The Three Hundred Lines of Chanoyu (Lines 141 - 150).

(141) 三ツ釘皆竹にも両脇折釘にもすへし  [In the case of three hooks¹, they may all be bamboo, or the two on the ends may be bent (metal) hooks.]

     According to Lord Sakon², the middle (hook) should be of bamboo, while those on the two sides should be bent (metal) hooks³.

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¹These hooks are for hanging scrolls in the tokonoma.  Either a set of three scrolls which are to be hung together, or a single, very wide scroll (such as many of the continental bokuseki of hōgo [法語, literally “speaking about the Law”], Buddhist admonitions, injunctions, or instructions).  

²Kuwayama Sakon Sōsen (1560-1632), a younger contemporary and disciple of Sen no Dōan.

³In ancient times when it was rare for most tea practitioners to have more than one, or maybe two, scrolls (or, in the case of three scrolls, only this complete set, and maybe also another writing), the particulars of the tokonoma, including its orientation (kami-za doko [上座床] or hon-doko [本床], located on the guests’ right, versus the shita-za doko [下坐床], located on their left) and the placement of hook or hooks was fixed (and thus all three were usually of bamboo — metal hooks, in the humid atmosphere of Japan, can oxidize and stain or discolor the kake-o of the scroll, especially when that scroll is being used frequently).  However, as the number of utensils began to become concentrated in the hands of a shrinking population of tea men (a phenomenon which reached its peak in the early sixteenth century), then the possibility of having several to many scrolls often demanding quite different arrangements had to be addressed, and so the use of sliding metal hooks on the two sides came into fashion.  

     In this case, bamboo hooks, which are nailed into the wall, are fixed in place and immobile (reorienting their position would demand that the wall — and possibly the whole room, since the mud-plaster changes color as it ages — be re-plastered).  The metal hooks, however, are attached to the wall (or, usually, the ceiling) of the tokonoma by means of a kind of track, so they can slide back and forth horizontally, thus allowing the host to change the distance between the two outer hooks and the central hook (which always should be a bamboo peg, even when the others are made of bent metal).



(142) 三ツ釘[乃]間墨跡によるべし  [The spacing of the three hooks depends on the bokuseki.]

     The kake-o is suspended from all three in the shape of a mountain (as has been mentioned before, the central hook is generally slightly higher than the two on the sides, hence the effect really does resemble a mountain with three peaks).  Kenshin comments that it is proper for first the central section to be hung, and then the kake-o on the two sides are raised to their hooks¹ (first on the side where the writing begins, and then on the side where it ends).  

     However (he continues), depending on the occasion, it might also be possible for the scroll to be suspended only from the two hooks on the sides (in this case, after being hung from all three hooks, the central one is disengaged)².  Nevertheless, in ancient times, it was considered correct for the scroll to be always hung from all three hooks on every occasion.
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¹The scroll is hung using a notched bamboo cane (whereas a folded fan was sometimes used, it is completely impractical to do so in this instance).  Holding the cane in the right hand, and supporting the partly unrolled scroll with the left, the central section of the kake-o is lifted up onto its hook.  Then the notched bamboo is disengaged and used to lift the kake-o first to the side hook on one side, and then on the other.

     The use of a fan to hang a scroll is actually an expedient.  This was originally done (only) when a scroll was placed on the floor of the tokonoma, to display the gedai to the guests.  Afterward, the host usually came out to hang the scroll with the bamboo pole as usual.  However, occasionally when one of the guests was a seasoned master, he might take it into his mind to save the host the trouble and hang the scroll for him (in the same way that Tsuda Sōkyu added the charcoal to the fire while Rikyū was busy changing the water in the kama on the occasion of that famous snowy-dawn impromptu chakai).  Since the bamboo pole is not usually present in the room (the host brings it out from the katte when needed, and takes it back with him when he leaves), the guest’s folding fan was used to extend the length of his arm, so that the scroll could be hung while he stayed in a seated position on the floor of the tokonoma.  In ancient times, this was never a planned practice (since in that case, the bamboo cane could have been hung in anticipation from the hook on the toko-bashira); rather, it represents a case where, having satisfied themselves with the gedai, the guests were unable to resist hanging the scroll by themselves, so as to be able to admire it for just that much longer.  (It must be added that their attitude is also a way of showing deep respect and esteem for the scroll, as the “shadow” of the person who painted it.)

²Disengaging the kake-o from the central hook allows the scroll to hang a little lower in the tokonoma, which, particularly at a night gathering, in a tokonoma with a high ceiling, would allow the scroll to hang a little closer to the light, making it easier to see and read.  
     The concluding statement — that, in ancient times, all three hooks were always supposed to be used — looks back to the days when the tokonoma was constructed specifically in order to hang the scroll, thus the question of a vertically short scroll being hung too high to be read comfortably would never have occurred.  As Rikyū says in the Nampō Roku, “if the scroll is a horizontal composition, so that it may better fill the space the ceiling of the tokonoma should be lowered.”


(143) 袋床乃事  [Concerning the fukuro-toko.]

     A fukuro-toko (“bag” tokonoma) has a front aperture that is smaller than the actual width tokonoma (by the addition of a sode-kabe which obscures part of the front opening).  In his comments on this line, Kenshin attempts to qualify the particulars of the construction, since the defining elements were often confused by tea-men even in his day.

     Kenshin writes that the ceiling of the fukuro-toko is made of boards, and the side walls are plastered all around (so that no posts are visible); and in front there is a sode-kabe (to make the aperture smaller).  In contrast, the hora-doko has both the walls and the ceiling plastered.  This latter is also called the muro-toko [室床].  

     However (he continues), in an old book on carpentry we find the matter explained like this:  when both the walls and the ceiling are plastered over, this is what is known as a hora-toko.   Regardless of whether or not it has a sode-kabe in front, a tokonoma should be called a hora-toko if the walls and ceiling are all plastered over.  When a sode-kabe is installed (to make the aperture in front smaller), this is called a fukuro-toko; when the ceiling is of (unplastered) boards but the walls are plastered all around, this is called a nuri-mawashi-toko [塗り廻し床]².
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¹A well-known example of the fukuro-toko was in the Kanden-an tearoom (a 1-mat daime room with sode-kabe and a fukuro-toko) that was built by Matsudaira Fumai in Matsue.  It is no longer in existance.

²Nuri [塗り] means painted-on, and refers, in this case, to the painting of kabe [mud-plaster] onto the boards.  It does not refer to lacquer in this case.


(144) 腰はりの事  [Concerning the koshi-bari.]

     In the sukiya, Kenshin writes, the mat on which tea is made is pasted around with waste paper turned  so that the writing is toward the wall.  The rest of the room is pasted round with Minato paper¹ that has the finished side turned toward the plaster as well.  

     He continues, in the past, perhaps due to a certain understanding of wabi, only the wall beside the utensil mat was papered, but there is really no reasoning behind this way of doing things.  As for this idea, the walls are actually all the same, so for only one part of them to be treated differently is a mistake.  The feeling of wabi should be the cumulative effect of everything.  But the cause of this impression, however, should be that when we are inspecting something, yet we do not notice anything at all², then the path has already been diverged from.  With respect to wabi, everything should be expressive of wabi:  I wish to bestow on you this understanding.
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¹This is a low-quality variety of tori-no-ko paper (a paper with a hard, eggshell-like color and surface-texture on the front side, used since the Kamakura period for papering walls — in this case, however, the finished side is that which is turned toward the wall so that the coarser, matt side is visible in the tearoom), originally produced in the Minato-mura section of Sakai.  While several of the commentators discuss the height and other aspects of the koshi-bari*, Kenshin himself seems totally disinterested in these sorts of particulars, preferring to digress in the direction of a discussion of the meaning of wabi.
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*According to these commentators, for papering the bottom of the wall around the utensil mat the width is 9-sun, or else the standard width for rolls of writing paper, which may be papered over twice if the waste-paper is particularly thin (this also makes the writing less legible); 1-shaku 8-sun, or up to 2-shaku, for that pasted behind the guests’ seats (for this latter, they add, the host may use ao-kami [青紙] or ai-kami [藍紙], paper dyed a grayish-blue-green or the rather dull natural indigo — a preference dating from the Edo period on because these darkly dyed papers are less inclined to look dirty before the paper needs to be replaced, than the off-white Minato-kami often does).

²In other words, when we look at something and notice that nothing has been done — such as that the mud-plaster on this or that wall has not been papered over — the apparent oversight is already a divergence from the meaning of wabi.  It is in accordance with the concept of wabi that paper should be applied to the wall only where necessary — at the lower edge, so that should the guest lean against it, his clothes will not be soiled by the mud-plaster.  Papering where it is not strictly necessary is extravagant; but applying no paper to places where it is needed, however, is negligent and (in this instance) potentially disrespectful (to the guests) as well.  

     In this specific case, the application of the koshi-bari is in full accord with the teachings of wabi, as is the practice of using Minato paper for the koshi-bari and waste writing-paper for the walls surrounding the utensil mat:  the heavier wall-paper is applied (albeit back-side-outward) to the wall where there is the possibility that the guests will lean back against the wall, while used writing paper (which is much thinner) covers the wall near the utensil mat (where the idea was primarily to prevent splashes of water from discoloring the plaster, while simultaneously providing a light background that helps to make the actions undertaken on the utensil mat more easily seen).

     As for the wabi of the “small”* room versus the superfluity of the shoin room, we should perhaps try to think of things in the following way.  The shoin room is all about display for the sake of display (the decoration of the tsuke-shoin, or built-in writing desk, and chigai-dana, being a case in point:  why, when the purpose of the assembly is the serving and drinking tea, are this desk and shelf appointed with exquisite writing implements, rare books, and other artifacts, none of which will be used by anyone at all during the course of the gathering — other than for the pleasure which viewing these things will give to the eye of the beholder?).  While, on the other hand, the wabi “small” room is entirely focused on necessity (according to Rikyū, nothing should ever be placed out in the wabi room that is not absolutely indispensable to the serving of tea — the scroll and flowers being as necessary, in his opinon, as the chawan, kama, and other utensils — yet nothing that is needed should ever be eliminated from the utensils arranged there, other than the one or two things which the host can carry into the room with him when he enters, and remove with him at the end of the gathering when he leaves; yet he should not have to make two trips to carry these things at either time).  So, wabi means a fully-functional minimalism, and it necessarily follows that one should never try to reduce this minimum even further, to the point where functionality is lost.  This is the point of Kenshin’s final remarks.
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*According to Hisada Sōya, in his book “Rikyū:  Wabi-cha no Sekai,” the word , [小] “small” was, during Rikyū’s period, used as a hentai-gana [変体仮名:  a simple or cursive form of a kanji used phonetically to suggest some other word] for [高], an abbreviation for kōrai [高麗], or Korea/Korean-style, and not actually connected with the size of the room at all — though the minimalism inherent in the concept of wabi certainly encourages the use of rooms that are no larger than absolutely necessary.  The Hisada family is (and always has been) the only living line that biologically derives from Rikyū himself — through his cherished daughter, who was also acknowledged as an accomplished practitioner of chanoyu in her father’s style, considered second only to Dōan by many of their contemporaries, though the fact that she was a woman immediately precluded her from any public prominence — and they preserve teachings, techniques, and intimate family history known nowhere else.  It was in this context that Hisada Sōya undertook to publish the above-cited book — though the argument regarding kō [小] being a hentai-gana for [高], as an abbreviation of the word kōrai [高麗], can also be found in the Kōshin Ge-gaki [江岑夏書], written by Sōtan’s second son (the first son of his second wife, and the progenitor of the Omotesenke line) Kōshin Sōsa, in his old age.  The pretext, in his case, being to set down those teachings which he had found to be “generally unknown” among the practitioners of chanoyu in the early Edo period “so these things would not be lost” to future generations:  curiously, this unprecedented outburst of recollections (if that is what they are), many of heretofore never-mentioned details and anecdotes — a number of which directly contradict Shōan’s and Sōtan’s own supposedly “first hand” knowledge of these things (assuming, of course, that they were really as intimate with Rikyū as was claimed; though many of the stories in the Kōshin Ge-gaki definitely suggest otherwise) — occurred after the Hisada house had been drawn under the Omotesenke umbrella through the marriage of their heir to Sōtan’s daughter (a point, by the way, whose implications were not lost on Hisada Sōya when he decided to put pen to paper).


(145) 懸灯台[乃]事  [Concerning the hanging lamp.]

     This line refers to a kake-tōdai [掛灯台], or hanging oil-lamp, to give illumination to the tokonoma.  It may also be hung on one of the pillars in a very small room (near the ro during the shō-za; and either on the toko-bashira, the mu-so-kugi, or on the bokuseki-mado, as explained here, during the go-za), where it takes the place of the tankei or zashiki-andon (there is insufficient space in a two-mat or smaller room for a tankei or andon to be set out on the floor, since in addition to its likely getting in the way, the bodies of the guests will be too close and so prevent the lamp from illuminating the room properly; by hanging the light source, it prevents clutter on the floor, and raises the light above the guests).  In his comments, Kenshin refers primarily to the latter situation where the kake-tōdai is hung in the tokonoma (thus his comments are generally applicable, both to an ordinary tearoom and in the wabi small room).

     Kenshin writes, the hook on the toko-bashira was from the beginning the hook for hanging an oil lamp.  It was usually nailed 4-shaku, or 4-shaku 1-sun above the ji-shiki-i [地敷居]².  The reason is because, from this height, the shadow of a flower in a vase on an usu-ita will not be apparent³.  It is also possible for a hanging flower-vase to be suspended from this hook on occasion.

     It is also possible for the hook for the kake-tōdai to be attached to the window in the tokonoma⁴.  Generally one or more places where several of the reed or bamboo lathes overlap in a cross shape is present in such windows⁵, and it is from this kind of place that the lamp (or flower container) should be suspended.  As this sort of reinforced cross-shaped pattern may occur in more than one place in the window, the host should use the one from which the light will cast the shadow of the flowers wholly on the usu-ita (the same consideration that Kenshin voiced above, with respect to a kake-tōdai suspended on the toko-bashira).  The flower-container may, depending on occasion (that is, when the hook is not being used for the lamp, such as during the daytime), be hung from this hook as well.  

     Usually a kake-shōji [掛け障子], or paper window-cover (suspended on hooks by two screw-eyes attached to the top of the panel) is hung on the shita-ji mado.  When a shōji is hung on the inside, then a sudare [簾], reed-blind, is hung on the outside.  However, when a sudare is hung on the inside, then the shōji should be hung on the outside⁶.
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¹As mentioned in a previous post, the kake-tōdai can also be hung from the mu-sō-kugi [無双釘] (or from a plain wooden sui-bachi [木地垂撥] suspended from the bamboo hook used to hang the scroll during the shō-za, if it is necessary to change the elevation of the lamp due to the circumstances) in the middle of the back wall of the tokonoma:  in which case it is poetically referred to as tō-ka [燈華, 灯花], “the flower of the lamp.”  Kenshin does not mention this possibility in his comments, however; the tō-ka was traditionally one of the most closely guarded of the secret practices of chanoyu, and this may account for his silence.

²The surface of the mats that cover the floor of the room.

³The usu-ita is usually painted with black lacquer, hence a shadow cast only on the usu-ita will not be noticeable.  Shadows, to the East Asian peoples, are suggestive of ghosts (the same association between shadows and ghosts is also found in the Latin language).

⁴The bokuseki-mado [墨跡窓], originally made in the wall outside of the tokonoma (as can be seen in the Tai-an — the small window just outside of the tokonoma with a hanging paper cover is the bokuseki-mado) to give light to the hanging scroll (bokuseki scrolls are usually written with small characters that generally require a lot of light to read), is always shita-ji mado [下地窓], a window opening made by simply leaving an appropriately sized rectangle (or other shape) of the internal lathwork unplastered.  Oribe was the first to make this window in the side wall of the tokonoma itself.  He considered that suspending the lamp here at night gatherings would give a more “natural” sort of illumination to the scroll or flowers displayed in the tokonoma as well, since the light will be coming from the same direction and height as the natural daylight which the room was designed to receive — the attitude of carefully designing the room and tokonoma for specific utensils still being very prevalent in his day.  (Oribe also reasoned that hanging the flower-container here would, likewise, make the flower appear more natural — as if a flower growing in the ground outside was simply leaning in through the window.  Oribe also preferred to hang very large Shigaraki and Iga-ware containers — as large as many free-standing vases — that were quite heavy when filled with water, hence the hook should be attached at a well-reinforced place, usually included in the window for just this purpose).
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*Shita-ji mado, unlike other types of windows, are always for both ventilation and illumination.  The bokuseki-mado both provides illumination to the tokonoma and allows fresh air to enter the room in proximity to the guests’ seats so they will not be made uncomfortable by the gasses emitted by burning charcoal.

⁵For strength, the single horizontal and vertical reed-laths are usually occasionally inter-spaced with groups of two or three parallel reeds tied together tightly with wisteria vine, and where a vertical and a horizontal group of this type overlap, this is the place to which Kenshin says the hook should be affixed, since this area will be strong enough to support the lamp (or a flower-container filled with water) without danger of breaking.

⁶When the kake-tōdai is hung on the bokuseki-mado, the shōji — or a wooden window-cover — is hung on the outside so that the wind will not blow out the flame, or cause it to dance (casting unsettling shadows in the tokonoma).


(146) 茶箱は坐敷き[へ]出すものゝ事  [The matter of bringing the chabako into the tearoom.]

     As in the Nampō Roku, this line refers to what is now usually call the satsū-bako [茶通箱].  While these boxes always came in sizes sufficient to hold one (hitotsu-ire [一ツ入]), two (futatsu-ire [二ツ入]), or even three containers (mitsu-ire [三ツ入]) of matcha¹, the box which holds two containers of tea was the most common (since it afforded sufficient tea to host a gathering in the formal style, with the host preparing both koicha and usucha using different varieties of tea).  


     The box, according to the commentary, is 3-sun 9-bu high, 3-sun 2-bu wide, and 5-sun 7-bu long, and the lid (which fits onto the bottom like the lid on a shoe-box) is 9-bu deep.  The following additional information is given regarding the cha-bako:  (1) it is made of shima-kiri [嶋霧], “island” paulownia wood (this shima [嶋] is a hentai-gana often employed in the tea world for shima [縞], which means “striped” — that is high-quality paulownia wood with a straight, parallel grain); (2) it has a yarō-buta [薬籠蓋], a lid rather like that of a shoe-box (this kind of lid keeps the contents especially clean since dust can not infiltrate through the point where the lid contacts the body of the box — the name means a medicine-box lid, for which it was used precisely for this reason); (3) it is made of unpainted wood (however, sometimes the cha-bako is rubbed with the oil of the walnut)²; (4) the lid is 9-bu deep, but the top (because it is slightly rounded) is a little higher than at the sides; (5) the edges and corners are rounded; (6) the wood used is 1-bu and a half thick.

     Kenshin continues, two containers of tea of different varieties are placed in the cha-bako, which may then be displayed on the shelf in the tearoom, or placed in the dōko, and opened during the temae.  There are oral traditions (wholly dealing with the manner in which the box, which was supposed to be sealed with a paper tape bearing the seal of the sender, is to be cut open — perhaps deliberately paralleling the way in which the large jar of leaf-tea was cut open during the kuchi-kiri gathering:  these are fully covered in the Nampō Roku, and briefly summarized in my notes, below) with which one should become completely familiar.  Various circulated writings (Kenshin concludes) cover this material fully.
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¹There were only three possibilities in ancient times:  hatsu-no-mukashi koicha [初昔濃茶], picked during the ten days prior to the Memorial Day of the Bodhisattva Yakushi, the “Medicine Buddha” (on the 88th day of the Lunar year, which is usually at the very end of April); ato-no-mukashi koicha [後昔濃茶], picked during the ten days following the festival; and the mixed inferior-grade packing leaves that were sometimes ground for usucha (originally a wabi practice of the “waste not want not” variety).  One leaf-tea jar generally contained a sealed paper bag of each kind of koicha, packed around by inferior-grade (usucha) leaves*.
 
