really mattered. She never saw a lot of difference between the time set aside to sit and attend closely and her work making and serving tea.
First working for her parents and then slowly taking over the business was fairly smooth. Her parents decline and death were gentle, until it became hard. Especially her father’s. But she did what was needed. And it was a lot easier than it could have been.
Her mother lived on for several years beyond her father. It was during that time that she took on her assistant. He was an orphan who had been one of the street children who played and begged on the road that extended from the village to the distant city.
She noticed the boy was bright and had a quick smile and was generous with his peers. First, he ran odd errands for her. Then she allowed him to work as her real assistant. This included feeding him, purchasing clothes as he needed, and allowing him to sleep in the front of the store. He made money from the occasional tip. The whole thing was a mutual good. He had a safe place and she too had a little more security in times that were not always safe.
As to the spiritual thing, the old village priest had been a good mentor, understood the practices of silent presence as well as the workings of broken hearts, and was all she seemed to need.
Mostly what mattered for Tiger focused out from a moment in her life when everything had fallen away. She was somewhere in her thirties. Her parents were still alive when it happened. Right words for the experience, encounter, shift, whatever the moment was, were all slippery.
What happened was she was pouring tea when she saw through the tea and the pot and the cup. There was only this. It included all those things, but none stood out from any of the other things. From that time on “things” didn’t seem quite the right word. But for ordinary conversation it worked. All things were one. So, she was fine with it.
Tiger noticed how after her mentor the old priest had died the next priest, a young nun, would more often come and sit with her than the other way around. The nun would occasionally ask her own questions. And often Tiger had a response that felt it might be useful.
Life was good. Certainly, good enough.
The shop was in front and small family quarters in back. In warmer weather the wide doors could be thrown open and chairs and small tables would spill out to the side of the broad road that led into the small village in one direction and on to the great city miles away in the other.
The rhythms of life remained much the same. Except for the day of rest honored throughout the countries of the intimate way, she would be up before dawn, go to the baker and purchase small breads of several sorts, while her assistant would go to the communal well and bring back buckets of water.
They each would return close to the same time, and then set up the stove and begin heating water. Tiger offered several types of tea, but most people wanted the same sturdy black tea mixed with sugar. When the dawn became full morning was Tiger’s busiest time.
The day of rest was really just a day with a little less work. She still opened for the morning. The small breads were whatever was left over from the day before. But she closed the tea house shortly before the noon meal, instead of sometime in the evening. Her assistant would then wander off on his own errands. She usually allowed herself a couple of hours of her quiet sitting practice rather than the hour or so with which she ended her days.
And so, life continued.
Until the day the Fortune Teller came into her shop.
It wasn’t the first time. Her shop was near the edge of town. He set up his shop, if it could be called that, regularly at the farther edge, where it was clearly no longer the village. Shop was an exaggeration. He would lay out an old tattered red rug and sit at one edge of it with the empty space closest to the road. He would take out his divining sticks and set them in front of him. And he would sit there until someone came with a question.
Some days were busy for him. Other days no one stopped.
Once in a while the Fortune Teller would pause on his way to his spot. Tiger had no idea where he spent the nights. When he paused he would purchase a tea. More rarely he would also buy a small bread. Perhaps it was associated with how busy he had been the day before. She had enough to do and didn’t follow the fortune teller’s life very closely.
This time he came into her shop just as the full dawn was blooming. So, there was a bit of a rush. Still there was one empty table and he sat at it. He was a big man. His loose brown robe had stars and moons stitched into the material, advertising his trade. His hair and beard were matted, and it seemed he shaped it all as various odd spikes, some kind of halo, all around his head. Tiger thought his head must itch all the time. As the thought came to her he reached a hand up and gave his head a strong thorough scratch.
He said that he wondered if she would be willing to trade a tea and a small bread in exchange for a reading from his sticks. He would address any question she had.
Tiger hesitated. She had no idea if he could read deeper things. She didn’t discount that it could happen, but she didn’t know if he could do it. Also, she preferred cash. However, she suspected yesterday had been one of those no client days.
So, she responded that she wasn’t going to make a habit of this, but for today, yes. He smiled broadly and as he leaned over to take up his bag with the sticks she walked to the back to pour some tea. She paused over the small bun, thought briefly about giving him one left over from the day before. But as her hand reached out, of its own accord she took up one of the fresh ones.
She told her assistant to take over with the other customers, and then carried the tea and small bread over to the table, placed it down, and sat in front of him. The Fortune Teller set the sticks down on the table, took a deep sip of tea, reached for the bun and took a bite. After chewing and swallowing he said, “what question are you interested in?”
She replied, “Ever since I discovered the tea and the pot and the cup were not three things, everything has felt like an autumn day with dew touching everything.” He responded, “Yes. A lovely thing. I know that autumn and that dew.”
