I’m back at David’s again. This time, not for tea but for a haircut. His girlfriend 张雪 (Zhāng Xuě) is a barber, I call her 大姐 (Dà Jiě), which just means big sister in Chinese. David welcomed me at the gate of their 四合院 (Sì Hé Yuàn), a traditional residential compound made of four houses and a shared yard at the center. The neighborly atmosphere brought me back to my childhood when my family lived in an apartment building with a large shared balcony. I felt right at home.
It had been almost two months since my last haircut so I’m due for one. I was ready to have all this weight on my head shaved off. Upon entering their house, 大姐 gestured to the table at the center of the living area. “Let’s have some tea,” she said.
She asked me what kind of tea I usually drink. I said black tea, and then asked her why black tea is translated as 红茶 (Hóng Chá; when taken literally, this means “red tea” in English) in Chinese. She said, she didn’t know why it was translated to “black tea” in English. I noticed the change in perspective—from Chinese to English, not of the other way around. I recognized my ignorance upon recalling the origins of tea.
大姐 is a bit of a Tai Chi master, though she would claim that she isn’t and that she still needs a master herself. In our first ever conversation three weeks ago, she mentioned that Tai Chi, for the most part, looks like a physical activity. But really, the most important part of Tai Chi is unseen. “The most interesting things in this world are unseen,” she said. I agreed.
“It’s the same thing with tea,” she continued, “Like Tai Chi, tea is about energy. When you prepare tea, you channel energy from your body and awaken the energy out of the tea leaves as you pour water onto it.” She held the kettle with her right hand almost parallel to the tabletop. It felt as though the kettle was no longer just a kettle, it was an extension of her arm. It was a medium for energy flow.
Everything flowed as one continuous motion—her lifting the kettle, pouring the hot water onto the tea leaves, pouring the tea into the teacup, and finally taking a sip. I asked if I was drinking it the right way. She then taught me a traditional way of sipping tea. 大姐 moved and I simply mimicked her.
We held our respective teacups at the brim with the left hand and supported the cup at the bottom with the right. Then slowly, we lifted the cup up in the air—“offer it up to the sky.” And then down towards the ground—“to the earth.” Then we guided the cup around in a large circle, as if clinking glasses with a group of people sitting in a circle—“offer it to everyone else.” And then finally, a sip.
I swear, that tasted five times better than when I drank it the regular one-handed, non-ceremonial way.
“Tai Chi, tea, and even 书法 (Shū Fǎ; Chinese calligraphy) are about being one with the energy of your surroundings. The goal is to be one with nature,” she said, with her arms half-extended forward and her palms about one foot apart from each other. She oscillated her hands slowly, as if shaping an invisible ball of air floating above the table. She was feeling the energy around her space. “If you allow your hand to be sensitive to it, you can feel it on your fingertips.”
“Right, right,” I replied, mimicking her again, awkwardly.
“I think most people have forgotten, we’re a part of our surroundings. We’re all connected to the universe.”
“You’re right. That’s me. I am ‘most people’”
As much as I was intrigued by the foreignness of our little discussion, it was also really familiar. I recall a conversation I had with a friend about his experience with psychedelics. The way he described it was, “It’s really hard to describe. It’s like you can feel the connection of all things and you become one with the universe.”
大姐 and I talked a bit more about the differences in our cultures, about religion, work, and school. Had she not reminded me, I would’ve entirely forgotten about the haircut I came all the way here for. “Let’s start?” she asked. And we did.
After the haircut, I spent the rest of the afternoon around the neighborhood. There’s a lake nearby that’s a perfect view for walks. The streets by the lake reminded me of the downtown area of my hometown: the buildings are two floors high, little grocery stores and small restaurants line the wide brick sidewalks, and the traffic is constant but not too heavy.
As I walked, and sat, and walked again, it seemed like everything 大姐 had said about energy, connection, and about being one in mind and body, all stuck with me for the rest of the day, but not as a conscious thought. Rather, as a lingering state of being.
The colors were brighter. The air was crisper than usual. And the food, much tastier. I wasn’t on anything, I promise—at least not anything physical or synthetic. In fact, it was the opposite of that. I was completely sober. More sober and awake than usual. The rise in awareness was subtle, almost indistinguishable.
Maybe it was just Spring finally arriving, or the place just being a really beautiful spot. Maybe it was all just one big placebo effect. But maybe it was that energy she was talking about. Maybe it was the tea. Maybe it was oneness with the ground and the air and my seat by the lake and the food in my belly.
Maybe the reason for this usually elusive awakening is immaterial. Maybe the fact of the experience itself is enough. Either way, it was nice. I ended the day with some noodles, a fried egg, and a cup of warm milk tea—not the same type of energy in this particular cup, sadly. Maybe I wasn’t drinking it the right way.