     Matcha was ceremonially offered to the Buddha on the Memorial Day of Yakushi, and so this kind of tea has from the earliest days (when it was considered the king of medicines) been intimately associated with Yakushi.  In the original temple setting, the daisu was set up in front of the image of Yakushi (to partake of his special blessing), which is placed to the Buddha’s left (thus, on the right side from the spectator’s point of view), and this is why the original tearooms were made with the guests seated to the host’s left (in the temple setting, the congregation was mostly seated to the left of the daisu, on the opposite side of the Buddha image from Yakushi, and behind the monks who were changing prayers).

     Originally the box contained only the tea sent to the chajin as a gift, packed in a plain black-lacquered natsume or a small-sized fubuki (the natsume being used like a kō-tsubo — the tea is pulled out over the rim — while the fubuki was used like a katatsuki — i.e., the tea is scooped out), and sealed with a paper tape, and the ku-den [口伝], oral traditions, are exclusively related to this practice**.  From some point early in the Edo period, however, the situation evolved to where one lacquered chaki contining the gift tea was removed from its original box and placed into a futatsu-ire satsū-bako together with the chaire containing the koicha prepared by the host (thus there was no paper tape to cut, and so forth), and so the temae, as it has come down to us, changed into a minor variation on the ordinary service of two varieties of koicha during the same temae.
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*These leaves are there to insulate the high-quality leaves from excessive moisture or smells that might seep in through the walls of the jar:  these large jars are not fully glazed, nor entirely water-tight, with the idea being to allow the moisture content within to modulate while the leaves are being aged (freshly processed tea leaves are actually too dry — a problem well-known to anyone who has opened a vacuum-packed can of matcha, only to find it charged with static electricity).

**This is probably why the ku-den are not covered in the commentary.  As has probably become apparent to the reader, little of Kenshin’s actual comments remain absolutely untouched.  Even when the passage is for the most part chronologically acceptable, there is still evidence — as here — that Kenshin’s words have been tampered with.  In this case, the ku-den, no longer being relevant, had for the most part quickly been forgotten:  only in pre-Edo sources like the Nampō Roku can these kinds of teachings be found intact (Nambō Sōkei’s language in the Nampō Roku suggests that the teachings were already falling into obscurity in his day, hence his desire to record them for posterity).  

     As for the forgotten ku-den (and without translating the entire rather long passage from the Nampō Roku here in its entirety),  they are related to the way the paper tape sealing the cha-bako is partially severed with a small knife so that when the box is subsequently inspected by the guests only the part of the tape bearing the name-seal of the sender (and a tiny bit of the tape on the opposite side of the box to keep it from falling off) remains intact.  (Since Hideyoshi objected to the presence of even a small knife in the tearoom, this practice of cutting open the cha-bako before the eyes of the guests began to fall into disuse even during Rikyū’s lifetime — at least when Hideyoshi was one of the guests.)  

     After the guests have inspected the cha-bako in this state and returned it to the host, the seal was cut and the box opened.  A list of the contents was written on the inside of the lid (which was then passed around to be inspected as well).  

     Generally the enclosed containers of matcha were each separately tied in miniature purple-dyed furoshiki (the size of the modern temae-fukusa, which derives from the furoshiki made by Rikyū), in the same manner as we tie a natsume or fubuki into a fukusa (this is called tsutsumi-bukusa [包み袱紗], “tied up in a fukusa”) even today.  However, the loose corner-flap in front was pierced through with two holes, through which was strung the twisted end of a slip of paper that acted like a label (the name of the enclosed tea was written on the untwisted end).  Prior to serving the tea from each container, the host would remove the paper label and pass this to the guests.  After this, the host continued the temae as usual.  

     It was Oribe who first used the little furoshiki as a temae-fukusa during this temae (it is said that this was occasioned by the receipt of a cha-bako of Hideyoshi’s left-over tea from Rikyū while he was in the middle of hosting a gathering, and so he offered to share this tea with his guests as well; but, lacking additional clean fukusa — at that time each new variety of tea had to be served using a brand-new fukusa — he spontaneously folded the furoshiki as if it were a fukusa as he removed it, thus creating the precedent).  It was also he who subsequently changed the order of the ordinary temae to reflect this idea as well (arguing that waiting to fold the fukusa until just before it was needed kept it from any possible contamination), so that the fukusa was folded only after the covering (whether it was wrapped in a fukusa, or in an ordinary shifuku) had been removed from the chaki.  (Originally, it will be recalled, the fukusa was folded in the katte. and only removed, pre-folded, from the host’s futokoro, when needed; Rikyū began waiting to fold it until after the sō-rei at the beginning of the temae, then immediately inserting it into his futokoro until needed later.  After Oribe proposed this change, the fukusa came to be generally folded after the shifuku was removed; and it was only folded earlier in the special case when the chaire was placed on a tray, since the folded fukusa was needed to clean the tray before the chaire’s shifuku was removed.)

²Originally the satsū-bako (because the contents were written on the inside of the lid) was used only once, hence it was made of raw paulownia wood.  When the practice became corrupted during the Edo period, this box was no longer used for sending the tea, and so it was reused.  In this case, since paulownia wood is easily stained by hand oils, some people rubbed the box all over outside with the relatively scentless walnut oil, to darken the color slightly and thus prevent such stains from being visible.


(147) 軸先軸脇軸本と墨跡にてハ名所替り候事  [With respect to the location of the positions known as jiku-moto, jiku-waki, and jiku-moto, these may be reversed depending on the bokuseki.]

     Depending on the way in which the scroll is seen to have been written¹, we can ascertain these positions.  Where the writing begins is jiku-saki; the middle is called jiku-waki; and the side of the scroll where the writing ends is known as jiku-moto.
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¹Whether it was written from right to left, or left to right.


(148) 壺を飾る㕝利休口覆ひ網なしに被置候 壺を床より所望にておろし様の事  [With respect to the display of the (leaf-tea) jar, Rikyū placed it out with just the (cloth) cover over the lid, but without the net-bag; and the way to removing the jar from the tokonoma at the guests’ request.]

     Kenshin writes that putting on both the ami [網]¹, or net-bag, and the kuchi-ōi [口覆], the cloth cover placed over the lid, is quite acceptable; but this should not be done in a room smaller than 4.5 mats².

[A rather small example of the cha-tsubo., showing the jar with and without the ami.  Though the tori-o [取緒], the cord which ties on the kuchi-ōi is visible in the right-hand photo, according to Kenshin the ends of this cord actually should be tucked under the folds of the kuchi-ōi. These smaller jars were used by wabi tea men.  The jar was packed with only one kind of leaves, often a mixture of hatsu-no-mukashi and ato-no-mukashi koicha.]


     When it is displayed in the tokonoma, the tsubo should be placed approximately 21 me back from the front edge of the mat, though, of course, this naturally depends on the (size of the) jar.  Then after the first bow has been made, after laying the charcoal has been finished, or even after the kashi have been served and eaten, whenever the guests state their request to inspect the jar the host should go to the front of the tokonoma and move the tsubo forward.  Then (after first looking at it in situ), the guests take it down from the tokonoma.  The guest should hold the tsubo in his arms³, with the left hand supporting the bottom.  If the jar is in its ami, then the knot at the top should be grasped with the right hand.  If the jar is not enclosed in its ami, then the shoulder should be temporarily grasped with the right hand while the jar is being lowered from the tokonoma onto the mats of the room.  The jar then remains with the guests.  Regardless of whether the jar is placed in its ami, or is dressed only in its kuchi-ōi, in the same way it is picked up, held upright, and moved to the right.

     The kuchi-ōi is usually present even when the jar is tied inside its ami.  If the guests ask to look at the kuchi-ōi and the ami, they should be removed and inspected one by one.  If there is a desire to tie the naga-o [長緒] and the chi-o [乳緒]⁴, then each should take his turn in order.  However, the chi-o should be left as they are when the jar is put back.  When returning the jar, it should be put in the same place where the host moved it forward at the beginning.  The ami and kuchi-ōi should be placed beside the jar.  It is also possible to leave the jar unadorned (that is, without ami, kuchi-ōi, or decorative cords) when it is replaced in the tokonoma.  

     Certain people have said, meanwhile, that the jar should be inspected laying on its side⁵.
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¹The ami is a bag made of openwork netting.  The bag both protects the cha-tsubo and allows the air to reach the jar.  Jars for leaf-tea are only partly glazed, and allow an exchange of both air and water vapor through the unglazed part of the pottery.  Tea leaves were traditionally picked during the ten days before, and the ten days after the 88th day of the Lunar year, steamed, dried, and then winnowed, before being packed into these jars.  Just after processing, the tea is extremely dry.  Therefore it is aged in the jars for a number of months before use (this allows the moisture-content of the leaves to become balanced).  The net bag allows this exchange without restriction.  The kuchi-ōi is a kind of dust-cover that is tied on below the small of the neck to keep the mouth and lid clean during storage.  The photo, above, shows a tsubo dressed with both its kuchi-ōi and ami (left), and with only the kuchi-oi (right).

²And this was Rikyū’s point.

³Idaku [抱く], literally to hug or embrace; hold it very carefully (as if it were a tiny baby).

⁴The naga-o [長緒] is a long length of dyed cording that is looped twice around the neck of the jar and then tied into a series of knots proceeding down the front of the jar; the chi-o [乳緒] are two somewhat shorter (and slightly heavier) dyed cords first pushed through the ears on each side, and (in the modern period) then tied into elaborate triangular knots.

⁵This refers to the famous incident, recounted fully in the Nampō Roku, of the Sute-tsubo [捨て壺], or cast-down jar.  Briefly, an extremely beautiful jar was owned by the Sakai merchant Kojimaya Dōsatsu, but he refused to display it, questioning whether it was right to show a jar which was as yet nameless (objects without a specific name were considered to be generic representatives, and so unworthy of appreciation).  Finally a group of guests came for a gathering, only to refuse to leave the koshi-kake unless Dōsatsu agreed to display the jar.  In this dilemma, Dōsatsu took the jar out and put it down on its side near the guests’ entrance, and requested the guests to view it there.  From this time onward the jar now had a name — Sute-tsubo, the Cast-Down Jar.  Perhaps in a fit of self-deprecation (or perhaps in an effort to be thought “deep” or “unworldly” by their guests), others occasionally imitated Dōsatsu.


(149) 壺の網口覆風帯の事  [Concerning the net bag and (cloth) cover, with respect to the fūtai.]

     Fūtai [風帯]¹ here refers to the naga-o and chi-o.

     Kenshin writes, the kuchi-ōi should be applied so that the places where it is shortest² are over the ears on the jar, while the four kensaki [剱先], literally the point of a sword (which, Kenshin notes, are actually rounded), project like flaps between the ears see the right photo which accompanies the previous line for a clear view of the front kensaki).  

     The tori-o [取緒]³, a small braided cord with which the kuchi-ōi is tied in place around the neck of the jar, is doubled and tied on so that it ends in one of the folds in between the kensaki.  The rounded end of the doubled cord (called the wa-na [輪奈]) should be on the right, and it is tied with an ordinary overhand knot (in the photo cited above the tori-o has been intentionally left fully exposed so that the ends may be seen).

     The length of the chi-o should be long enough that it can be tied around the circumference of the shoulder at its widest point (note that the modern chi-o — and naga-o, as well — are generally much longer, since the modern fashion calls for elaborate knotting).   The cord is draped across the lid and then the end is passed through the ear/s⁴ on one side of the jar, and adjusted to make the two lengths equal.

     The naga-o should be twice the length of the tori-o, and may be of essentially the same thickness as the tori-o.  The naga-o is thus a little thinner than the chi-o.  At the end of the naga-o the cord should be frayed to create a tassel between 1-sun 8-bu and 2-sun long; but the length of the tassel is a matter of personal preference.  It is also possible for the tassel to be missing entirely.  Kenshin adds that these various measurements should be taken as approximations only.  

     Also, if the jar has an ear in front, a chi-o should not be tied on this ear (the naga-o, tied around the neck of the jar will hang down the front).  It follows that in this case all of the ears will be covered by kensaki, in which case it has been said that the chi-o should not be used, which is a very interesting point.  However, in remote antiquity the kuchi-ōi was in such cases put on so that the kensaki were located in the four corners (rather than in the front, back, and on the sides).

     Finally, with respect to the tori-o, this name⁵ is also sometimes applied to the long ends of the ami that tie it closed on top (and by which it may be held, as described under the previous line).
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¹Fūtai [風帯] literally means belts or ribbons that flap in the wind; hence pendant (and free moving) appendages.  Another commentator explains that when the jar is placed into its ami, then the fūtai are the ami and the kuchi-ōi.  However, when the ami has been removed, the fūtai will be the kuchi-ōi and (assuming that they have been tied on) the chi-o (and naga-o).

      The chi-o and naga-o are dyed and braided silk cords tied in elaborate knots to decorate the jar when it is displayed in the tokonoma, as mentioned under the previous line.  Usually they are crimson or orange, but Rikyū preferred  these dyed a deep navy blue (he preferred a deep blue ami as well).  The naga-o is tied around the neck of the jar and depends in front; the two chi-o are passed through either one or two of the ears (depending on the orientation of the jar*) and tied in knots that they hang down to within 2-sun of the base.  (However, in the earliest period, before the ami was created to protect the jar while it was in storage, these knots served to prevent the jar from touching the sides of its box during the 6 months or so — between the time in May, according to the modern calendar, when the jar was filled until it was taken out at the beginning of the ro season in November — while it is in storage, so that the jar was surrounded by a laye of air; hence the hanging cords were left in place at all times.)  

     Note that while contemporary taste favors extremely elaborate Korean-** or Heian-style knots such as the age-maki or those employed in Shaman rituals (in addition, each of the modern schools has its own preferred styles of knots, with the chi-o usually being tied differently on the left side and on the right), the original style called only for a series of two or three loosely tied ordinary overhand knots (since two lengths of cord hang down regardless of whether the cord is tied around the neck of the jar or passed through one or two ears, the place where the cord crosses itself is always on the “inside” toward the other length of cord, while the loops were oriented on the “outer-side”), as shown in the photo, below:  two knots were tied in the chi-o (as shown), and since the kuchi-o is longer, three knots (adding one more on each side to what is shown in the photo).  It is written that in both cases, the hanging end of the cord should be 2-sun above the mat (and, as mentioned above, the lengths of the cord may also end in tassels, though in this case as well the bottom end of the tassels should be 2-sun from the floor).

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*The front of the jar is always a matter of some debate.  Usually it is determined by the glaze; the nadare (a flow of glaze, often of a different color from the rest of the jar) or some other feature deciding this point.  As a result sometimes one of the ears may be in the front (this is more often seen with jars that have three ears — hence one ear in front and the others slightly to the rear of the sides, or if four one on each side and the fourth in back), or the front may be in the middle of the ears, (in which case the ears will be toward the front and back on both sides of the jar).  These ears were originally used to tie the lid onto the jar using a cord passed through them and across the lid (the original tsubo were made for use either as storage jars or for bulk-aging medicinal liquers in China — in which case the lid was either rather loose-fitting or, for liquid, volatile, or otherwise sensitive contents, the mouth was lined with a piece of thick oiled or otherwise waterproofed paper before the wooden cap was inserted and tied in place).  However, since tea is particularly sensitive to warmth and humidity, this simple closure was not secure enough, so the jar when used to store leaf tea is fitted with a tight-fitting mushroom-shaped lid of paulownia wood, that is then sealed further with a paper tape covered with rice-paste (the result is a similar degree of permeability to the unglazed portions of the jar — some exchange is necessary, otherwise the tea will be too dry and the particles will become charged with static electricity when ground, causing them to fly around, stick to the sides of the chaire, or clump together in hard balls that can not easily be dispersed with the normal action of the chasen).

**Hosokawa Sansai, when he returned from Korea at the end of Hideyoshi’s failed invasion of China, brought with him an illustrated manuscript detailing a number of secret knots, some derived from Korean Shaman ritual, while others were the product of Korean upper-class domestic usage.  Handmade copies of this document (with the text translated into Japanese) have circulated under the name Sansai Kō O-Cha no Sho [三齋公御茶書]; however, Sansai himself referred to the collection as ko-ryū musubi-nori [古流結法], or, “the rules for tying knots according to the old manner.”

²”Shortest” is Kenshin’s expression.  The kuchi-ōi is a square piece of cloth with the four corners rounded (sometimes slightly, sometimes more obviously, depending on the preference of the chajin who ordered it).  It is placed on top of the lid and molded to its shape in such a way that the four corners protrude like flaps, with the places that correspond to the middle of each side of the cloth square folded under (see the photo, attached to the text of the previous line).  The “shortest” places, therefore, correspond to the middle of the four sides of the square, and these are positioned over the four ears when the kuchi-ōi is tied on.

³This cord that is used to secure the kuchi-ōi over the lid of the jar is also known as the kuchi-o [口緒].

⁴The actual name for these small ears is chi [乳], nipples or teats.  The tsubo, because it holds the tea leaves while they “mature,” is thus feminine.

⁵Probably in an effort to avoid confusion between these two uses for the name tori-o, the cord used to tie the kuchi-ōi has more commonly come to be known as the kuchi-o nowadays, as mentioned above.


(150) 床へ茶入上げ候事  [The matter of raising a chaire into the toko(noma).]

     After the tea has been served, and the guests have finished their haiken of the chaire, it is possible for it to be elevated into the tokonoma¹ (by the host, or by the guests themselves, but usually only when acting on the host’s directions) if the guests request it.  

     It is also possible for the guests to take the initiative and raise it into the tokonoma themselves.  If the guests wish for the chaire to be placed in the tokonoma, perhaps the second guest might take the chaire directly from the host’s hand and places it in the tokonoma for him, if that is more appropriate², while the host looks on.  
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¹The precedent for this comes from gokushin-temae.  In this temae the naga-bon containing the dai-temmoku and the chaire are inspected by the guests while the host cleans the chasen using the kae-chawan.  Then, after the conclusion of the temae, the naga-bon was removed from the daisu and (rather than being taken back to the katte or put away in the ji-fukuro under the chigai-dana) placed on the broad shelf underneath the chigai-dana (this shelf forms the roof of the ji-fukuro).

²In the case where the shōkyaku is a person of some importance, the second guest is usually there as his assistant, and it is in this capacity that the second guest takes the chaire from the host and places it in the tokonoma — so all the shōkyaku has to do is admire it there.  Another interpretation is that in a smaller room where there is not sufficient space for the host to be able to directly access the tokonoma, as he is moving forward the second guest takes the chaire from his hands and lifts it into the tokonoma for him.  The host looks on because he possibly has to direct the placement (the second guest acting rather as his surrogate).

In Remembrance of the Memorial Day of Sen no Sōeki Rikyū-koji (April 21)

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The Three Hundred Lines of Chanoyu (Lines 131 - 140).