Tiger looked at him closely. Mostly the people who understood what she said were monks and nuns. The old priest. Mostly people didn’t. Her young assistant had no clue. The young priest understood it as a longing, but had not herself experienced it. The Fortune Teller said nothing more. Instead, he took another sip of tea.
She said, “My question is, is there another season?”
Instead of reaching for the small bread the fortune teller took up his sticks, held them all together in both hands and muttered a silent prayer. Then he divided the sticks into two bundles. He set the bundle in his right hand down, and then divided the second bundle. He then counted out the sticks in each of the two bundles.
He said, “Take the day of rest and go for a stroll. Maybe take a walk up to the summit of Tiger’s Leap.”
The Fortune Teller seemed to be done. He took up the sticks and placed them back in the bag, took another sip of tea, and began to seriously eat the small bread. Tiger felt whatever he had said; whether it was useful or not, that was that. Not entirely sure it had been worth a tea and a fresh small bread, she got up and resumed caring for the customers.
At the end of the day before the day of rest she told her assistant that he would be in charge for the whole day that day. To take care of business while she had something to do. He was thrilled at this. He had only taken over before if she was too sick to work. He had learned the math of the job and how to handle money. He had learned his letters, as well. But he resisted her encouraging him to go the priest’s school. He loved the shop, and felt the thrill of trust. He felt confident he would be worthy of that trust.
With the dawn she was up. Tiger never slept late unless she was very, very ill. She made her self some tea and ate one of the day old small breads, then packed up some more, and filled an old skin bag with water. It had a wooden stopper her father had carved. She pushed it in. And with that she was on her way.
She thought of it as a picnic. It had been years. Tiger didn’t have much direction in mind, except toward Tiger’s Leap. She found herself following the smells of the grasses and flowers.
It was delicious.
As she made her way Tiger noticed how within the sway of the grasses there were numerous individual stalks. Each, as she cast her eye in their direction, dancing their own private dance. But then joined together.
There was something magical about the flowers. Occasionally she paused, knelt down, put her nose to it and breathed in deeply. All the while the mountain kept getting closer. It would stand high as she passed through meadows, it would peek at her through stands of trees.
Within an hour or so the walk became something of a climb. It wasn’t terribly steep, but it was relentless. Tiger realized it had been a long time since she used the muscles she found now complaining.
But she persisted.
Finally, very near the summit, Tiger found she needed to push through a stand of brush to get to the top. She put her arms out and separated the bushes.
And she found herself staring into the eyes of the devil. Maybe the eyes were empty, there sure seem a worm occupied one socket. What she knew for certain was its horns.
She let the bushes go and she exhaled. The branches sprang back mostly in the same place they had been. And the devil was hidden. She thought of the Fortune Teller. She thought of the autumn dew. And she realized all along this walk the dew had vanished. First in the beauty of each stalk of grass, in each flower presenting, in each scent that pulled her along.
And now. With the devil.
She took a deep breath. And parted the bushes again. For half a second it was still the devil. Then it became obvious it was a mostly rotted away deer skull. Looking closer she saw that somehow what was left of the spine held the skull more or less erect. She also noticed she had been right. That was a worm in the right eye socket.
Tiger said a small prayer for the deer who had been, briefly, the devil. And then she proceed on to the summit of Tiger’s Leap. As she surveyed the countryside, she found her village and was pretty sure she knew where her tea house was. The country was so, so beautiful. It hurt it was so beautiful.
It wasn’t so much that all things were one, but rather each thing is one.
She knew the beauty came from all the individual things, the trees, the houses, the people, the grasses, each stalk, the flowers, each blossom ripening and then falling away. But for the moment a great pregnant birthing rush of. Well.
Then. Words fell away.
She just witnessed.
A feeling did flow into her being, a sort of warmth. Everything, absolutely everything was, well, right.
She sighed. And Tiger got up and walked home.
As she came to the edge of the village, the Fortune Teller was sitting on his ragged red rug.
He smiled at her and asked, “Where did you go?”
She replied, “I went out following the smells of grasses and flowers. I met a devil. I found a body. I saw the world in front of me. Then I followed those blossoms back.
His smile broadened. “The spirit of Spring, don’t you think?”
She replied, “Yes. Even better than autumn dew.”
An old woman and a child stepped up to them, the woman turned to the Fortune Teller. “Are you available for my grand daughter? She has a question.”
The Fortune Teller asked the two to sit down.
Tiger resumed her walk home. She began to think about whether it was time to insist the boy go to the priest’s school.
(With many thanks for the lovely koan about the monk Changsha and his stroll into the mountains collected as case 36 of the Twelfth century Chinese anthology of koans, the Blue Cliff Record. The picture is Tea House at Koishikawa by Katsushika Hokusai, circa 1830.)