19 people, 19 teabowls

They arrive, their cheeks flushed. . .

Tony

after dancing through snowy landscapes

Tish

and trekking up the slippery path to the cabin.

Tim

it is warm inside.

i have been tending the fire since early morning.

Simon

i help them off with boots, coats, scarves, mittens

and ask them to choose a bowl . . .  

Nyx

then we sit, face to face

Shira

as i pour tea

Monel

and we drink 

looking into each others' eyes,

Meara

sharing a few moments.

Karen

We are surrounded by images of other hands

from previous encounters

 each pair of hands holding a bowl.

Daniel

And we listen to their stories 

and to the sound of tea being poured.

Julia

We talk of tea memories, 

of those we've shared tea with 

mothers, fathers, lovers, aunts, grandparents. . .

Judy

of those who came from other lands. . .

from Ireland, England, Russia, Korea, Azerbajian . . .

where tea time was precious . . .  

Hilary

a time to connect

a time to relax

 a time to share the day

to laugh, to cry, to comfort, to celebrate . . . 

Gary

nineteen people

five minutes with each.

David

a brief connection. . .

but each one profound.

Avi

and as each person moves on.

they leave behind a trace,

a memory,

a bit of themselves

Davi

 that i continue to carry

into the day,

into this day.

each person,

each encounter,

so very precious. . . 

and still very much alive

in this heart.

Bowl 36: Anthony

he was sitting on a bench with his friend Lynnette,

enjoying the sun

bedding and belongings neatly packed next to them  . . .

Lake Eola, it is important to note, is not only home to swans

but also to people who have no other home . . .

we talked about the economy,

of hostess (and wonder bread and twinkies)

of how old, familiar business are disappearing . . .

he told me he hails from Cranston, Rhode Island

and arrived in Orlando a year ago via Naples -- Florida, not Italy.

she called out to a passing stranger, 

"I like your outfit! I have a leopard pillow like your scarf."

they admire the bowl,

and i wonder where they will put it

in the bulging packs that hold all their earthly possessions;

and i think of all the things in my life

accumulated over the years, holding memories, associations, history. . .

and wonder what it would be like to be living

with only a pack to my name

and a pillow to call my home.

Bowl 35: Ruby

 

In her pink bicycle helmet

she is eye to eye with the swan,

and in thrall to a potent mix of excitement and fear

drops a dime at its feet.

I make a grab for it,

also noticing both excitement and fear,

and tell her, "not food. it's not good for the swan."

She is nonplussed.

"Bird," she says.

"Yes, a bird, a kind of bird called a swan, and it can't eat money."

She is unconvinced, 

but we continue talking and looking at birds -- 

ducks, pigeons, ibexes, seagulls.

She sees birds, and I probably have more words than I need.

Later she holds tight to the bowl,

and doesn't want to give it up for her mom to put safely away. 

I love her independent, feisty spirit

totally engaged with whatever is happening around her.

As I say goodbye, she's become a blur of pink,

pink shirt, pink helmet, pink bike,

circling the swan, very much in command,

and thoroughly enjoying the ride.

Bowl 34: Claudio

I am walking along the lake shore surrounded by swans.

White with orange beaks.

Black with red beaks.

Graceful in the water, they are ponderous on land,

their huge feet making slapping sounds as they wander the paths,

like old men walking in slippers several sizes too big.

We stand side by side

gazing at a black swan who is clearly practiced in posing for the camera.

He admires my bag and I offer a bowl.

Not because of the compliment,
but for the willingness to engage.

Actually I offer two and ask him to choose.

He selects my favorite, and then offers a bracelet that he takes from his arm.

The sun is shining, the water sparkles, all is beautiful.

He and his sister Claudiana have the day off and have just come from lunch with friends.

We chat about this and that, and part with lots of smiles and hugs.

My heart is light as I move among flocks of swans and people,

wandering aimlessly this beautiful afternoon at the lake. 

 

 

Bowl 33: Jordan

"Hi," he said as his mom helped him from the car.

His smile was glorious!

"I hope you're having a good day. Which one is your car?" he continued.

 

I was entranced, and followed them into the cafe.

After a brief chat with mom, I went to the table where Jordan waited.

"How old are you?" I asked.

"Five," he replied. "Mom, am I five?"

"Are you in first grade?"

"Mom, am I in first grade?"

"No, kindergarten."

"I'm in kindergarten!," he beamed.

 

His hands went carefully around the bowl.

Turning it round, feeling it's heft.

I pulled out my camera.

"You will need to take that off," he said pointing to the lens cap.

"ah, yes," I said, "something I often forget to do."

"Did you get my shirt in the picture too?" he asked.

and I showed him the photos . . . 

"You did," he said, and his eyes sparkled.

How easy it is to fall in love.

In just a moment the heart is captured,

suddenly head over heels, 

on a cloudy day in a parking lot

just like every other parking lot,

just when you least expect it.

Bowl 32: Pam

She had welcomed me warmly the evening before.

I arrived in Emporia -- which I kept thinking of as Euphoria -- 

after driving for twelve hours 

through eight states 

with quick stops for gas, coffee, and rest rooms.

She told me she usually worked the morning shift,

but took the night shift so she could spend Christmas morning with her kids.

She asked if I had any discounts -- AAA, AARP . . . 

and when I shook my head she said, "I'll give it to you anyway . . . 

and, you can have the handicapped room, with the king-sized bed,

 and you won't need to walk upstairs."