First, I would like to make two brief comments:  (1) I have added some additional information (and another illustration) to my previous post, so the readers might want to check that out; and, (2) I moved at the end of last week, and have no idea when internet service will be available in my new residence.  Since there are no other internet sources available to me locally, I am afraid that this will impact on my ability to add to this blog in the near-term — so once again I am forced to ask the readers’ patience.

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(131) 遠き景を路地のうちへ取に取やうあり  [If one wishes to incorporate distant scenery into the roji, there are ways to do this.]

     Kenshin begins writing that, for example, if it is a view of a distant mountain or something of that sort¹ that the host wishes to borrow, then the plantings and buildings should rise up to lead the eye to the view (that is, the clutter of the neighborhood should be obscured by the plantings and buildings, so that the mountain will seem to rise immediately beyond the far edge of the complex; while, on the other hand, if it is the sight of something nearer at hand (or lower to the ground)² that the host wishes to include, then the trees should be planted and pruned so that the guests will catch a glimpse of this between the plantings.

     Therefore, in either case the plantings and positioning of the buildings should be carefully considered both from the koshi-kake and from the path which the guests will follow to the tearoom, so that these elements will frame, and therefore focus, the guests’ view on the special feature of the surrounding landscape that the host hopes to incorporate.  (However, it is important to point out that borrowing scenery is something that is not always done:  as in Rikyū’s former residence in Sakai, the view in the roji was completely restricted to what was contained between the buildings and the far wall.  It was only at the end of his life, in his Mozuno complex, that Rikyū had the opportunity to incorporate “a glimpse of the sea” into his roji’s setting.)
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¹The first instance refers to something higher up, a mountain (such as a view of Mount Fuji in the distance) or the upper story of a temple gate, or something like that.  In this case, the object which the host wishes to incorporate into the view is highlighted by the plantings and constructions (which also remove undesirable things at ground-level from view) so that the distant scenery appears to be framed by these things near at hand.

²Here the special element is at ground-level, or perhaps even below (a view of the sea, for example, seen from a roji constructed on a bluff above the strand).  Thus the host creates or fosters openings in the plantings through which the scene will come into the guests’ view as they take their seats on the koshi-kake, or walk slowly from the waiting-bench to the tearoom or back.


(132) 世間に捨石と申もの候事  [With respect to the common practice of casting away stones, and the matter of what was done with them.]

     In the olden days, the garden path was usually made of worked stone¹, and the chips and fragments broken away by the craftsmen when laying the tobi-ishi were usually thrown away in between the plantings.  These discarded shards are what are commonly referred to as cast-away stones. 

     It might be better, in the context of the roji, to put them to some better use.  For example, to throw them into a sunken area in the ground that collects water, if such a place exists in the garden, or perhaps into a similar hole intentionally excavated for this purpose.  And, depending on the place, if trees and other plants have not been set out, then perhaps in some area that appears to be out of balance with the rest of the garden they may be spread on the ground.  In any case, the roji is a place where nothing should be thrown down without a deliberate purpose in mind.
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¹The degree of modification varied, from fully worked stones laid in a pavement to stones with bits or protrusions chipped away so that they would fit together better.  However, the subject of this line is the broken-away chips, and what was commonly done with them.


(133) 路地[乃]景は利休堺にて海の見得候路地にて合点有へし朝顔の路地も是又同前の事  [Concerning the scenic aspect of the roji, an example of this was in his roji at Sakai¹ where Rikyū incorporated a view of the sea; another case was the roji which he planted with morning-glories².]

     Kenshin writes that in Rikyū’s roji in Sakai, the ocean was visible only here and there between the trees.  This —

just a little of the ocean, in this garden, casually spied between the trees  [海すこし庭にいつみの木の間かな]; and, 

on a moonlit-night, just a little of the ocean is here, between the trees  [夕月夜海すこしある木の間かな].

— is the mind expressed in these two ku [句]³ which he deeply admired.

     As for the asagao-no-roji [朝がほの路地 = 朝顔の路地], Kenshin continues, hearing that great numbers of morning-glories were flowering in his roji, and being invited to have chanoyu there, only one blossom was found by the guests to have been left in situ⁴, while all of the rest had been taken away.  This is once again analogous to the idea of the vast ocean being glimpsed but here and there between the trees.

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¹The reference here is to the roji in his complex at Mozuno.  Built in his last years on reclaimed land which was then incorporated into the City-state of Sakai, it commanded a particularly lovely view of the bay of Sakai.

²The first example of this is said to have been situated in the roji which he constructed at his official residence within the grounds of Hideyoshi’s Nijō Castle complex.  The morning-glories were trained to grow over the fence which separated the outer roji from the inner roji, as well as on cords strung from the eves of the chashitsu and the genkan angling outward slightly to the ground below (that is, the stakes to which the lower ends of the cords were secured were placed one-shaku or so beyond the edge of the roof, so that the vines would retain their leaves all the way to the ground:  in this case, the vines provided the coolness and shade which in other situations would more usually be afforded by plantings of trees — this roji was set up at a time when transplanting trees would have been difficult, and Rikyū came up with this novel solution to an otherwise overly-bright location).

³A ku [句] is a poetic unit (often described as a “stanza” in English writings on classical Japanese poetics), consisting of 5-7-5 or 7-7 syllables, used in the creation of a renga [連歌], or linked verse.  Only historically later did the 5-7-5 syllable hokku [発句] become a stand-alone poem, known as the haiku [俳句].

⁴The number “one” can, in this case, be understood to mean that a very small number of flowers were left on the vines.  This kind of roji — and this effect — was not only loved by Rikyū:  both Dōan and Oribe are recorded as having created asagao-no-roji from time to time. 

     According to Kenshin, in its original permutation Rikyū cut off most of the blossoms, leaving only a few of the asagao flowers intact on the vines growing in the roji.  It was (subsequent commentators hasten to note) the other two gentlemen who took this notion a step or two further.  In Dōan’s case, he left two or three flowers only on the vines growing near the tsukubai, to refresh (as he said) the mind with the sight of the bedewed blossoms the way the cold water does the hands and mouth.  And it was Oribe who was inspired to completely removed all of the morning-glory blooms from the garden, while arranging a single perfect morning-glory (or sometimes two — as we learned some while ago with the case of Jōō and his arrangement of suisen in the naga-sorori flower container, when something works, and works especially well, then the trick can be judiciously repeated when circumstances allow) in the tokonoma (in fact, asagao have to be put in the tokonoma the night before, so that the flowers, which rotate as they open, attain the proper angle, since otherwise it is impossible for an arrangement of these flowers to appear natural) — and this, by the way, is a perfect example of Furuta Shigenari Sōshitsu’s personal brand of sakui

     Alas, the various threads have become conflated into a single episode — which we are then warned never to repeat!  In fact, Rikyū is known to have been generally opposed to the idea of using flowers in the tokonoma that were found growing nearby, leading credence to Kenshin’s account; furthermore, both Dōan and Oribe were subsequently vilified by the Senke, for reasons of their own, with these masters’ greatest achievements then heaped onto Rikyū’s shoulders, even when Rikyū’s way of thinking was in fact rather different (as in this particular instance).  Recall that Kenshin stresses the point that the asagao episode, for Rikyū, represented a variation on the in situ glimpse-of-the-sea-between-the-trees notion.

     In addition to Dōan and Oribe, one court in the Jikkō-in complex that Katagiri Sekishū built for his retirement was designed specifically for a wall of morning-glories to shield the raised, roofed walkway beyond from the view of the waiting room.  This court is said to have been inspired by these stories (when guests were expected, Sekishū, faithful to precedent, had most of the flowers removed, cooling the eyes of the viewers with a whispering wall of emerald green, only here and there broken by a sparkle of early-morning color).


(134) 客路地入坐敷入又坐敷より出るも心持あり  [When the guest enters the roji or the tearoom, and also when leaving, care should be taken.]

     When entering the roji, when they crouch down at the naka-kuguri they should rest their hand on the threshold and carefully observe how the edging stones have been placed and the trees planted [before passing through into the inner roji]. 

     However, to inspect the set’chin in this way is wrong:  one should exercise care when stepping across the stones (so that one does not accidentally put his foot into the sand that has been spread between them) and so forth, and when one is finished¹ the set’chin should be inspected carefully [before one leaves].  Now it is proper for the set’chin to be inspected during the naka-dachi.

     When entering the tearoom, and also when leaving, at the time when one goes in and just as one is going out, one should take care that the people in the katte are made aware of the fact².
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¹The implication is that the guest should either actually use the set’chin to relieve himself, or at least assume the proper crouching position for doing so, in order to experience the setting properly.  It is therefore wrong to simply open the door, look in gratuitiously, and then move on.

²The guests should make their movements audible to the host, so that the host will not be taken aback, if he opens the katte door, only to find the room empty, or occupied, when he expected otherwise.  Particularly in the period when the Three Hundred Lines were set down on paper, which was an age of civil strife, appearing to conceal ones movements could have been taken as a mark of discourtesy, at the very least, and might even precipitate unfortunate consequences (assassination attempts and preventative measures being almost a part of daily life for many of the same people who were deeply involved in chanoyu during that troubled period of history).


(135) 亭主勝手より出るにも心持あり  [When the host comes out from the katte, he should also be careful.]

    When the host sits down in front of the sadō-guchi, it is wrong for him to immediately open the door and proceed to enter the room.  Rather, he should sit quietly for a moment to center his mind.  Then (after he has slid the door open) when he is coming out from the katte, he should pause and possibly even clear his throat quietly (if the guests are so involved in conversation that they have not noticed that he has opened the sadō-guchi¹).  Only then is it proper for him to enter the tearoom — once the guests have been made aware of his presence and intent.
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¹In this early period the preferred scrolls were usually specimens of hōgo [法語], Buddhist admonitions or teachings, written in Chinese by esteemed continental monks; and often the guests would become deeply involved in a discussion to ascertain both the meaning, and identify/place the writer.  Therefore it would be much easier for them to be completely unaware of what was going on at the sadō-guchi (which was usually at the opposite end of the room from the tokonoma, as it is now) than we might think possible nowadays (when the writings hung are much shorter, and generally represent well-know phrases written by equally well-known Japanese monks, thus rendering them easier to read and interpret; furthermore, it has become customary to provide the guests with a written programme in the yori-tsuke — the “first” waiting room where they change their footwear and outer garments — detailing all of these particulars anyway, so discussion in the tearoom is usually kept to a minimum). 

     Likewise, as mentioned in the notes under the previous line, as this period was also a time of civil unrest (both in Korea and in Japan), unannounced entry could be misconstrued as a malicious action, and would be repulsed accordingly (knives secreted on ones person, and the skill necessary to make swift use of them in the defense of ones life or ones superior, were much more common in those days, and only the more-or-less obvious weapons were expected to be deposited on the katana-kake — primarily because these would prove cumbersome in the cramped space available to the guests in the tearoom and when sliding through the nijiri-guchi, and also posed a danger to utensils that could easily be destroyed by an accidental strike from a sword’s hilt).


(136) 袋掛候釘惣じて釘にハ懸けざる物なりほとらひ有へし  [When a hook is present for hanging the (chaire’s) fukuro, it is important that something to be hung from the hook.]

     This line refers to the bamboo hook (or occasionally a bent metal hook — metal hooks were designed to be removed after the gathering and repositioned next time, while bamboo hooks are more permanently attached) nailed either into the naka-bashira, above the point where the bottom of the sode-kabe (usually edged by a horizontal length of bamboo or wood) is attached to the hashira, or occasionally into the wall on the opposite side of the utensil mat (at the same position and height as if it were nailed into the hashira itself; when nailed into the wall, the hook is always made of bamboo).  Kenshin writes, the hook should be nailed from 2-sun 5-bu and no more than 3-sun (between 3”/7.6 cm and 3.6”/9.1 cm) above the horizontal bamboo, depending on the fukuro¹.

     Originally this hook was nailed there primarily for hanging the [kettle’s] kan [鐶] or the habōki², with the [chaire’s] fukuro being hung there only temporarily:  you should carefully understand this point.
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¹The fukuro [袋] (the classical name for the cloth bag which we now usually call the shifuku [仕覆]:  shifuku was originally written shi-fuku [紙服], paper dress, for a wabi covering made of paper, while one sewn from cloth was called fukuro) should not be seen to hang below the sode-kabe.  Note that in the days when the Three Hundred Lines were written down, it was rare for most tea people to have more than one or two chaire, hence the hook was attached with respect to the shifuku of the largest of them.  In these modern days when it is considered a mark of disrespect for the host to use any utensil again the second time any particular guest is received — and when it is usual for the host to frequently upgrade his collection accordingly, while not changing anything in the tearoom itself — it is difficult to know precisely where the hook should be affixed!

²In the case of the naka-bashira, in the early days a straight pine trunk was always used for this pillar, which would allow such elongated objects as the habōki to depend along the trunk naturally; when dramatically curved trunks became popular, the hook was sometimes moved to the wall opposite the naka-bashira.


(137) 火燈口[之]事むかしハなし  [With respect to the so-called katō-guchi, in former times this form did not exist.]

     The word katō-guchi [火燈口] refers to a form of entry-way aperture with a rounded cornice (usually made of wood that is aligned with, and fully plastered over, so that it is indistinguishable from the rest of the wall to which it is appended; the cornice makes this entrance seem lower, whereas the fusuma that covers the aperture frequently slides in the same tracks used by the full-sized sadō-guchi) which lowers the top of the entryway somewhat below the track in which the fusuma panel actually slides (rather than permitting someone to enter while standing, the person must either pass through on his knees, or simply hand things into the room directly to the guests without entering at all).  Since its inception (it was created by Rikyū, as related below) it was the so-called kayoi-guchi [通い口], the “inferior” or service entrance, through which things (kashi, zabuton, later possibly smoking utensils and the like) could be passed directly to the guests by the host’s assistant without disturbing whatever was happening on the utensil mat; it was also sometimes used to serve part or all of the kaiseki meal, so that food or drink would not accidently spill onto the utensil mat.  This style of doorway with a rounded top was never to be used for the sadō-guchi¹.

     At Hideyoshi’s base-camp in Nagoya during the Odawara Campaign (1590), the hut (i.e., the camp’s chashitsu) was erected as a classical 4.5 mat room, and it was in this room that a kayoi-guchi with a rounded top first made its appearance.  This door, which was immediately next to the tokonoma, was improvised by Rikyū so that he could enter the room by means of this inferior doorway and so assist Hideyoshi.  The top of the aperture, as mentioned above, was rounded. 

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¹This statement appears to contradict the host’s entrance as found in several famous tearooms, most notably in the Konnichi-an built by Sōtan.  However, since the Konnichi-an (and the other classical rooms which employ this room as a model) has a mizuya-dōko, the “host’s entrance” is technically a kayoi-guchi (since the host does not carry any of the utensils used to serve tea in through this door, though he or his assistant might pass things to the guests — like zabuton — through it, if necessary).  The particulars of this argument have been detailed in a previous post.

     It must be added, however, that some contemporary rooms have been designed by people who appear to be ignorant of this rule:  taking Sōtan’s room as a model (while not fully understanding what they are seeing), they have made sadō-guchi with rounded tops in chashitsu where a mizuya-dōko is not present, and this is simply wrong.  The sadō-guchi (which is usually the same thing as the katte-guchi [勝手口]), meaning the doorway through which the host carries utensils used during the temae, should always have a square top — and, as stated above in Kenshin’s comments, was historically the only kind of entryway communicating with the preparation area (whether for use by the host or by his assistants) in the early days of chanoyu.


(138) 桁にても引くものにても切はつしの㕝  [Also, concerning the horizontal beams (and lintels), several comments regarding when the wood is being cut, as well as when it is being shaved down (on the thicker end to make the diameter uniform).]

     Kenshin notes that care must always be taken when shaving off a piece of wood toward the cut end (so that the wood will be of uniform thickness — particularly so that too much is not accidentally shaved off).  Depending on its intended use, such modification must be done in an appropriate manner.  In that case it is important for the ultimate thickness of the beam to generally conform to what is needed; and it also important that the beam must not appear to fall short of the desired length.  The final appearance does not depend on anybody’s personal feeling; nevertheless, care must be taken that everything fits together properly.


(139) つきあけ是またむかしハなし  [With respect to the tsuki-age, this also did not exist in the early days.]

     The earliest known example of the tsuki-age mado [突き上げ窓; it is also known simply as tsuki-age, 突き上げ, as above], or window in the ceiling, was cut in the sukiya¹ of the Yamato Dainagon (Toyotomi Hidenaga), thus it is not of great antiquity.  It was made for the occasion of a visit by Hideyoshi to his fief, and was much admired by Rikyū.  According to Kenshin, it is also known as the Yamato-mado [大和窓], from this episode.

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¹According to Hosokawa Sansai, this room of Hidenaga’s was made in the shoin style.  Greatly admiring the effect, Rikyū afterward cut a similar window in the ceiling of his small room.


(140) 床の柱落懸の事  [Concerning the pillar and the otoshi-kake¹ of the toko(noma).]

     With respect to both the toko-bashira and the otoshi-kake, Kenshin writes, it is better if they are both made from uniformly straight² pieces of wood.  If either of them is not perfectly perpendicular, then a scroll displayed in the tokonoma will appear to be not hanging straight.  If the narrower end is expanded by inserting a wedge on the inner side (that is, the side opposite the viewer), it is possible for the piece of wood to be used.

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¹The otoshi-gake is the horizontal beam which supports the short hanging wall that extends across the upper side of the tokonoma like a valance.

²The toko-bashira is usually made from a round piece of wood, while the otoshi-gake is often worked so that it has flat sides.  However, in either case the wood should be of a uniform thickness along its length, so that the sides which frame the toko will be perfectly perpendicular both to each other, and to the floor of the tokonoma.

The Three Hundred Lines of Chanoyu (Lines 121 - 130).

(121) 手水鉢穴の事石に寄候得とも先丸き穴を指渡九寸の内外ふかさは八寸の内外口にめんを取事也  [Concerning the hole in the chōzu-bachi¹, this is (naturally) a matter of what is most appropriate for the (particular) stone.  However, in general the mouth should be round, with a diameter of 9-sun, give or take; and the depth should be approximately 8-sun.  Furthermore, the rim of the mouth should be finished off².]

     9-sun is approximately 10.75”, or 27.3 cm; 8-sun is roughly 9.5”, or 24.2 cm.

     Kenshin writes, the particulars should always depend on the [chōzu-]bachi.  With respect to the depth and diameter, differing from the above specifications by up to 1-sun  (3 cm, or 1”) is completely acceptable³.  

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     As for the edge of the hole, starting at the rim (which should be at the high-point of the stone, so that water will not strike first the stone and then fall into the hole), it should be rounded inward gently, little by little, with the lowest point melding smoothly into the side-wall of the hole.  (The idea is to avoid a sharp edge; but likewise, the rim should generally appear natural, not giving an impression of having been worked or polished to perfection; rather, rounded inward as if by natural processes; however, occasionally the rim is stepped, as may be seen on the chōzu-bachi in the middle, left, in the photo.)

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¹Chōzu-bachi [手水鉢] is the actual name for the stone more commonly referred to as the tsukubai [蹲踞].  Chōzu-bachi means a hand-washing basin; the word tsukubai [蹲; or more commonly in chanoyu 蹲踞] actually is a verb, meaning to crouch down.

²Men wo toru koto [めんを取事 = 面を取事]:  after the hole is cut, the rim is smoothed by rubbing an abrasive stone around and around.  The idea is to avoid anything resembling a sharp edge.  It is not as obvious as, for example, the chamfered edge on the lid of the lacquered tea container called the mentori-nakatsugi [面取中次].

³In other words, the diameter may be anywhere between 8-sun and 1-shaku; and the depth may range from 7-sun to 9-sun.  It is important to remember that the tsukubai should contain sufficient water for all of the guests to rinse their hands and mouth without the last guests having to scrape the tsukubai-bishaku against the bottom of the chōzu-bachi in order to scoop up sufficient water.  In the days of Jōō and Rikyū, each guest used two hishaku-full of water (because the idea was that the guests should actually wash) — one to rinse the hands, and the second to rinse the mouth and then the handle of the hishaku before replacing it for the next guest to use.  It follows that a smaller tsukubai may be appropriate to a small-room, while a larger one would naturally be made available when the room can accommodate a larger number of guests.  

     Traditionally a continuous feed of water from a water-pipe was frowned upon.  The host, whenever possible, personally emptied and refilled the tsukubai three times during the course of the gathering:  immediately before confronting the guests for the first time and inviting them into the tearoom, immediately before they left the tearoom for the naka-dachi, and for the last time just after they had entered the chashitsu for the go-za (this in case someone needed to rinse his hands for some reason during the course of the go-za).  As Rikyū is recorded to have said:  in the roji it is the host’s function to carry water, and the guests’ to use that water to wash; and this is the primary purpose of the roji.

     However, in the Nampō Roku, Rikyū makes an exception to the first refilling (immediately prior to meeting the guests) when the tsukubai is attached to the koshi-kake (as was sometimes done in his day — at this time, only a single tsukubai was usually provided in the roji for all purposes. sometimes inside of the genkan and thus beside the nijiri-guchi, sometimes in the inner roji beyond the roof of the genkan, and sometimes next to the koshi-kake; later a second tsukubai — or sometimes a pottery basin or wooden bucket of clean water — was made available near the koshi-kake for the guests to use after visiting the set’chin, while the stone tsukubai near the tearoom entrance was reserved for the guests’ use only immediately prior to their entry into the tearoom:  in this case, the former was considered “less pure” than the latter); he states that in this case, the host should determine an appropriate time just prior to their expected time of arrival to refill the tsukubai, so he will not have to enter the outer roji and attend to this task before greeting them (the first thing the host should do when he approaches the koshi-kake is greet the guests, while stopping to refill the tsukubai at this time would make it seem that he was ignoring them).


(122) 手水鉢のすへやう下石のみゆるも有見へぬもあり鉢によるへし  [With respect to the placing of the chōzu-bachi, sometimes the stone upon which it is settled is visible, and sometimes it is not visible.  This always should depend on the (chōzu-)bachi itself.]

     This refers to the place where the chōzu-bachi will be placed.  Whether it is visible or not, the chōzu-bachi is never placed directly in contact with the ground, but rested on top of another stone (this keeps the chōzu-bachi away from water in the ground, which could enter the stone and carry with it impurities, which would contaminate the water which it holds:  above all, the water contained in the chōzu-bachi must be of exceptional and unquestionable purity).

     If it is placed in a rather deep hollow in the ground, and/or the chōzu-bachi itself is rather squat, then the stone which serves as its foundation should be higher (and so probably visible) so that the basin will be elevated to the proper height (if it is too low, it is both difficult to use — difficult to pick up and replace the tsukubai-bishaku and so forth — and water dripping from the hands or spit out from the mouth may splash back into the chōzu-bachi, contaminating the water for the next guest).  If, on the other hand, the chōzu-bachi is relatively higher, then the foundation stone should be sunk fully into the ground, and buried with small stones so that only the chōzu-bachi itself is visible.  In ancient times (Kenshin notes), some held that if the foundation stone is visible, then it should be obscured from view by piling dried pine-needles around the base of the chōzu-bachi.

     When splashing water in the roji, care must always be taken that mud is not splashed up onto (or into) the chōzu-bachi.  Care must also be taken when the chōzu-bachi is being refilled by the host, and when it is used by the guests — so that the water in the tsukubai is never contaminated, and remains always pure.  This is why, in the sukiya, when refilling the chōzu-bachi the bucket should not be held too high so that water splashes violently against the ground.

     Lord Oribe was the first to make a high chōzu-bachi from the discarded stone piling of an old bridge (this kind of chōzu-bachi is much taller than usual, often rising several feet above the surface of the ground), which allowed one to use it while standing, without having to squat down (his original idea was to protect the water inside from inadvertent splashes).  In ancient times the stone was always lower, so that one had to squat down to use it (doing so helped to keep splashing to a minimum).

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(123) 路地により[鉢]¹の大小あり  [Depending on the roji, the (chōzu-)bachi may be larger or smaller, as appropriate.]

     According to the commentators², it seems more natural that one would use a large chōzu-bachi in a large roji, and in a small roji, a small chōzu-bachi.  However, according to the feeling of the particular roji, it is also possible that a small chōzu-bachi could be used in a large roji; and in a small roji, a large chōzu-bachi could occasionally seem more appropriate³.

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¹The original text of this line as passed on by Kenshin reads “路地により釘の大小あり” [“depending on the roji, the size of the hook is determined”], with the word kugi [釘], meaning a hook or peg; however, given the context (this line falls within a series of lines relating to the chōzu-bachi), it seems that this was clearly a misreading or miscopying for the character hachi [鉢] — any manuscripts of the Three Hundred Lines which predated Kenshin’s have been lost, so it is not possible to know precisely when this error crept in (it is possible that a deteriorating piece of paper could have rendered the original text illegible, and “釘” was a subsequent copyist’s best guess).  

     While Kenshin stated unambiguously that he received the Three Hundred Lines from Jōō, his teacher, and that the lines were fully consistent with Jōō’s teachings, the tradition associated with this document was that the Three Hundred Lines of Chanoyu were originally composed by Shukō (who died in the same year that Jōō was born); and it is entirely possible that Jōō simply handed along to Kenshin an antique copy of the text (which would be fully consistent with the tradition of “passing on” secret teachings), perhaps as a sort of certification when the latter completed his studies, without further comment (and perhaps without even looking it over first).  As has been mentioned previously, the Three Hundred Lines in themselves are nothing more than a mnemonic device, with each line intended to make the student recall the teaching (from the lessons which his teacher imparted, and from his past experience), rather than stating the teachings literally.    

²In the case of this line, Kenshin’s comments are entirely invloved with the above textual problem, rather than being illustrative as usual; therefore, it has fallen to subsequent generations of commentators to give voice to the teachings.  However, it has to be born in mind that these commentators are products of their generation (as we all are), and so do not necessarily shed light onto the question in such a way that permits us to ascertain how it would have been explained in the period of Jōō and Rikyū.

³While these commentators (who were all writing in the Edo period — or even much later) consistently state that this small-tsukubai-in-large-roji/large-tsukubai-in-small-roji rule is consistent with “the teachings of suki” — indeed, the more recent of them go much farther in what they have written, in this respect, than I have allowed into the comments translated above — it appears that this kind of argument is based on an unfortunate, yet typically post-Sōtan misunderstanding both of what “suki” actually means (see Rikyū and Kenshin’s comments at the beginning of this second scroll of the Three Hundred Lines for their understanding of “suki”), and Rikyū’s actual teachings.  Since Kenshin failed to enlighten us as to the teaching which was imparted by Jōō, in fact the best that can be said, in fine, is that the appropriateness of the fit (vis-à-vis a large- versus small-sized chōzu-bachi) must be decided on a case by case basis, and that no absolute rule (either of      
concordance or contrast in so far as the generic size of the chōzu-bachi is concerned) can be voiced with any finality.

     It should also be recalled that this rule of contrast (big-with-small.small-with-big) was originally stated as a misinterpretation of what Rikyū did, specifically with respect to the following incident.  He used the venerable old Temmyō large iron kimen-buro (this was Nobunaga’s favorite, and the furo he was using at the time of his death) — and other such forgotten or neglected utensils — in his ultra-small (2-mat) wabi rooms (coupled with the small unryu-gama) not for contrast, but because (as he himself has stated) the primary aim of the small room is to make use of things which have come to be wasted in other settings.  (As for the smallness of the kama used with this large furo, this was inevitable if one wanted to preserve the correct, orthodox relationship between the diameter of the mouth of the furo and the diameter of the kama placed therein, and its height and the size of its mouth as both determined by the original kiri-kake gama which had been destroyed in the fire at the Honnōji — recall, that the new kama had to be completely contained entirely within the aperture of the mouth because the supporting ring of this kimmen-buro itself was cracked and so could no longer support a kiri-kake gama as originally intended.  Thus the size of the extremely small unryū-gama was pre-determined by circumstances, leaving little to Rikyū’s creativity than details of the shape and surface-decoration.)  The large (mostly iron) furo were originally designed to be used on the o-chanoyu-dana in the tsugi-no-ma appended to a 4.5 mat sitting room (the bowls of tea were prepared by an underling at the o-chanoyu-dana, and transported by others, with due ceremony, into the tearoom to be served and drunk).  And when this multilayered practice was discontinued in favor of tea being prepared in the tearoom itself, with the host’s own hands, the large furo fell completely into disuse (only the medium- and small-sized furo could be placed on the daisu in the tearoom, in a kyō-ma and inaka-ma room respectively, according to the rules of kane-wari; and while it was eventually sanctioned to use the large furo on a nagaita in a less formal setting, as Nobunaga did, there is little indication that this practice ever became common, so most of these large furo simply rusted away to scrap in the warehouses and storerooms).  Hence he resurrected this utensil by employing it in his small wabi room (in this case it was as much a gesture of respect — almost longing — for Nobunaga, as an aesthetic choice:  this furo had been given to him by Hideyoshi specifically as a memento of Nobunaga, and Rikyū created this setting as a way to remember and honor Nobunaga whenever he made tea with it).  

     The actual rule, which we can say “conforms with the teachings of suki,” is that in the large room all of the utensils used must be precisely in accordance with the specifications as dictated by the rules of gokushin-no-chanoyu (in an earlier post I included a list of the major utensils, together with these specifications); while in the small room, utensils which have fallen out of favor for use in the large room for whatever reason are the preferred objects with which we should serve tea (and hand-made, improvised, or new-found utensils should be used only to fill in the gaps).  An exaggerated state of contrast, while occasionally interesting, can be as bothersome when overdone as is mindless conformity:  this is what gave the small room its interest, in Rikyū’s opinion, over the large room — where the very perfection demanded of every single object, no matter how inconsequential, left little room for either variety or variation (in those days before purpose-made utensils were being manufactured, it was hard enough for a chajin to amass a single complete set of things, let alone the duplicates which would allow him to vary things noticeably on different occasions), or the exercise of individual creativity.


(124) 前石と鉢との間寸尺大方貮尺五寸の内外なり是又鉢に寄るへし  [Between the front stone and the (chōzu-)bachi, in general, there should be a space of 1-shaku 5-sun; this, likewise, depends on the (chōzu-)bachi itself.]

     According to Kenshin, once we have mounted the front stone, and assumed a crouching stance, a distance generally equal to that given above (1-shaku 5-sun:  17.9” or 45.5 cm) should be measurable from our body (from the foremost line formed by the kimono as it is stretched between the knees, or its equivalent) to the very center of the depression cut into the chōzu-bachi.  Again, this, however, naturally depends on the chōzu-bachi itself.¹

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¹Some tsukubai are bowl-like, in which case the sides are usually no wider than necessary (to prevent the stone from being damaged by cold, for example).  However, others — such as Rikyu’s chōzu-bachi which was famously cut into a “very large natural stone” — have much more rock between the depression cut to hold the water and the front edge of the stone; where the depression is farther from the front edge of the stone, some adjustment in this measurement must be made.  But care must in every case be taken since the space between the knees and the front edge of the chōzu-bachi should always be great enough to allow the guest to handle the tsukubai-bishaku easily, and spit out the water with which the mouth has been rinsed in such a way that it will neither splash onto his clothes, nor the chōzu-bachi itself.


(125) 前の様子鉢によるへし  [With respect to the arrangement¹ of things in front, this should be determined by the (chōzu-)bachi.]

    Kenshin writes, the front stone should be of “different sorts,” depending on the chōzu-bachi.²   

     In front of the front-stone, between this stone and the chōzu-bachi, [several] small rocks should be arranged.  With respect to the way in which they are to be placed, there is an oral teaching (this teaching states that they should be positioned so that they will break the force of the water, thus helping to prevent splashing).³    
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¹The word yōsu [様子] implies far more than can be expressed by any single word in English.  In this case, it includes both the shape and the appearance of both the front stone, and the arrangement of small stones placed between the front stone (on which the guest crouches) and the front of the chōzu-bachi (these small stones must be placed in such a way that they break the stream of water dripping from the hands or tsukubai-bishaku, as well as the water more forcefully expelled from the mouth, so splashing is avoided; however, at the same time, the whole arrangement must look pleasant, with the several elements — chōzu-bachi, front-stone, and the collection of small stones arranged between them — complementing each other).

²This first remark of Kenshin’s means that if, for example, the chōzu-bachi is made of a plain stone (say, a relatively smooth and rather egg-shaped gray granite bolder), then the front-stone should be a rock of character (interesting in shape and color); and, on the other hand, if the chōzu-bachi has been cut in an attractive stone (whether a naturally shaped and colored stone — Rikyū’s chōzu-bachi, for example, was cut in a very large, irregularly shaped natural rock with a deep-reddish surface hue — or one that has been deliberately carved, such as a foundation-stone from an ancient building:  both types of chōzu-bachi were equally common in the period dominated by Jōō and Rikyū), then the front-stone should be rather plain and unremarkable.

³This mention of small stones refers to the several (the average accepted at present is between 3 and 5) stones (the size of a fist or slightly larger) placed in a triangular or rhomboid configuration more-or-less midway between the tsukubai and the front-stone on which the guest crouches.  Water from the hishaku or the mouth falls between these stones, which help deflect splashes by their presence.  In addition, the entire area around the tsukubai is generally covered by smaller pebbles (usually several layers deep, so that neither can the ground be glimpsed between them, nor mud well up from beneath), to keep the spilt water from pooling on the surface.  In the older gardens, a simple pebble-filled trench (so fully covered that it is not apparent to the viewer) usually lead from this area off toward a part of the roji where guests were unlikely to tred.   

     However, since the Edo period (when more deliberately landscaped effects became common — recall that Rikyū’s roji had nothing at all but turfgrass and a few stepping stones in places where these would be necessary, and a stone lantern by the tsukubai to provide illumination to that area during night gatherings), the tsukubai has often been placed in a depressed area somewhat below ground level (which makes run-off a problem since water can not flow away from this kind of configuration).  In this case a large pottery rice-storage jar (usually several feet deep and as many broad) was buried in the ground, an open lattice of bamboo splints was placed on top of the mouth, and this covered by several layers of pebbles (the front-stone is placed securely just beyond the rim of the jar, of course, to prevent the combined weight of stone and guest from crushing the side of the jar, with the guest potentially tumbling in as a result).  

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The spilt water, then, is collected in the jar (which must be periodically emptied so it will neither overflow and soften the ground, nor stagnate).  This kind of arrangement is shown in the above photo.  Often a number of different jars (and varying water levels versus empty space above) were tried until the host found one which produced a musical sound when water dripped into it during the hand-washing process:  this construction is known as a sui-kin kutsu [水琴窟], or “water-koto cavern” (that is, the dripping sound is likened to notes plucked on a Japanese koto, or wa-gon [和琴]) .  Such calculated effects deviate greatly from the kind of chanoyu which Jōō and Rikyū practiced (though they are typical of the direction in which chanoyu evolved during the Edo period and afterward); but now it is often said that this sort of arrangement (whether or not it is “fine-tuned” for a musical effect) is the only “correct” way to arrange the tsukubai.  The above example is to be found in the roji of the Raku-sui-an [楽水庵] in Fukuoka, which was originally constructed in the Meiji period.


(126) 手水柄杓[乃]圖むかしより有  [From ancient times there has been handed down a drawing of the chōzu-bishaku (= tsukubai-bishaku).]

     A redrawing of this is attached hereimage

     The measurements¹, added by Rikyū to the drawing, are divided into two sets:  for the large chōzu-bishaku, and the small chōzu-bishaku.   

     The larger chōzu-bishaku (used with a large chōzu-bachi):
 
     - height of the cup:  2-sun 7-bu (3.2”; 8.1 cm);
     - diameter of the cup:  3-sun 1-bu (3.7”; 9.4 cm);
     - length of the handle [outside of the cup]:  1-shaku 5-sun (17.9”; 45.5 cm);
     - thickness of the handle:  3.5 bu [horizontally] by 4 bu [vertically] (0.4” x 0.5”; 1.0             x 1.2 cm).

     The smaller chōzu-bishaku (used with a small chōzu-bachi):

     - height of the cup:  2-sun 5-bu (3” ; 7.6 cm);
     - diameter of the cup:  2-sun 9-bu (3.5”; 8.8 cm);
     - length of the handle [outside of the cup]:  1-shaku 4-sun 6-bu (17.4”; 44.2 cm);

- thickness of the handle:  3 bu [horizontally] by 4 bu [vertically] (0.4” x 0.5”; 0.9  x 1.2 cm).
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¹The modern tsukubai-bishaku has an even smaller size and a somewhat different profile.  (This evolved during the Edo period, when unusually narrow tsukubai became rather fashionable among certain groups of tea practitioners:  since the rule is that the tsukubai should overflow freely from the water of a single hand-bucket, it followed that the smaller the tsukubai was made, the smaller the hand-bucket could be; it was felt to be unseemly for members of the nobility, or a daimyō — or even a great merchant — to be lugging large buckets of water about like a common coolie….  This is also when the practice of using a single dipper of water for each guest came into vogue:  originally two dippers of water were used by each guest, the first was to really rinse his hands, left, then right, and the second to rinse out his mouth twice, with the remainder of the water being tipped down to flush the handle before the hishaku was replaced on top of the chōzu-bachi, as mentioned above.)  It measures:   


     - height of the cup, 2-sun 1.5-bu (2.6” ; 6.5 cm);
     - diameter of the cup, 2-sun 5-bu (3” ; 7.6 cm);
     - length of the handle (outside of the cup), 1-shaku 2-sun 8-bu (15.3”; 38.8 cm);
     - thickness of the handle, 3.5 bu [horizontally] by 3.75 bu [vertically] (0.4” x 0.5”; 0.9  x 1.1 cm).  


(127) 手水のさき景の有過たるもいかゝ又なきもあしきなり  [With regard to the scenery when one crouches down to wash ones hands, does it seem to be overdone?  Yet on the other hand, if the host has obviously made no effort at all, that is not good either.]

     Kenshin writes that when one mounts the front-stone (crouches down) and looks around, if the view seems cluttered or claustrophobic, this is bad; but if it appears that the host has done nothing at all (and so the person washing his hands and mouth is visible to people on the far side of the chōzu-bachi), this is also bad.  The scenery should screen the area from public view (since the guests will be rinsing their mouths and spitting the water out), yet at the same time the plantings and other arrangements should be light and airy.


(128) 路地の手桶かいけに至まてむかし[乃]圖あり  [With respect to splashing water in the roji, using a hand-bucket and a ladle, there is an old illustration.]

     Alas, none of the various commentaries have reproduced the illustration (if the line is even correct in its present wording:  most of the illustrations are of things, while actions were much more difficult to depict in amateur free-hand sketches of the type generally found in these period documents).  What they do say is that the extent to which water should be splashed is a matter of personal preference.

     However, the host must keep in mind that when the guests pass through the roji it should be neither dry, nor dripping wet.  So (Kenshin continues) the host should judge the time when the guests are expected to arrive, and splash water early enough so that the garden will approach the proper state of dampness when they enter the koshi-kake.  Also, at some point before the guests leave for the naka-dachi, water should again be splashed (but on this occasion more lightly).  Care should be taken that any branches overhanging the path or the chōzu-bachi are not splashed, so water will not drip onto the guests or into the chōzu-bachi; but care must also be taken that excessive dryness will not encourage spiders (or similar creatures) to hang from such branches and possibly fall onto the guests (from his choice of words, Kenshin seems to have a true horror of creepy-crawlies).  A sensitive concern for all such things reveals the depth of heart of the sukisha.


(129) 雪隠の屋根に中、桁道安被私仕出之由の事  [Concerning the underside of the roof of the set’chin, Dōan preferred to obscure the pillar¹, while “we” allow it to project into view.]

     This line (Kenshin writes²) refers to a set’chin attached to the koshi-kake in the sukiya complex (and not the free-standing suna-set’chin), and the generally single pillar which supports the center-point in the roof from below (so the roof will not sag in the middle).  It is a matter of personal preference, then, whether the pillar is visible or not.
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¹The “pillar” referred here is more commonly known as the tsuka-hashira [束柱], a short upright pillar which extends from a horizontal beam to the roof-ridge-pole.  A well-known example may be seen in the tsuka-hashira of the Karakasa-tei [傘亭] in the Shigure-tei complex (the intact complex, designed by Rikyū to host a complete gathering for Hideyoshi — with the machi-ai on the ground-floor of the Shigure-tei, the room for the service of tea on its upper floor, and a separate building for the preparation and service of the kaiseki, the Karakasa-tei — is now installed in the Tōdaiji):  it is the short pillar that rises up from the stout horizontal beam to the peak of the roof as the handle of the “umbrella” (which I have indicated by a red line to the left of the pillar):  in the Karakasa-tei, a plaque is nailed onto this tsuka-hashira as well.

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²The present text of this line (if not the line itself), clearly must have been added or edited years after Kenshin’s death, since Dōan and the later auditors postdate him by several decades or more (if the “we” refers to Katagiri Sekishū and his disciples, then this final anachronism is even more pronounced).  It is of course possible that the two architectural variants — with the pillar hidden or exposed — were also known in the days of Jōō and Kenshin (there are really no other possibilities, though it is uncertain precisely when the set’chin attached to the koshi-kake began to make its appearance), and the line was simply “updated” to reflect the preferences of virtual contemporaries (the more-or-less public dissemination of the Three Hundred Lines of Chanoyu was undertaken by Sekishū’s disciples, who wanted to give their teacher’s ideas a prominence equal at least to the assertions of Dōan, if not the great masters who predated this true son of Rikyū), thereby giving the line an up-to-date relevance that might have been lost if it remained in its original antique context.

     Dōan, in particular, favored a truncated suna-set’chin, in which case the ridge-pole was often incorporated into one of the side walls, the roof on the outside continuing only briefly, rather like an eve to prevent rain-water from falling directly onto the mud-plastered wall.




(130) 雪隠ハ見へさる様にてまた見ゆるやうに可仕事  [With respect to the set’chin, there is both the case when it is inspected (by the guests, during the course of the gathering), and that when it should not be inspected.]

     Kenshin writes that in general, if there are two set’chin in the roji, then the sand set’chin should be considered ornamental (rather than functional), while the ordinary one (usually attached to the koshi-kake) will be for the guests to actually use.  In this case, it is acceptable for the guests to inspect the suna-set’chin as they are walking through the roji. (probably on their way to the koshi-kake to wait out the naka-dachi).

     If, however, there is only one set’chin present (in which case it is the facility that must be used by the guests, if necessary; and also probably a suna-set’chin as well), then it is inappropriate for the guests to casually look in it (since it might have already been used by someone).

The Chōzu-bachi (or Tsukubai).

The next group of ten lines is almost ready for publication.  However, before I add them to this blog, I think it might be best to spend (or waste) a post talking about the hand-washing basin, since a familiarity with this information will be instrumental to understanding several of the lines which eventually will follow.

     First, regarding the name.  The modern tea world prefers the name tsukubai [蹲踞] for this basin, while Jōō and Rikyū and the people of their time (including, of course, Uesugi Kenshin) used the word chōzu-bachi [手水鉢].  Chōzu-bachi literally means a hand-washing basin (hence their use of this word), while tsukubai means to crouch down, and the application of this word as a name for the basin-stone itself is more akin to garden designers’ slang than to good grammar.  So be it.  Since these present posts are a translation of Kenshin’s comments on the Three Hundred Lines of Chanoyu, I will try to use his idiom in so far as possible.

     Historically speaking, the wash-basin is one more element incorporated into chanoyu from the Zen temple.  Even into fairly recent times, every monk’s private room (let alone detached residences such as an) had a chōzu-bachi situated next to the path somewhere near the front entrance, and keeping this fresh and clean was as important as keeping his person and clothing fresh and clean.  It is unfortunate that, in many cases where temple complexes have been rebuilt and modernized, the chōzu-bachi were some of the first things to be tossed over the hill (along, it seems, with the practice of the monks each washing their own bowls after eating in favor of electric dish washers).

     As everyone knows, there are a number of schools of chanoyu in existence today.  And each tends to vigorously defend their own opinions, while slinging metaphorical mud at all of the others (especially when the other schools’ opinions differ from their own).  In this blog I am attempting to eschew all of this by holding Jōō and Rikyū to be the authorities, with their ideas as expressed in their own writings (which, when the written opinions of these gentlemen differ, the modern schools counter by arguing that, since they do not know about them, they must be spurious) standing as the ultimate authority.  Even when we talk about the area around the tsukubai (in the modern world, chōzu-bachi usually refers to the high basin, first made by Oribe from an old stone bridge piling, which is used while standing more-or-less upright, with tsukubai referring to the low basin toward which one must crouch in order to use it; and I am as much a product of the present age and its terminology as is everyone else!), we are confronted by various opinions, all claiming to be the true representative of Rikyū’s teachings, even when contradictory to what he taught and wrote.  Rikyū, for example, absolutely detested the yu-tō [湯桶], considering it little better than dipping a bucket of hot water out of the bathtub (hardly to be considered truly clean water, since everyone in the household has sat in it) and giving this to the guests to wash hands and mouths with.  Yet every modern school (at least that I am aware of), names one of the rocks situated near the tsukubai “the rock on which the bucket of hot water is placed!”  In fact, the bucket-stone is there not for hot water (even in coldest part of the winter, Rikyū considered the sting of cold water to itself be part of the purification process, while only grudgingly allowing warm water “for the aged” — though it is hard to know what “aged” means, if someone pushing 70 is not yet ready to join their ranks), but to receive the bucket of clean water (and nothing else), while the host empties out the basin with the hishaku preparatory to pouring in the clean, fresh water.  In the accompanying illustration, I have restored the stones to their original functions, and original positions (different schools argue interminably over which side of the chōzu-bachi the bucket stone, versus the candle-stick stone, goes:  but traditionally the bucket is carried in the left hand, while the long-handled candlestick is carried in the right, and thus the two may be carried simultaneously as is the case at night, hence what could possibly make someone want to reverse the positions of the rocks placed out specifically to receive these objects?).

     The arrangement of the tsukubai — or, I suppose I should say, chōzu-bachi — as envisioned by Jōō and Rikyū is illustrated in the following diagram.  I hope that the readers will keep this sketch in mind when reflecting on Kenshin’s comments in the subsequent post….

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     A final comment:  it is important to remember that the roji (and what has been called “roji teaism” — that is, chanoyu with a focus on the roji as a significant part of the process of serving tea) was evolving during the period when Jōō and Rikyū were the mentors of chanoyu.  Prior to Jōō, the roji was little more than a couple of stones connecting the reception room of the house with the room in which chanoyu was being served (the path leading also to the outhouse, with the chōzu-bachi along the way; often this “path” was completely surrounded by the various buildings of the complex, with nothing that could be considered a “garden” at all).  The practice of washing the hands before entering the chashitsu (irrespective of whether one had visited the toilet) began at this time primarily as an expression of respect to the utensils, so that the guest would not soil them by touching them with unwashed hands.

     When people started erecting the chashitsu as an independent structure, the original koshi-kake (that is, a bench-like place where the guests could sit as in a chair) made its appearance, first as a place from which the sitting guest could remove his footwear:  it was the wide sill which faced the shōji-covered entrance (what we now would consider the kijin-guchi/kinnin-guchi); though since the tearoom lacked any other entrance for the guests, there was no particular sentiment attached to this doorway.  The guests began entering the complex by themselves (without having to knock at the gate and be admitted) around this point in time, and took a seat on this little veranda to wait for the host to invite them to enter (by simply opening the door and greeting them).  The roji was still purely functional (and still for the most part sandwiched between buildings), with the path leading from the street to this entrance, and communicating also with the toilet facilities and the chōzu-bachi (which, for the sake of convenience, were usually placed near to the koshi-kake). 

     However, as the element of “surprise” began to take root (a consequence of the original set of utensils brought to Japan in the 1470s, and added to sparely over the years since, coming to be concentrated in the hands of a smaller population of tea practitioners), the temptation to peek in on the preparations on the part of the guests, and the desire to dissuade them on the part of the host, the koshi-kake was removed somewhat from the actual entrance (though it was still attached to the outside of the wall of the chashitsu), and this gave rise to the first true roji (the gate finally being added as the final mark of separation between the koshi-kake and the entrance to the tearoom).  The nijiri-guchi as an extremely low entrance through which the guests entered by sliding in on their knees (though at first covered with a sliding shōji rather than the wooden door cut out of a discarded shutter which Rikyū devised a little later, primarily as a way to control the direction from which natural light would enter the room) and the genkan were also created at this time (according to Hisada Sōya, quoting from and expanding upon ideas noted in the Kōshin Ge-gaki [江岑夏書], these were additional architectural components imported from Korea), with the nijiri-guchi now located around the corner from the shōji-covered entrance and its little veranda, and from the koshi-kake.  It was only from this period that the chōzu-bachi became intrinsically associated with the nijiri-guchi, and so dissociated from both the koshi-kake and the set’chin.  In the case of older chashitsu (particularly when ones ancestor had been a respected man of tea, there was always a certain repugnance connected with the notion of rebuilding “in the modern style”), the chōzu-bachi remained close to the koshi-kake, and so the traditional teachings continued to take this location into consideration even when the chōzu-bachi located near the guests’ entrance was becoming more common.

The Three Hundred Lines of Chanoyu (Lines 111 - 120).

As the first book of the Three Hundred Lines of Chanoyu for the most part dealt with theoretical matters, so the contents of the second book tend to be more practical in their orientation, touching on important points to remember when constructing the teahouse, the koshi-kake machi-ai [腰掛待合; waiting bench — usually shortened to koshi-kake in these notes], the setsu-in [雪隠¹ or 雪院², the sand-strewn toilet], and the roji [露地; garden between the machi-ai and the entrance to the tearoom].  The previous post illustrated the kind of setting to which the contents of this book allude — and occasionally are not always applicable to other settings in which a tea gathering may be hosted (such as those which evolved during the Edo period, under the influence of Sōtan and his disciples and descendents as well as the various daimyō who often strove to outdo each other in their quest for originality, and after).

     The greatest difficulty with regard to the translation of this set of ten lines (and the matter responsible for their delay in being published) lay with how to discuss the use of the set’chin (setsu-in):  I have tried to be as clinically inoffensive as possible, but unfortunately being graphic to a certain degree is necessary in order for the Western reader to clearly understand the function of the various points mentioned in the Lines (which are things Jōō and Rikyū considered important enough to dwell upon, and concerning which a number of secret, oral traditions existed).  In fact it seems that even in the period when the Three Hundred Lines were written, more modern facilities (essentially a chamber-pot over which one squatted rather than sat — necessary when wearing kimono — and stand-up urinals for men) were usual.  The antique suna-set’chin was revered, however, because in the Zen temple it was a tradition that only the higher monks were delegated to clean it (novices being considered still too worldly and sensitive for such a task); and so it was inspected (and when necessary, used) with this thought in mind.

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¹Setsu-in or set’chin [雪隠] is the more commonly used word for this type of restroom.  The character in [隠] means to hide or conceal; as a name, a place of concealment.

²Setsu-in or set’chin [雪院].  This is the actual word used throughout Kenshin’s manuscript (subsequent versions of the Three Hundred Lines tend to restore the word to 雪隠).  The character in [院] refers to a mansion, and is generally used when naming buildings associated with this sort of palatial construction — c.f., the word shoin [書院], which refers to a nobleman’s private sitting room or study.  Because the set’chin has been an element of the chanoyu complex since the practice was introduced into Japan (and possibly from the earliest days when a special quarter for chanoyu was set aside in the old Korean temples), and because it was more ornamental than practical even in the days of Jōō and Rikyū, this rendering may have seemed appropriate (the little hut with its low pyramidal roof of thatch sometimes tipped with a carved wooden jewel-like finial, often looks more like a tsuji-dō [辻堂, a variety of wayside Buddhist shrine] from the outside, than an outhouse).  It is also a fact that this character is much easier to write (especially cursively), and so may have been preferred for use in handwritten notes.  (In my comments on the Hundred Poems I mentioned that the tea literature from this period was invariably intended for personal reference, not for formal publication — or even circulation.  Thus there was a tendency to simplify the characters used wherever possible, so far as doing so does not put the meaning in doubt; and this form may simply represent an example of that practice.)


(111) 腰懸高さ口專広さ長さの定めなし  [There is an oral teaching regarding the height of the koshi-kake¹; but, neither the depth (of the seat) nor its length have been fixed by any rule.]

     The word koshi-kake [腰掛] literally refers to the bench on which the guests sit.  The application of the name to the entire structure is a simplification.  

     The oral teaching was that the seat should be at the height at which an average-sized man (otoko [男], an adult male) can sit comfortably, with his legs neither dangling, nor forced to extend forward at an angle in order for his lap to be horizontal.  Kenshin interprets this numerically to be between 1-shaku 6-sun (48.5 cm, or 19”) and 1-shaku 4-sun (42.4 cm, or 16 3/4”).

     He reiterates that neither the depth of the seat, nor its length, have been regulated by precedent. 

     The length is clearly determined by circumstances:  the koshi-kake should be able to comfortably seat the same number of guests as can be accommodated in the tearoom.  The depth of the seat should be wide enough to fully support the buttocks; but how far beyond that it extends is a matter of personal preference.  The enza [円座] traditionally supplied for the guests to sit upon are 1-shaku 1-sun in diameter (33.3 cm, or 13”), so the bench should be somewhat deeper than this.  Generally the guests should sit upright without leaning against the wall behind the bench (the plaster is usually papered, just as it is behind the guests’ seats in the tearoom, but moisture may still be present, so contact with the wall is best avoided), and this should also be taken into consideration (if the seat is too narrow, the guests will be forced into contact with the wall).   


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¹The character kake [懸], which Kenshin uses here, has the same meaning as the more commonly employed word kake [掛]:  to depend from; and, by extension, to rest upon or lean against.


(112) こしかけに水打事  [Splashing water in the koshi-kake.]

     Kenshin writes that during the season of the furo, particularly when the weather is hot, at the beginning (that is, somewhat before the guests are expected to arrive) water should be sprinkled even in the koshi-kake (that is, water is splashed onto the seat; but care must be taken that this is done early enough that the seat will be essentially dry by the time the guests arrive). 

     Just before the guests leave for the naka-dachi, the seat should be thoroughly wiped with a damp towel (so that it is still slightly damp when they arrive).  This is the reason that enza are given to them to sit on.  It is particularly important for enza to be provided for the guests to use at this time.¹

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¹In the period in which the Three Hundred Lines were set down, it was often the case that guests “invited themselves” to a gathering.  Perhaps they happened to notice that the host had opened his gate and splashed the entryway with water to indicate that he was receiving, and so decided to go in (an example of this that has been mentioned before was the impromptu chakai which Rikyū hosted for Tsuda Sōkyū on a snowy morning), or occasionally (in that period) another person spontaneously joined a previously arranged group of guests.  In any case, the host often did not know the precise number of visitors until he actually went out to greet them and invite them into the tearoom.  (This was also why the portions of food offered to the guests at the kaiseki were indeterminately smaller than usual — so that there would be sufficient food if more guests than expected showed up.)  Thus, beforehand, it was not necessarily possible for the host to know how many enza should be set out, and so many times they were not used in the koshi-kake prior to the shōza

     When a gathering was definitely closed, the host hung a sort of sign-board on the street-side gate leading to the tearoom — usually simply reading chakai [茶會], tea-gathering [in progress] — to indicate that uninvited guests could not be received.  The Yabunouchi family still possesses one from this period, carved on a gourd-shaped board, in Rikyū’s own writing.


(113) 笠を懸候釘ほとらひ口專有  [For hanging the (roji)-gasa¹ (an umbrella-like head covering used in rainy or snowy weather when walking through the roji), there is an oral teaching regarding the usual height of the hook.]

     Kenshin writes that the roji-gasa may be hung from the rafters on the underside of the roof of the koshi-kake, or anywhere else that is convenient.  It is important that it is easy to remove the roji-gasa from below (that is, the guest should be able to hang or disengage the roji-gasa from the hook without difficulty, perhaps even while seated on the bench — the koshi-kake is no larger than necessary for the maximum number of guests the tearoom was built to accommodate, so hanging or removing the roji-gasa should require as little moving around as possible).

     The hook originally was a bamboo peg, 1.5 bu [分] (approximately 0.2 ” or 4.5 mm) square in cross-section, with the four corners chamfered to a depth of 4 rin [厘] (0.05” or 1.2 mm).  Thus it is somewhat more substantial than the similar bamboo peg used to hang the scroll or the habōki/hishaku in the tearoom.  The peg is nailed with the skin-side of the bamboo uppermost, as usual.  (Kenshin does not state the length of the peg, but these generally project up to 1-sun 5-bu — 1.8” or 4.5 cm — from the wall, so there is no chance of the hat slipping off should it be moved by a gust of wind.)  

     An (iron) ori-kugi may also be used².
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¹This is a slightly conical, circular frame of bent bamboo-slips approximately 31” (79 cm) in diameter, covered either with cryptomeria bark or bamboo sheaths, which is held over the head on rainy or snowy days to protect the head and shoulders during the trip from the koshi-kake to the tearoom.  As it is very difficult to manage the roji-gasa when using the tsukubai, many people prefer to do without except when the rain is heavy (and the original teaching on such occasions was that in this case the host should carefully clean the chiri-ana [塵穴], which is always situated under the gekkan roof of the tearoom, fill this with clean water, provide a tsukubai-bishaku, and ask the guests to use this instead of the tsukubai). 

     According to another commentator, in the wabi small-room setting a smaller version of the roji-gasa that can be tied onto the head with a cord (like an ordinary rain-hat) may be used instead.

²This sentence may be an unacknowledged Edo period interpolation.  In the days of Jōō and Rikyū, there was a pronounced dislike for using anything more elaborate than circumstances made absolutely necessary.  An iron hook was not cast in shape (as is often done nowadays), but hand crafted from a single straight length of iron in a process which involved many steps taking several hours to complete.  In contrast, a bamboo peg was whittled out in a matter of minutes, and could even be replaced by the teishu himself if necessary.


(114) のりこへの石に客の石亭主の石有すへよう口專有  [There is a secret teaching regarding the “passing-over stone” (the stone immediately on the inner side of the gate), which is placed between the “guest’s stone” and the “host’s stone” (at the gate to the inner roji)¹.]

     The “passing-over stone” is the first stone on the inner (teahouse) side of the gate (naka-kuguri [中潜り] — this word is used more broadly) which separates the outer roji from the inner roji, and is the stone over which the gate swings when opened (this may be the origin of the name, vis-à-vis the two stones which occur on either side of it²).  After the host has opened the gate (before approaching the guests the host first goes to the tsukubai and audibly refreshes its water; and becoming aware of this from the sound, the guests tidy up the koshi-kake and walk toward their side of the gate, in their order of precedence, to await his advent), the shōkyaku squats down on the “guest’s stone³,” while the host does the same on the “host’s stone³,” and so they exchange preliminary greetings.  (In the days of Jōō and Rikyū, this time of greeting — when the host invited the guests as a body to come into the tearoom for the shōza — was occasionally the first time that the host actually saw who his guests might be.)  These three stones are collectively referred to as the roji no san-seki [露地の三石], and it is the correct understanding of this grouping that this line addresses.

     Kenshin writes, the guest steps up onto the stone immediately on the outer side of the naka-kuguri and crouches down (before the host actually comes to the gate), since the behavior of the guests in the roji should be wholly focused on waiting (for the host to come out to them).  This is the reason why this stone is called the guest’s stone.

     On the inner side of the naka-kuguri immediately next to the nori-koe no ishi [乗越の石, passing-over stone] is the stone on which the host positions himself at the appropriate time (that is, while he is exchanging greetings and requesting the guests to enter), and so is known as the host’s stone.
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     Kenshin continues, it is also possible for the host’s stone to be placed on the outer side of the naka-kuguri (that is, the host opens the gate and passes through, and only then crouches down on a stone in the outer roji to address the guests — it is the stones themselves, the largeness of the host’s stone and guest’s stone which permit one to crouch down on them with ease, that indicates the nature of the arrangement to first-time visitors:  regardless of orientation, the stone closest to the koshi-kake is for the shōkyaku to use at this time, while that closest to the chashitsu is naturally for the teishu), and the smaller stone in between is still called the nori-koe no ishi; but when the guest’s stone is close to the naka-kuguri (and so the nori-koe no ishi is on the inner side of the gate), then this stone should be set slightly apart from the nori-koe no ishi (that is, there should be a clear space separating them; they should not seem to overlap at all). 

     The three stones should also not appear to be matched (that is, the variety or color of the stones should be different, as well as their sizes and shapes).  These are the oral teachings.

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¹The three stones here mentioned — collectively known as the roji no san-seki — the kyaku no ishi [客の石, guest’s stone], teishu no ishi [亭主の石, host’s stone] and the nori-koe no ishi [乗越の石, passing-over stone], form one of the most important groupings of stones in the roji (and this point can not be stated too strongly).  Even in Rikyū’s extremely minimalistic roji (in which the number of stepping stones was kept to an absolute minimum, with most of the walking, particularly in the outer roji, done on low-cropped turf-grass), this grouping was always maintained intact.  (The other stepping stones, of equal importance, were the stones at the tsukubai, and the stones under the genkan leading to the nijiri-guchi.  Everything else can possibly be dispensed with, depending on circumstances.)

²Another interpretation of the name nori-koe no ishi considered by one of the commentators is that it is across this stone that the exchange of greetings — the words addressed to the guests by the host, and the reply from the guests to the host — passes.  (In this case, the commentator takes the name to mean 乗り声の石 [the stone across which the voices flow], a homophone of the more usually accepted characters.  What is interesting is that Kenshin consistently writes the name of this stone phonetically, as のりこへ[=え]の石, thus potentially allowing for either interpretation.  This is also consistent with what we know of the poetic mind of Jōō, who would have delighted in this kind of play on words.)

³Guest’s stone, host’s stone:  these two stepping stones must be broad enough, and uniformly flat enough that a person can crouch down on them comfortably, without any sense of instability.  This differentiates these two stones from the others which form the pathway — since the others in general need only be large enough to receive one foot comfortably.


(115) 雪院の石口專あるへし  [There is an oral teaching dealing with the (arrangement of the) stones in the set’chin¹.]

     Kenshin writes, with respect to the doorway, the stones are arranged so that they are in line with the front-back axis (that is, one steps in and squats down facing toward the wall opposite to the entrance — the appended illustration will make this all clearer).  The stone at the user’s rear (which is there to fully contain the contents within the sand-covered depression) should be a little lower than the other three stones (i.e., the two stones on which the user squats, and the front stone which is there to contain the possible splash of urine).  The stones on which the user steps should be approximately 2-sun 4- or 5-bu (2 3/4” ~ 3”, 7.3 ~ 7.6 cm), or possibly slightly higher or lower, above the surface of the sand.  The stone which forms the threshold of the doorway should be the same height as these other three, as just explained.  Also, it is now common for the stone farthest from the doorway to project outside, beyond the wall.  This kind of arrangement was first used by Dōan in the complex which he created in Hideyoshi’s camp during the Siege of Odawara (1590)².

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     Unlike the chiri-ana associated with the entrance to the tearoom itself, the chiri-ana in the set’chin is never used as a tsukubai.  After using the set’chin, one washes ones hands outside — either at a special tsukubai provided for this purpose in the vicinity of the entrance to the set’chin itself, or using the regular one in the inner roji.  (In the days of Jōō and Rikyū, the regular tsukubai was used, but from the Edo period on the inclination is to provide a separate tsukubai for this kind of cleaning.)

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¹This construction is often called the suna-set’chin [砂雪隠] because the depression in the ground (over which the user squats) is spread over with sand.  It is also known as ishi-set’chin [石雪隠], stone set’chin, because the user stands on elevated stones which straddle the bowl-like depression; Furuta Oribe in particular appears to have preferred this name.  Another name which arose in more recent years is kazari-set’chin [飾雪隠 or 荘雪隠], “ornamental” set’chin (to distinguish it from the functional toilets); the second kanji combination can also be interpreted to mean the set’chin found in a mountain villa or country-inn (though the first rendering is the more generally preferred).  Indeed modern tea people have become so distressed at the prospect that the suna-set’chin might actually be used, that it is extremely rare to find one in the modern roji (the exception being the roji of complexes affiliated with the various tea schools — where one of the staff is often delegated to make sure that none of the guests ever gets an idea to make use of this facility).

     Since the Edo period, at least, the functional set’chin (almost always now furnished with flush toilets) is located in the outer roji (in the proximity of the koshi-kake), while the kazari-set’chin (which is not supposed to be used) is to be found somewhere in the inner roji.  When the functional set’chin is located in the outer roji, it is always provided with its own tsukubai, where the guests may wash their hands after using the facility; in the early days of chanoyu, when only one set’chin was available (in the inner roji — which was not as fully isolated from the outer roji as it became later — as may be seen in the illustration published with the previous post, depicting a reconstruction of Rikyū’s former Sakai residence), the ordinary tsukubai was used for this purpose.

²Dōan also changed the orientation of the set’chin at this time.  Formerly the person using the facility entered and squatted facing the far wall.  Dōan repositioned the entrance so that the user turned to the left as he entered — thus allowing him to strike out toward the left should  an attacker attempt to breach the entrance (the first set’chin in this style was erected in Hideyoshi’s siege-camp before Odawara).  He also truncated the length of the small room (so as to make it less likely that someone could conceal himself in the shadows at night), with the result that a stone of the usual size placed in front to deflect the stream of urine now projected beyond the wall.  Whether or not this was intentionally done, this form of set’chin has continuously been called Dōan’s style.


(116) 同箒懸候釘のほとらひ有  [There is also a similar (rule) regarding the usual height of the hook from which the broom is suspended.]

     This line originally followed Line 113 (it appears that at some — perhaps early — point in time the order of the lines became confused):  in the original text, as passed on by Kenshin, the lines are unnumbered; the numbers (along with the majority of the appended comments¹) were added only after this document passed from Katagiri Sekishū to his disciples.  Since from that time the commentaries were being included with the original text (and, in many instances, could no longer be separated from it — though the present text of the Three Hundred Lines purports to represent the authentic Kenshin version, it is obvious that comments relating to Rikyū and Dōan must have been interpolated later, since the period of their influence mostly postdates Kenshin, who was more a contemporary of Jōō), numbering was probably necessary in order to prevent further inconsistencies from creeping in, as they were hand-copied from generation to generation:  the addition of the commentaries, which often rely upon the line which they follow for their subject and context, makes it more important for each of the lines to maintain its proper place in the sequence.

     This hook (Kenshin writes) is located on the wall of the teahouse next to the chiri-ana [塵穴, “dust hole²”], in proximity to the nijiri-guchi.  The hook should be nailed (usually into one of the pillars of the teahouse wall that projects beyond the surface of the wall) so that a space of between 4- and 5-sun (4 3/4” ~ 6”, or 12 ~ 15 cm) is clear between the head of the broom (which hangs down-most) and the surface of the ground. 

     A bamboo peg should be used.  It should project 9-bu (1”, or 2.7 cm).

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¹Not all of the now-associated comments have been included in this translation by any means:  anything obviously later than Dōan or his disciple Kuwayama Sōsen (who were jointly responsible for incorporating Rikyū’s opinions into this particular collection of teachings), generally tends to reflect the deviations from the orthodox tradition which began to creep into the practice of chanoyu as Sōtan assumed the controlling role in its evolution (or the even later reactionist movement which has come to be known as daimyō-cha); these later comments are naturally anachronistic, and so their inclusion would only serve to confuse our understanding of chanoyu as it existed in the period dominated by Jōō and Rikyū (an exploration of which idiom is, and has always been, the primary purpose of this blog).

²The chiri-ana [塵穴] is a symbolic “dust hole” located next to the wall of the teahouse, under the genkan (projecting roof which protects the nijiri-guchi).  It is hewn from a single piece of stone, with a circular hole of approximately the same dimensions as that in the tsukubai (between 7-sun and 1-shaku in diameter, and perhaps 4- or 5-sun deep), with the rim raised above the level of the ground (generally the area under the genkan is covered with mortar in which the stones surrounding the nijiri-guchi have been set, to keep mud away from the entrance); in the days before purpose-made chiri-ana were being fabricated, there is a suggestion in some of the earlier documents that this was originally a small-sized tsukubai which was sunk almost completely into the ground in this location (after the use of a much larger natural stone for the tsukubai in the roji became the fashion — this was during Rikyū’s lifetime).  It appears that in fact this originally functioned as the tsukubai for the tearoom in the earliest days before the appearance of the roji (in which case it was likely not buried so deeply).  With the advent of the roji, the chiri-ana was relegated to a generally decorative function; however, while it is called a “dust hole,” the contents must never be dirty:  after the hold is carefully cleaned, several carefully washed and dew-sprinkled clippings are arranged in there (together with a pair of green-bamboo chopstick-like dust-tongs) as part of the host’s preparations.  On days when there is a heavy rain or snow, which makes it impractical or dangerous for the guests to attempt to use the ordinary tsukubai, the host instead fills the chiri-ana with clean water, supplies a tsukubai-bishaku, and asks the guests to use this for washing their hands instead.


(117) 雪院の屋ねかやふき也厚きハあしき事  [The roof of the set’chin is usually thatched with miscanthus reeds; it is not appropriate for (the thatch) to be too thick.]

     When the set’chin is detached¹ (that is, when it is an independent structure rather than a lean-to appended to something like the koshi-kake), the roof should be shaped like a low pyramid. 

     If the thatch is too thick, giving an impression that the host is a man of of wealth or high-rank, this is completely inappropriate.

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¹As in the illustration of Rikyu’s former Sakai residence.  Since the Edo period it has common for a set’chin to be attached to the koshi-kake, in which case its roof-line blends into that of the rest of the structure.

²The expression used by Kenshin is “ほうぎやうつくり” (written in kana) — hō-gyō zukuri.  This is interpreted either as hō-gyō zukuri [方形造], meaning a four-sided shape; or hō-gyō zukuri [宝形造], that is,  jewel-shaped (a classical shape often encountered in pavilions which bear a marked Chinese influence), indicating something shaped rather like a Hershey’s Kiss.  Apparently the two concepts suggested by these different renderings are combined to give a low, four-sided pyramid with a slightly rounded profile.


(118) 戸摺のいし[乃]㕝  [Regarding the stone (threshold) across which the door (of the setsu’chin)  brushes (when it is closed).]

     In general, Kenshin writes, there is a space of approximately 3-sun (3 2/3” or 9 cm) between the sill and the bottom of the door.  However, this depends on the stone¹.  In any case, the door should be higher than the stone, whatever the stone’s shape (that is, the door should never rub against the stone).

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¹If the stone is not perfectly flat, but has a raised section — it will be recalled that, when arranging the roji, one should make use of whatever stones are locally available rather than trying to find something special, and this is the reason for such considerations as voiced here — then the door should be approximately 3-sun higher than the place where the person would step; however, the door should never come into contact with any part of the stone.  On the other hand, the space between the threshold stone and the bottom of the door should not be high enough that it fails to screen the occupant.


(119) 砂かき利休乃圖有かやうの所にすきの心持有へし  [As for the suna-gaki (a plectrum-shaped wooden spatula with which the sand in the set’chin is manipulated), there is a sketch made by Rikyū (which shows the classical form).  When someone visits (the toilet), it is best if whatever implement is available looks like a spade (i.e., a digging utensil).]

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     The suna-kaki [砂掻き], illustrated above, is used to scrape a hole in the sand which covers the floor of the suna-set’chin to receive the fecal material, and then used afterward to bury the feces so that the set’chin will be clean in case it needs to be used by someone else afterward.  A replication of Rikyū’s sketch is attached. 

     The  so-called (Chinese) shi-jue, or (Japanese) shi-ketsu [屎橛, literally “shit stick”], mentioned by the monk Wumen Hui-kai in the Wumen-kuan [無門關] apparently refers to this type of object, which is sometimes said to have been used both to clean oneself of any partially voided fecal matter (something more frequently necessary when customarily eating a rice-based diet), and to bury the feces in the sand afterward.  Even in Rikyū’s day the suna-set’chin was more for show than for actual use (except, of course, in an emergency, when its proximity to the tearoom made this the most convenient place in which to relieve oneself).

     In addition to the suna-kaki, a pair of unpainted wooden chopsticks, called chiri-bashi [塵箸] are also provided for use in the set’chin.  These are 1-shaku 2-sun (14 1/4”, or 36.4 cm) in length.


(120) 額之事悪しきは中々なきかましの㕝  [Regarding the (tearoom’s) name-plaque, it is not exactly wrong to have none, but (displaying) one is better.]

     Kenshin writes that the name-plaque might show the name of the hermitage-residence¹, or perhaps it memorializes the founder or chronicles some aspect of its foundation-story²; but, in any case, it is good for the text to contain something that the teishu considers interesting and important:  the words should reveal the host’s mind.  Also, if the plaque is nailed too high for the guests to read easily, or the writing is too small to be read from the required distance, this is bad.  The idea is that it must be easy to read, because the guests should read it.

     There are a many things that have to be taken into consideration³.  The plaque should above all give the name of the building (it may also include other pieces of information, but stating the name of the residence is absolutely essential).  If the teishu was not able to provide a plaque that fully conforms to his mind, and so has not hung one, this is not a problem.  It is better to hang nothing than to hang a plaque which does not accord with the teishu’s mind. 

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¹That is, the name of the hermitage [an, 庵 or 菴], which was often affiliated with a larger temple and frequently considered a variety of sub-temple.  A hermitage (the character an [庵] refers to an isolated residence, usually deep in the mountains, where an advanced monk retired to cultivate his samadhi; an [菴] suggests a grass-thatched hut) was originally associated with monastic discipline.  The apellation was borrowed for the tearoom (and is so used even today), and is generally included in its name even when this structure no longer has any of these religious connotations.  (In the days of Jōō and Kenshin, chanoyu was approached as, above all else, a quasi-religious exercise; the complete secularization of the practice only became apparent during the second half of the seventeenth century.)

²Kenshin refers here to a plaque on which, in addition to the name, are inscribed a few sentences documenting the history of the hermitage or residence — particularly in the case of such residences affiliated with a temple, often the founder was a monk of some standing, and after his passing the residence was usually passed on to one of his prominent disciples:  Nambō Sōkei’s residence, the Shū-un An [集雲菴], was and example of this, and the brief history of this building recounted in the Nampō Roku was originally written in these same words on a plaque that was displayed in front of this residence.  (The Shū-un An stood at the farthest end of a lane of similar buildings which housed the senior monks, within the sanmon of Nanshū-ji [南宗寺] in Sakai; the building was sealed after Nambō Sōkei’s death in 1595, and was destroyed by fire during the first decade of the Shōwa period.)

³Other commentators enumerate some of these points:  1) there is no fixed size for the plaque, but it should be large enough to be seen and read easily as the guests approach the tearoom; 2) the characters should be large, and written clearly and unambiguously (this is why the characters are often carved into the wood and then inlaid with white gesso); 3) the wood used for the plaque should be old, if such can be obtained;  4) the wood itself does not necessarily have to be finished, but may be roughly hewn, or even a piece of driftwood can be used if its size and appearance is appropriate; 5)  it is interesting if the plaque itself (i.e., not only the wood but the writing as well) is old, and perhaps has historical associations; 6) however, if the plaque seems to have no connection with the teishu or his views (that is, if it is simply an antique plaque that is hung simply because it is old), it is wrong to display such a thing on the teahouse.  Once again, none of these things is mandatory:  it is nice if the host can hang a name-plaque, but not absolutely necessary.

The Chashitsu and Roji in Rikyū’s Day.

In Rikyū’s period, the chashitsu and its environs were much simpler than they have become in the present.  As has previously been noted, the usual setting for the chashitsu, at least when this formed part of a city residence, was at the very rear of the property, and excavations at the site of Rikyū’s residence in the older part of Sakai reveal this to be so — at least in the case of practitioners who were following the orthodox tradition.  (Rikyū moved to a new part of the city, known as Mozuno [百舌鳥野], which had recently been drained and reclaimed, in the year or so before his death; and the ni-jō-daime [二畳台目] chashitsu which had formed a part of his earlier residence, known as the Jisshō-an [實相庵], was given to the Nanshu-ji [南宗寺], where it still remains).

     An approximate reconstruction of the tea-complex found in this residence is shown below, since this illustrates the salient features of the roji as it then existed — and which will be the subject of a number of the subsequent entries in the Three Hundred Lines (which is why I decided to address this issue now).  The property (and so the tearoom itself) faces toward the North-West.  At present, only the location of the well can be known with perfect certainty (since the site has been built over several times between the time when Rikyū and his household vacated and the present), though the remains of his residential complex and the tearoom can be placed from occasional foundation stones, the remains of kitchen areas, and several semi-subterranean storage areas (from which a number of probable tea utensils such as shards of brown-glazed Seto ware jars of various sizes, an early black raku bowl, and an ishi-usu [石臼], or mill for grinding matcha, were excavated.— though whether these were pieces owned by Rikyū, or by a subsequent occupant of the complex, can not be ascertained; all that can be said is that they are of the period in question).

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     The tea complex, therefore, contained the following elements:  in addition to the chashitsu itself, there was a koshi-kake machi-ai [腰掛待合]; the suna setsu-in [砂雪隠], a primitive restroom made of sand and stone (it is used in rather the way a cat uses its litter-box — a hole is scraped in the sand between the two larger stones upon which the person crouches, and the waste is buried with sand afterwards; at the conclusion of the gathering the host removes all of the sand, washes the floor, and then spreads fresh, clean sand again); the tsukubai [蹲踞], or stone basin where the host and guests wash their hands and mouths and an ishi-tōrō [石燈籠], or stone lantern to light this area of the roji at night.  In addition, there was usually an ido [井戸], or well, to provide washing water — if not the water boiled for chanoyu (ground water in densely populated areas is usually not pure enough to be suitable for the actual act of making tea).  The roji [露地], or tea garden, was reached by means of a paved roji [路地], path, which lead from the street along the side of the house directly to the tea area (so that guests arriving for chanoyu were able to make their way to the koshi-kake by themselves, and so did not have to disturb the rest of the household; they waited patiently in the koshi-kake — making their presence known by striking a ban-gi [板木], or wooden gong, when all were present — until the host invited them into the chashitsu).  Rikyū’s tea garden was mostly planted with low grass, and tobi-ishi [飛石], or stepping stones, were only provided in areas where they were necessary, such as at the tsukubai and near the nijiri-guchi; the floor of the koshi-kake was also laid with stones to keep the guests’ feet above ground level while they waited.  These are the essential elements which should be present when a proper chashitsu has been erected, and they will be discussed in this context in the following entries of the Three Hundred Lines.

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     I have returned from my trip to Japan, and from another, unexpected, trip to Kang-weon Do; and between these two I also managed to finish moving (though not yet unpacking — it seems that I will have to move to another room sometime this month or next, so I have been advised to put off unpacking until I am in more permanent quarters) my books and things from Yesan.  Hopefully — hopefully — there will be no further complications to interfere with my continuing translation and publication of the Three Hundred Lines.  I would like to thank you all for your patience.

— Daniel M. Burkus

<d_m_burkus@yahoo.com>

A brief note to all of you, concerning subsequent posts.

Dear Followers of this Blog,

     The previous post, The Three Hundred Lines of Chanoyu (Lines 101 - 110), is now complete.  In addition to adding the last four lines, I also did some extensive revising of the material which had been posted under that heading previously, so I would like to ask people who are interested in the translation to re-read the post in order to acquaint themselves with my changes. (I am sorry to have done things in this way — though it is not so different from the way things have been from the beginning — but the only way I can really read what I have posted is to see it on the blog page, and that of course necessitates posting it first.  Furthermore, given the length of my typical posts, my eyesight is usually starting to fail even before I finish writing the post; editing and revising what I have written, therefore, can not be done until a subsequent session, with refreshed vision, makes that possible.  Unfortunately, I suspect that people who have not gone through this sort of thing will remain largely unsympathetic — or at least ignorant of where their sympathy should fall!  Hopefully you will never know!  Because it is a horrible thing to wake up one morning and find that half of you can no longer see anything at all; and it seems you never really get used to it, either.)

     While my eyesight continues to impact my work (I am, as many of you may know, completely blind in my left eye due to cataract, and my right eye is playing catch-up), I was informed today that my employment here has finally been approved, meaning that I will now be allowed to bring all of my books and tea things from Yesan (it seems this is going to happen on Friday of next week, the first day of March).  Therefore, my stress level should decrease dramatically once that is a fait accompli, while my lack of reference materials will thenceforth completely cease to be an issue.

     Nevertheless, I am afraid that my eyesight will continue to be a problem (probably for the rest of my life, until I completely go blind).  Perhaps I can remedy things to some degree in the short term by rigging up an additional light on my left side (to complement the one already installed on the right), and adding a small side-table and several book stands (which already exist somewhere in a box in Yesan) to support several books simultaneously at near-eye-level.  But there are days when I can not focus my vision at all, and others when I can see quite well without even needing to put on my glasses.  Thus I will try to do as much as possible on the latter occasions, since the former will prevent me from doing anything at all.  Hopefully this will allow me to balance things out, and I will be able to resume making at least one post each week.

     I would like to thank you all for your patience, and understanding.  And hope that you will continue to derive some benefit from the coming posts, since that will give my efforts some kind of meaning…. 

     Please have a good weekend.

Sincerely yours,

Daniel M. Burkus

daniel_burkus@yahoo.com

The Three Hundred Lines of Chanoyu (Lines 101 - 110).

(101) 茶之湯の習いろいろ有之儀に候得共数奇と申す儀をまた数奇といふ心もあり  [When studying chanoyu, we speak about following both the various rules, and suki:  it is essential that we clearly understand both what is meant by “rules,” and what is meant by suki.]

     Following from Rikyū’s comments, we must recognize that the rules and suki are complementary halves of the whole:  the rules (see the following line) are those teachings which regulate our movement and out attitude, while suki constitutes that aspect of the teachings which defines and controls the environment in which those motions occur.  Neither is independent of the whole, and neither can exist in any meaningful way without the other.


(102) 茶乃湯ハ佛法歌道を兼たるよし申傳候 詠哥[=歌] 大概にも情[ハ] 以新為先詞[ハ]以 古[キヲ]可用と有  [With respect to chanoyu, the “teaching” is that it is appropriate for us to simultaneously employ both the disciplines of Buddhist practice, and those of the Way of Poetry.  In Eiga Taigai¹ we find it written that, first of all, the feeling of what we do should always be fresh and new, while the usages (i.e. mechanics) should conform with classical precedent.²]

     Kenshin writes that in its essence, chanoyu, on the one hand, constitutes the ceremonial offering of tea to the Buddha (when tea was served to people, historically speaking, they were originally received as substitutes for the Buddha — they physically partake of the tea which the image is naturally incapable of drinking; and even after chanoyu became wholly secularized, this attitude of the host toward his guests remains the same); and on the other, that it is an exercise in motion meditation, as an essential practice of the Zen school of Buddhism.  This constituted the whole of the early practice of chanoyu as it was transmitted to Japan in the early fifteenth century, the form of tea known (according to the Nampō Roku) as gokushin-no-chanoyu.

     However, it was the subsequent incorporation of the teachings of the Way of Poetry during the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries (most notably due to the efforts of Jōō) that lead to the evolution of chanoyu into the form which we recognize today — a practice where sensitivity to the conditions of the present (which, while this is certainly not contrary to the teachings of the Buddha, is even more strongly emphasized in the classical doctrines of the Way of Poetry) controls the physical presentation, making it (hopefully) an unique event exactly because this precise moment in time will never be repeated again for all eternity.

    What fostered this transition is a matter on which we should briefly focus our attention.  How the early form of wabi-no-chanoyu (from the end of the Koryeo Dynasty until the beginning of the persecution of the Zennists in the 1460s and ’70s) was practiced prior to its transmission to Japan can not be determined due to the paucity of extant documentation, since culturally there are two conflicting attitudes which must have both impacted the performance to a greater or lesser extent:  one which, for lack of a better word, we can call minimalism (one utensil of each necessary type will suffice, and so accumulating additional things is inappropriate:  this was to some extent the attitude which governed gokushin-no-chanoyu, but more because of the near impossibility of finding more than one piece of each type than as a deliberate opposition to acquisitiveness); and the other which is materialism (the practitioner of tea as collector).  Both attitudes exist in the present, and there is no reason to imagine (Koryeo being an extremely rich and prosperous country, whose people were given to both public and private displays of wealth) that things were any different in the past. 

     It was the apparently unanticipated invasion of the Ming forces which lead to the mass exodus (and slaughter) of Zen adherents beginning in the 1460s, with the result that these people were politically and culturally stranded in Sakai and Hakata, generally with little or no access to what may be called classically appropriate utensils, so that once again acquiring even one appropriate representative of each necessary object became more of a challenge than many could afford, and so the majority of practitioners were forced to improvise if they wanted to do chanoyu at all.  As the century advanced, these people eventually managed to put together small sets of things which would suffice (and which, in turn, resulted in the proliferation of variations which we may observe in the writings which document the practices of this period), and then (not unexpectedly) they began to die off from old age (leaving their small collections of utensils, and the manner in which they had determined these were to be used so as to maintain a patina of the classical teachings, to their tea friends and compatriots — and leading, in turn, to a concentration of these utensils in the hands of an ever diminishing pool of tea practitioners).  It appears that it was at this period that attitudes toward this heretofore circumstantially-enforced minimalism began to change, to assume a more modern approach toward utensils:  if you have only one chawan, then that is what you use every time you wish to make tea; but as soon as you have two bowls, then it becomes a question of which one is somehow more appropriate for use on any given occasion, and this leads to a discussion of the why behind any given choice which, when enunciated by a man of recognized merit or standing, begins to take on the appearance of a law or precedent.  Buddhist theory not being concerned with such things, it seems to have been Jōō who incorporated (or revived) a reliance on the classical teachings of poetics — particularly as these relate to a focus on mindfulness to the seasonal, to the present, as the argument behind such decisions:  the use of the traditional forms and old utensils to express something new, something which is unique to this moment in time.  Hence this line, which states that chanoyu requires the simultaneous employment of both Buddhist teachings and the rules of poetics.
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¹Eiga Taigai [詠歌大概] is one of the seminal books on poetics, written by Fujiwara no Sadaie (also known as Teika, an alternate pronunciation of his personal name, 1162 - 1241) between 1422 and 1424. 

²The line here referenced reads “feeling should fundamentally be new and fresh; the verbal usage should agree with classical precedent” [情は新を以て先と為し、詞は舊を以て用ゆべし].


(103) 萬事[乃]儀其役〰に尋習べし是又哥[=歌]道なり  [We should inquire into the various potential applications of the rules, and then incorporate these into our practice; this, too, is a teaching of the Way of Poetry.]

     As his commentary, Kenshin only quotes this poem from the Ise Monogatari (Chapter 70) by way of example:  “for someone to harvest seaweed, how was it done while poling [across the lagoon]?¹:  please tell me, fisher-woman’s boat” [海松布刈 方はいつくそ棹さして我におしえよ海士の釣舟]².   That is, if we wish to know the hidden side of anything, we should make our inquiries directly of someone who knows, someone who was present at the moment when the subject of our inquiry became manifest.  

     Additionally, another commentator has added this poem by Sen-no-Dōan:  “contrary to what I thought, the ways to take pleasure in chanoyu are many:  to be fond of something means both to know and to do…” [思いきや遊びの道の茶の湯多に好きてハ知らし習いなりとハ].  Abstract knowledge is not enough; experience in doing alone is not enough:  we have the luxury to be neither the one who teaches because he can not, nor the one who does because he can not teach!  It is required that we be a master of both aspects.  And beyond this point, the reader is expected to reflect deeply on the truth of these words, and then come to ones own conclusion regarding what course of action they truly demand of each of us.

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¹The translation of the poem as I have given it above reflects the “version” quoted by Kenshin in his commentary (the incorporation of a number of kanji strictly confines its meaning to the sense indicated).  However, the original is written almost entirely in kana and, as is the case with much Heian period poetry, this allows the reader to arrive at a very different meaning (the Ise Monogatari is a collection of love/erotic poems each introduced by a short preface, which form a more or less continuous narrative based on the life and amorous exploits of its “hero,” the nobleman Ariwara no Narihira [在原 業平, 825 – 880]:  however, it seems to have been considered rude to state erotic material overtly, and so the meanings are generally buried beneath a much more morally acceptable surface layer).  The first half of this poem may, therefore, be alternately translated “someone who catches your eye:  how will you conduct yourself if you go along with him?” [みるめかる方やいづこぞさおさして…]  It is clearly implied that the question being posed by this gentleman (the speaker is a man; the subject of his query is a young woman with whom he previously had a passionate fling) is little more than rhetorical!

²I have edited Kenshin’s “version” of the poem a little.  What he actually wrote was  “海松布刈方はいつくそ掉さして我にをしへよ海士乃釣舟,” where 掉 is a miscopying/misreading of the character 棹; を=お; へ=え; and, 乃=の (the last three are not really transcription errors, however; these are classically accepted variations for the kana in question, and may well represent the original phonemes which have become corrupted in the modern language). 

     Playing with Japanese classical poetry is either very fun, or will drive you to the brink of madness very, very quickly.


(104) 身のうつりの㕝  [The importance of (all) things being in balance with oneself.]

     On the most superficial level, this line means that all of the various objects handled or manipulated while making tea must be positioned within easy reach relative to our body.  Likewise, when displaying objects, the place they will occupy must be close enough to one’s seat so that they can be arranged without needing to change ones position, thus we can both arrange them and simultaneously evaluate the result of what we are doing. 

     Kenshin writes that when we are making tea, things may be said to be in balance when all of our actions (and the transition from one motion to the next in the sequence of motions which constitute the temae) are easily executed.  And, it follows from this that it is also necessary for our mind to also be in balance as well — that the whole of the physical arrangements and circumstances, and our mind, must be in accord.  This is is secret teaching that exists behind the superficial explanation — that our understanding must not be limited to external things alone:  the mind, and the body, and the objects fit together (like the pieces of a puzzle), so that our actions when handling the utensils are smooth and skillful.
  

(105) 路地の仕様色〰可有習 又露地とも申なり  [We should make ourselves familiar with the various particulars of the garden path; and also be acquainted with what is meant by the expression “dewy path.”]

     With respect to the particulars of the roji, these differ from place to place, in accordance with the particular circumstances.  Rikyu’s roji was generally planted with low-growing grass (such as the zoysia grass [Zoysia japonica], which does not need clipping), and had stepping stones only in association with the tsukubai and the several entrances (the nijiri-guchi, the kijin-guchi, and the host’s side entrance to the mizuya).  Other roji were designed more ornately, to resemble a wooded glade, the grounds of a mountain temple, or the bank of a lake or stream.  The only indespensable features of the roji are the machiai [待合, a roofed waiting bench where the guests assemble prior to the beginning of the gathering, and where they wait during the nakadachi] and the tsukubai [蹲踞, the low stone basin whose wate is used to rinse the hands and mouth prior to entering the tearoom]; and usually a setsuin [雪隠, a toilet facility — the original variety, patterned after those found in old temples, consisted of a small hut containing a sand-filled depression in the ground surrounded by stones upon which the person squatted; later other styles became popular as the needs and expectations of society continued to evolve — including flush toilets and the like in the post-war period — though the antique sand setsu-in is still almost always included as a decorative element], in proximity to the machi-ai.  One or two stone lanterns are often placed in the roji (see line 109, below), generally in association with a planting of trees (situated where the overhanging bows of which would create a disquieting shadow at night), but only if and where their light is necessary.

     As for the different names, a long path (such as the one which lead from the front gate of Rikyū’s Sakai residence, along the left side of the property past the residential quarters, to the teahouse and its waiting bench in back) is indicated by the characters “路地” (pronounced roji; this literally means a path); the short path (between the machiai and the nijiri-guchi or other entrance to the tearoom) is what is named by the expression “露地” (also pronounced roji — which literally means “bare ground” and the original examples were always intentionally devoid of any impressive rocks or plantings, or other decorative elements — denotes the garden proper associated with the tearoom), and originates from the fact that this area is always kept sprinkled with dew.


(106) そと路地 昔は無[シ] 之㕝  [In ancient times there was no outer roji.]

     The evolution of the roji happened in stages.  Prior to Rikyū there was no outer roji¹, and there was no idea of the guests waiting until the host summoned them into the tearoom.  They arrived when they arrived and entered the tearoom directly.  And if they happened to come early, or if some of the invited guests were unfortunately detained elsewhere, the ones present would amuse themselves with usucha until the others had arrived, or the host’s preparations were complete.  Hence the idea of the tension which gives the gathering its form — the notion that the host begins the proceedings by arranging the charcoal, and everything should be finished just as that charcoal fire is beginning to wane — can truly be ascribed to Rikyū’s sakui.

     A note which was later appended to Kenshin’s remarks indicates that the modern form of the roji (which is sometimes referred to as the mi-e roji [三重路地] due to the fact that the original inner and outer roji of Rikyū’s day are now incorporated into a much larger garden) may be credited to Kanamori Sōwa, who created it for the reception of great statesmen during the early years of the Edo Period.  This form is also known as the greater roji [大路地].  It is separated from the outer garden by a more substantial fence or wall, in which set a larger gate known as the naka-kuguri [中潜り].  With respect to this naka-kuguri, it is usually made as a full-sized double door, with a secondary single door either set off to the side, or cut in one of the larger leaves (this is referred to as a kyō-guchi [京口] because it was derived from the usual sort of gate which gave entrance to the townhouses of Kyōto².

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¹This statement of Kenshin’s must be understood very carefully:  Rikyū added a very flimsy bamboo gate between the machi-ai (on the outside) and the tsukubai and guests’ entrance to the tearoom (on the inside), often attached to one of the light pillars supporting the roof of the genkan.  In this case the space considered the “inner roji” was little more than the area underneath the genkan roof (where the stepping stones are generally set in mortar, which, together with the roof, protects the nijiri-guchi and the guests’ footwear during spells of inclement weather), as in the Tai-an.  In this case the tsukubai was placed a few steps beyond the outer edge of the genkan’s roof, but aside from the gate itself, there was little actual separation between this “inner” space and what would be considered the “outer roji” — Rikyū’s gate symbolically closed off the path leading into the tearoom, rather than physically impede someone from entering; I know of no authentic incidences where a fully developed inner garden can be associated with Rikyū — whose roji were always extremely minimalistic in any case. 

² In his later years, according to Dōan, Rikyū occasionally enclosed the tsukubai and guests’ entrance completely within a plastered wall containing one or more shitaji-mado for light, and an aperture shaped like a nijiri-guchi.  Dōan also used this kind of entrance as a feature of at least some of his tearooms.  He says that when this kind of arrangement is used, the inner entrance into the tearoom should be made by means of an ordinary shōji, since a second nijiri-guchi would be redundant.
image

[A possible interpretation of the Mozuno ko-yashiki, Rikyū’s final small room.  Between the nijiri-guchi and the tearoom proper is a one-mat sized tsugi-no-ma.  Some accounts appear to locate the tsukubai beyond a second pair of shōji parallel to the first as shown above, thus making the nijiri-guchi function as a kuguri-guchi, and the kakoi-do-ma beyond serve the purpose of the inner roji.  The two-mat tearoom featured a mukō-ro, dōko, and 1-ken (approximately the length of one mat) wide board-floored recess (made with ordinary floor-boards, but with them elevated so that they were level with the surface of the mats:  Rikyū used a small table to elevate objects placed on the floor to the height of an ordinary tokonoma) which functioned as the tokonoma; on the other side of the wall in which the dōko was cut (i.e., at the top of the illustration) was an open veranda floored with green bamboo, which Rikyū used as the mizuya.]

     Thus, sometimes this low door functioned as the guests’ entrance (as we can see in the Tai-an — whose façade, including the design of the genkan, still remains more or less faithful to Rikyū’s original, though the interior has been completely reworked on at least two different occasions during the centuries after Rikyū’s death), and sometimes a similar door was placed in the surrounding wall (or sometimes this was only a short segment of wall erected across the path) which separated the machi-ai and its garden (the “outer” roji) from the tsukubai and guests’ entrance.  Possibly this was the arrangement used by Rikyū in his final tearoom, the Mozuno-ko-yashiki (illustrated above) — there is some degree of uncertainty regarding how to interpret the one-mat tsugi-no-ma situated between the nijiri-guchi-like sliding door and the shōji which acted as the guests’ entrance into the tearoom itself:  it was made like an ordinary nijiri-guchi, but with shōji beyond and to the guest’s right as they enter which actually lets them into the two-mat tearoom.  It has been suggested that the tsukubai may have been placed adjacent to this one-mat area and thus on the inside of the nijiri-guchi — making this door technically a naka-kuguri — accessible either directly, through a second set of shōji on the opposite side of the tsugi-no-ma parallel to the others, possibly while the guest sat on the floor of the tsugi-no-ma and leaned out, or perhaps requiring the guest to step down through the shōji into a kakoi-do-ma [囲い土間], an enclosed “earth” [mortar]-floored space to use the tsukubai.

     Doors acting as the gateway to the inner roji, whether they are large hinged leaves such as found as the street-entrance of a private residence, or small sliding panels similar to the nijiri-guchi, are usually referred to as naka-kuguri.

     In the case where it is enclosed in a kakoi-do-ma, the tsukubai is in close proximity to the guests’ entrance, and this allows them to access it freely whenever necessary during the gathering, even in the middle of a za (座, “seat”:  the usual gathering is divided into two za — the sho-za [初座] and the go-za [後座], separated by the nakadachi [中立]).  Early writings state that the most usual occasions when this might be necessary would be immediately prior to their inspection of a famous tea utensil, and in the case where two different kinds of koicha are being served during the same temae.  (According to Rikyū, as quoted in the Nampō Roku and elsewhere, after drinking the first variety of koicha, the guests should quickly eat a sweet from the covered container previously placed in the tokonoma, and then leave the tearoom to rinse their hands and mouths at the tsukubai while the host is carefully cleaning the chawan so that no lingering taste of the first variety of tea will persist to contaminate the second.)


(107) 木の去りきらいの㕝  [Disagreeable things connected with trees (planted in the roji).] 

     Kenshin writes:  a tree with three trunks (or a grouping of three trees of the same variety planted close together so that they appear to be a single tree) is disagreeable.  And again, a tree which appears to stare at the viewer (in other words, the tree or a bow inclines or projects toward the path at face-height) is disagreeable.  Also, for trees of similar shape to be planted side by side is disagreeable.  These three situations should be carefully avoided when laying out the plantings in the roji.  On the whole, it is best for things to be light and pleasant in every respect.


(108) 石に渡ひすみ有石壇に挟き広きに習へあり  [We should learn from experience about the appropriate degree of deviation (from a straight line) for the stones, as well as about stones which are narrow or wide.]

     This line refers to the layout of the stepping stones used to form the path in at least part of the roji, and stresses that the knowledge of how to do this effectively must be learned from experience (that is, both from mindfulness when walking — paying attention to where our feet fall as we walk naturally — and from the experience of walking over what are generally agreed to be well-placed stepping stones).  The path should never be laid in a straight line, or one stone placed directly behind the next as if they are lined up in a row; yet while some degree of meandering is appreciated, the degree to which individual stones, or the line itself, deviates from the axis of the path is a matter which demands careful consideration, so that the passage of the guests (who are potentially dressed in kimono, which restricts the movement of the legs) along the path is easy.

     Kenshin writes that a long stone (which is placed with its long axis parallel to the direction the path is going) should be narrow (yet never so narrow that the foot can not be placed wholly on it comfortably), while a short stepping stone should be wide (its long axis being placed perpendicular to the direction of the path; again, it should not be so abbreviated that the whole length of ones foot can not rest fully on it)¹; there are, however, no specific dimensions (for the overall size of the stones used as stepping stones, so long as they are large enough to receive the entire foot without its projecting over the edge of the stone) preferred in the ancient teachings (as always in chanoyu, the rule is that we should make use of what is readily at hand). 

     As for the line in which the tobi-ishi are to be laid, the the curvature of the path must not be obvious.  Therefore, while the pathway clearly meanders when seen from a distance, when we are actually walking upon it, it should seem to be straight.  (Kenshin having been a renowned tippler and “party boy” — the wits of the day made a nasty point of noting that, unlike most of his contemporaries who died on the battlefield in that troubled period, Kenshin died in the toilet while voiding his body of a particularly generous surfeit of sake — naturally disliked anything resembling a drunken gait.)  Thus, while we should not place the stones one in front of the next, they must be fitted together only after careful consideration and consultation (with someone who has much experience)², and afterward we must be receptive to criticism. 

     Likewise, he concludes, it is impossible to overstate the fact that we should be very attentive to what the masters have taught in this regard³.

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¹It is critically important that the entire foot be able to rest fully and completely on the top of every stone in the pathway, both because the path is elevated several inches above the surface of the ground, and because the guests might be expected to be wearing roji-geta [露地下駄] at least some of the time, when their weight will be concentrated on the two horizontal slats rather than distributed over the entire sole of their footwear as is the case when they are wearing zōri [草履].  In the case of geta. If one of the slat-like bottom pieces should happen to slip off of the edge of a stepping-stone, the guest will likely loose his balance and fall.

²Especially when walking in kimono (this is particularly important now, since wearing kimono is much less common, hence people may be less sensitive to the special considerations which this garment demands), the length of ones stride is greatly restricted from what it usually is when our legs are not so encumbered; and since guests are endowed with various bodily-proportions, the arrangement of the stones should be made as all-accommodating as possible.  If the tobi-ishi are placed in a straight line, this is both unattractive and difficult to walk across (since it is not natural for each footstep to be oriented directly in front of the last:  the right foot naturally steps to the right of the central axis, and the left foot falls to the left of it — and so the tobi-ishi should be placed in anticipation of this natural right-left rhythm).

³Rikyū said that the demands of walking should account for 60% of the arrangement, while the visual attractiveness of the lay-out should account for 40%.  But when considering the layout of the tobi-ishi as a whole, the most important thing is that they ultimately be easy to walk over, and this necessarily trumps every other consideration.


(109) 石燈籠高さのほとらいなし載す二ツを用ひ三ツを嫌候㕝  [With respect to the stone lantern, traditionally the height has not been specified¹.  While (up to) two (lanterns) may be placed (in the roji), three are unacceptable².]

     Kenshin writes that erecting them in up to two places (but, he notes, only where their light will be needed) is acceptable.  He continues that even if we seem to feel that a lantern’s light will be desirable in three (or more) places, yet according to the ancient traditions we are definitely discouraged from putting a lantern in all of them, and so one must be eliminated. 

     The need for light should, in every case, be the primary motivation for setting up lanterns in the roji.  It must be clearly understood that the use of a lantern as a decorative element is always a matter of secondary consideration (and setting one up for purely aesthetic reasons — in a situation where this additional source of illumination will never be necessary — is out-and-out wrong).


image

[The named parts of a typical stone lantern.  Note that in this photo the kiso (基礎) or base has been partially buried in the ground.  See the end of the first note, below, for comments on this practice.]
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¹Stone lanterns were traditionally not custom-made for the roji, but rather old specimens (mostly rescued from the grounds of abandoned mountain temples) were preferred and incorporated as they were into the garden.  Thus, they were of whatever size they had been made for their original purpose, and were arranged in the roji so that they would throw their light at the height and in the direction necessary to give illumination to a deep shadow.  (A stone lantern was never to be placed in the roji unless its light was absolutely necessary at night; thus in the early days of chanoyu — before such elements were standardized into a list of necessary features which had to be included or the garden was held to to be “incomplete” — it was never considered primarily as a purely decorative element, and it was always felt that it was better not to have an ishi-tōrō at all, than to risk the charge of placing one in a situation where its light would not be needed).

     In the roji we will often note that the kiso [基礎, the base] is partially or wholly buried in the ground.  Some commentators (beginning in the Edo period) asserting that this was done in order to make the lantern appear smaller than it actually is.  However, following from this line — and from Kenshin’s very concise explanation — it becomes clear that this was (at least originally) done in order to lower the source of the illumination to a level appropriate to the situation in which the lantern had been erected, rather than as a concession to such artificial demands as “wabi.”  These aesthetically-oriented arguments, as Kenshin himself points out, must always remain secondary to the need for illumination which makes the lantern’s inclusion in the roji appropriate in the first place.

²The roji, in the early period to which the Three Hundred Lines trace their origin (their present form is usually credited to Jōō, though there is the possibly that Kenshin’s copy — upon which all later versions were based — was subsequently edited by Dōan or one of his disciples so as to bring these teachings into accord with Rikyū’s ideas, where these had evolved beyond the limits of Jōō’s teachings; but the Lines were said by Jōō himself to represent a catalogue of Shukō’s secret teachings, thus tracing them back to the earliest days of chanoyu in Japan, and implying an even earlier origin now lost in the dark shadows of time and history), was usually kept as small as possible.  At first this may have been simply necessary due to the crowded nature of the walled enclave of Sakai; but even after many of the chajin came to establish second residences in Nara, Kyōto, or Ōsaka (where space was more readily available), the sense of tension established by a small roji which served primarily as a way for the guests to move from the machiai to the tearoom precluded expansive settings where more than two lanterns would be needed.  In a crowded inner-city setting, the open sky is appreciated as the only expansive vista available for the guests’ delectation:  it would thus be stifling to over-plant a small garden so heavily that dense shadows would proliferate after sunset.


(110) 木燈籠口傳有  [There is an oral tradition concerning the wooden lantern.]

     The oral tradition, according to Kenshin, is this:  a large wooden lantern¹ should be placed on a raised platform of some sort², while a small wooden lantern should be suspended on a chain.  Neither of these should remain in the roji during the daylight hours — they are only to be put out at night.

     However, note should be taken of the fact that either Sen-no-Dōan, or (perhaps more likely, from what we know of Dōan’s personality) his disciple Kuwayama Sakon [桑山左近, 1560 - 1632; whose numerous memoranda fill in the gaps which the loss of many of Dōan’s own writings following his premature death — and, his probable support of Hideyori, which may have been what damned his memory in the eyes of the Tokugawa Bakufu and cast him almost completely out of their revised version of chanoyu history — created], added a second phrase to this line:  “私乃申分これある㕝” [there is, further, an additional teaching which derives from our own usages].  Dōan sometimes objected to the removal of the large wooden lantern during the daytime on the grounds that, since this lantern is often placed on an immobile base of some kind (at that time this was almost always made of stone, and usually consisted of the base, stem, and sometimes also the chū-dai [中台, the “middle platform” that supported the light source as well as the upper parts of the tōrō], of a stone lantern which has lost its firebox and cap), the naked base without the lantern would be both illogical and ugly (a meaningless upright of worked stone), and possibly also disquieting (suggestive, most literally, of a neck with its head lopped off — a situation with which everyone of that period was more than familiar).  Therefore, in this kind of situation, Dōan felt that the large wooden lantern should be left in place even in the daytime³.  (However, it must be quickly added, when the large wooden lantern rested on its own portable wooden base — as well as in the case of a small wooden lantern which was always suspended on a chain in any event — Dōan said that these unquestionably should be removed from the roji during the daylight hours, and only set up again at night.) 

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¹Modern-made pieces, most often seen as temporary lanterns in Shintō shrines — and as quaint “classical” decorations in restaurants — tend to be entirely made of wood, including their own wooden base and upright.  In Rikyū’s period, however, the wooden lantern (and, from the Edo period onward, copies of these made of cast-iron, which are technically subject to the same rules of usage as their wooden prototypes) used in the roji usually consisted of the chū-dai, hi-bukuro, and kasa only, with the hōju [宝珠, the onion-like “jewel-shaped” finial] replaced by a circular (or sometimes oblong) ring by means of which the lantern was carried (oil or dirt from the hands could potentially stain and discolor the unpainted wood of the lantern, which, like the kiji-tsurube and other wooden objects used in chanoyu at that time, was supposed to be new), and from which it was also hung.  As Kenshin states, small lanterns were suspended on a chain — usually one of the same make as the kama-no-kusari [釜の鎖] used to hang a tsuri-gama [釣釜] over the ro — depending from a hook affixed to one corner of a roof, or wrapped several times around a horizontal branch of a tree and then passed through the large ring (at the far end of the chain) to secure the hook at the proper height for the lantern, while larger ones were placed on top of something:  generally, as mentioned above,  the sao (possibly including the chū-dai) of an old stone lantern which had lost its hi-bukuro.[火袋, fire-box], kasa [傘], and hōju.  


²In this period, most commonly the sao [竿, stem], sometimes topped by the chū-dai, of an old stone lantern which had lost its hi-bukuro and kasa, was commonly used for this purpose.  In later times large, flat-topped, natural rocks, or other eclectic things such as lengths cut from the supporting uprights of old bridges, came to be employed as well.

³The same argument holds for a stone lantern which has lost only its hi-bukuro.  In this case, a wooden hi-burkuo was sometimes made (it being impossible to match the color of the stone of an antique lantern with a newly-made stone hi-bukuro, which would seem incongruous in any case) and arranged on the chū-dai with the original stone kasa and hōju resting on top as usual.  There is fragmentary evidence to suggest that this was the original precedent which decided Dōan to keep a large tōdai made entirely of wood in place during the daytime, since the removal of the wooden parts in either case would leave the stone base and stem in full and irrelevant view during the daytime.  The hollowed out hi-bukuro is the most fragile part of a stone lantern, and (particularly during that period of civil wars) it was easily damaged beyond use, or destroyed completely, much more frequently than the other parts:  the base and stem are the most durable parts of an ishi-tōrō, and generally remain servicable long after the others have been lost.

Rikyū’s Comments on Suki [数奇], from the beginning of the Second Scroll of the Three Hundred Lines

At the beginning of the second scroll of the Three Hundred Lines, two small pieces of paper¹ were attached, giving Rikyū’s views on the concept of suki [数奇].  (When, in this blog, I use and have used the word wabi, what is really intended by the expression is wabi-suki [我美数奇], that is wabi which is guided by the concept of sukiWabi [我美] means “my own sense of aesthetics,” while suki [数奇] refers to the concept of kane-wari which necessarily must remain in the back of ones mind, or else the selection and arrangement of utensils will degenerate — as it has in Japan, at the hands of the machi-shū, most noticeably from the early years of the Edo period — into a meaningless display of material assets.  Indeed, the logical conclusion of chanoyu without suki is the sort of museum-tea which has become popular in recent years, where the utensils are selected only for their value, and little or no consideration is given to whether they combine well together or not; and, resulting from this, the more and more common case where the utensils are simply lined up in the tokonoma and a set of “substitute” things are actually used to make and serve the tea.)

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¹ These “small pieces of paper” featuring Rikyū’s personal comments are an occasional feature of the Nampō Roku as well.  In one instance in the seventh book Nambō Sōkei reveals himself to us pawing through Rikyū’s waste paper in the hopes of finding just such examples of discarded wisdom.  The dōkachanoyu to wa…” is typical of the fruits of such searches.

[其の一]

数奇  二字訓

数の字カズアツムルナランマタサタシ昔時ハシバシト続ク也。

奇の字スグルルヒトリカタカタアヤシム。


[The first:] an explanation of the two characters su [数] and ki [奇].

The character su [数] means not just to gather together a number of things, but that this should be done in accordance with the classical teachings; in ancient times, things were always done like this.

And with respect to the character ki [奇], it means that each person should directly investigate these matters in minute detail for himself.


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[其の二]

易ニ曰ク  (This notation was probably added by Kenshin, or someone else, to indicate authorship of the sentiments which follow, since both fragments are unsigned.)

一三五七九コレヲ後奇ト云フ。
二四六八十コレヲ先偶ト云フ。

[The second:] [Sō]eki (i.e. Rikyū) said: 1, 3, 5, 7, 9, are the “derived²” odd³ numbers, while 2, 4, 6, 8, 10 are the “original³” even³ numbers, so to speak.
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² Derived and original [後・先] refers to the notion, discussed at greater length in the Nampō Roku, of “use” versus “display”:  objects are displayed in relation to the yang kane, but when making tea the objects are manipulated in the ying spaces between the kane (in terms of the shiki-shi [敷紙], for example, the yang kane are represented by its folds and left and right edges, while the broad faces in between these are ying — see illustration at the end of this post).  Use came first; display came later.  Thus the notion of initial and derived for the ying and yang elements, respectively.

³ Linguistically, the construction ki-gū [奇偶] literally renders the meaning of the individual kanji as “odd” and “even” numbers, respectively.



半ヲ調スルヨツテ数奇ト云フ。

Carefully paying attention to both of these is what is meant by suki, so it is said.

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[Then Kenshin elaborates:]

茶の湯仕る時、諸道具の置き合わせ取り合わせ習のごとく載せ合い申すべく候事第一也。


When doing chanoyu the most important thing with regard to the way in which the utensils are arranged [置き合わせ]⁴, and matched [取り合わせ]⁵, is that this should be done in accordance with the way you were taught.
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Oki-awase [置き合わせ] refers to the places on the mat where the objects are set.

Tori-awase [取り合わせ] means the selection process, deciding which utensils may be used together. 

     At present there are all sorts of arguments based on seasonality or “feeling” and we are lead to believe that this is everything:  but in the days of Jōō and Rikyū this referred to the idea as it was enunciated with respect to gokushin practice.  Each utensil had to occupy a specific area in such a way that the distance between that utensil and the others placed together with it would conform to the rules.  For example, when a “small” chawan 3-sun 8-bu in diameter is placed together with a chaire 2-sun 2-bu in diameter, the space between them (when they conform to the appropriate kane) is 2-sun.  When a “large” chawan (measuring 4-sun 8- or 9-bu in diameter) was arranged together with this same chaire, however, the distance between them would be 1-sun 5-bu.  These were the gokushin teachings.  In wabi-no-chanoyu, if the chawan is slightly larger than the ideal (say a little over 4-sun across), then the chaire might be either slightly smaller (around 2-sun) — so that the distance between is 2-sun — or slightly larger than before (for example, 2-sun 5-bu) — so that the distance between is now 1-sun 5-bu:either of these options is acceptable, since they both agree with gokushin spacing.  As the idea of wabi continued to evolve — this is shown by Rikyū’s recommendation that one count the number of me [目, the vertical lines on the surface of a tatami mat] between objects rather than be preoccupied with the minutiae of specific measurements — roughly approximating these distances was more and more allowed — but only in so far as the practitioner kept the original teachings ever in mind (4-me is approximately 2-sun, and 3-me is close enough to 1-sun 5-bu to be acceptable in a wabi situation).  The machi-shū, on the other hand, were from the start ignorant of the original teachings, thus their arrangements lacked the force of logic behind them, and this was Rikyū’s primary objection to them and their way of practicing chanoyu.


さりながらその人々の器量によって置合せ取合せ仕るべく候。


Nevertheless, each person, in accordance with his abilities⁶, should endeavor to select and place the utensils as best he can.
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⁶ Abilities [人々の器量] here relates specifically to the set of objects which the individual is able to assemble.  In the days before purpose-made tea utensils became commonly available, most sets of utensils were assembled from whatever the chajin could find in the local handicrafts, or temple (second-hand goods), markets:  thus, the word implies both knowledge and experience (knowing what is required, but also what will work if the ideal can not be found), coupled with a certain measure of luck.  Thus the set of utensils used was indicative of the host’s understanding of suki.



此の奇の字の心を以って工夫の上にて得と合点致し、数奇仕る事肝要なり。うかく仕る事他流伝え無きの茶の湯なるべく尚又本意に背き面白からず候也。

The true meaning of this ki [奇] must be incorporated into what one does: this is of the up-most importance when practicing suki. The things that the people who follow other paths [i.e., the machi-shū, and others of their ilk] teach represent a deviant form of chanoyu which, when compared with the original conception, is wholly lacking in interest.

image

The shiki-shi [敷紙], showing the yang kane (red) and ying fields, as mentioned in the text above.