At 7 am she was still there,

looking fresh and rested,

still welcoming,

still interested in the people who arrived and departed,

still touching people's lives with care, 

as she had 

day by day,

for eighteen years

from behind the desk of the Best Western in Euphoria, Virginia..

Bowl 31: Amy

We're walking the trails of the Emerald Necklace,

together and apart.

She is accompanied by her trusty Scout.

I walk alone ...

beneath my feet the softness of eons of life

that have emerged only to disintegrate and emerge again.

around me fallen trees silently transforming,

lichens and mosses hastening the process of melting back into earth.

it is one of those almost solstice days,

the sky is still blue

but there is the feeling of evening settling in despite the early hour.

there is deep silence, 

somehow undisturbed by the distant hum of the first bloom of rush hour traffic.
there is peace,
despite the heartache of the suffering that has been all too present in recent days.

She gazes silently as Scout drinks from a pool . . . they are clearly comfortable companions,

at ease after walking these paths together over many seasons.

"Scout barks at people," she tells me . . . "the rough bark of a hound -- it's not so pleasant."

But he doesn't.

Perhaps he too is hushed by the nearness of the dark and the quiet.

Perhaps he too is feeling this time of turning inward.

 Perhaps he too is quietly waiting for the return of the light.

Bowl 30: Heather

I've stopped in for a cup of coffee.

It's late morning on a Thursday and the ice cream shop is virtually empty.

Only a couple of women and a child in a stroller talking softly.

There's something special about the young woman behind the counter.

Maybe in the way she asks me what I want, 

easily, with care, not at all rushed or harried.

Or maybe in how she notices me eyeing the baked goods case

and asks if I want a pastry with my coffee,

then smiles when I say I'm trying not to get one,

but then opt for a cinnamon roll

telling myself I will eat it later and savor each small bite.

Such a simple transaction,

so satisfying in its simplicity.

A cup of coffee -- organic and fair trade --

an exchange of good will and smiles,

the warmth of the coffee, and the lingering taste of cinnamon.

Bowl 29: Ravi & Vinayak

Walking by displays of ancient bowls from Asia and the Near East

I notice two young boys and their mom,

sketchbooks open,

capturing the graceful gesture of Islamic arches in careful pencil strokes.

Later, in the hushed silence of the Buddha room,

I find them again . . . 

One brother drawing the peaceful, dark, Japanese Buddha -- one I have often been drawn to myself.

The other, the golden-hued Buddha in the center, seated on an enormous lotus flower.

They are so small next to these huge seated figures,

 yet their focus and concentration bring the scale somehow into balance.

And when we begin talking I find they are delightful as well . . . 

They love to do art they tell me, and their mom makes art too!

They are excited about the bowl and pose for me in several different ways.

It's a happy and easy exchange.

Later, as I gaze on bowls from China, Korea, and Japan

I reflect on the ancient stream of artists

reaching back at least 37,000 years to the caves at El Castillo,

and on how the urge to make art continues in these young brothers.

I feel gratitude for our human impulse to make something of beauty,

something of use, 

something that reflects the joys and sorrows of our lives.

I think about those people from so long ago and wonder

 if they ever had an inkling that the work of their hands, and hearts, and minds 

would survive through so many generations

to inspire me and my young friends to do the same.

Bowl 28: Alex

 

Sometimes it's smooth sailing!

In New York for Thanksgiving weekend,

I need to go from Yorktown to Levittown

then into the city

I anticipate gridlock. . . and find none . . . 

then, driving 'cross 21st street a free, on-street, parking spot emerges. . . 

the gods must be with me!

I grab my bag with bowl and camera

with little hope of an encounter on a chilly day in chilly NYC

but turning the corner, outside a cafe,

a man sits singing to his toddler,

"cold, cold, cold it's cold," he chants . . . 

and she giggles.

We chat for a while, then his wife emerges from the cafe,

a tiny infant snuggled against her chest . . . 

I do a quick calculation.

"She must have been born right around the time of the storm," I surmise . . . 

A week before, they say . . . it was pretty tough living without power for a week with a newborn.

But they are smiling . . . like everyone I've talked to who weathered the storm . . .

This human life . . . so fragile, so resilient, so unpredictable. 

Sometimes we weather the storms,

and sometimes it's smooth sailing.

 

 

Bowl 27: Barbara

I've been carrying this bowl for weeks . . .

the weather's turned cold . . . 

a hurricane

a snow storm,

all in all, difficult days for finding someone sitting on a park bench

open to a conversation.

I go to the library,

to the cafe downstairs near the shelves of the used book sale . . .

A woman browses, wrapped against the weather

although it is quite cozy inside.

She carries books and books on tape.

We smile, pass each other as we browse, pass and smile again.

She moves to a table with a bowl of soup and removes her wrap.

 Conversation feels possible, but two artists I know are sitting nearby . . . 

I feel intimidated. . . what will they think? do they know my project? will I look the fool?

 . . .so much doubt!

I am tempted to abandon the entire project.

I swallow my pride, and my fears, and say hello.

In her pile is Tales of the Alhambra by Washington Irving . . . 

an audio book I've listened to . . . and a place I've been.

She tells me she is going to Spain in the spring

and I recall being in the Alhambra many years ago, 

my eyes glazing over as I wandered through rooms covered with lush pattern and texture --

floor to ceiling - and floor and ceiling.

then coming upon a bath in muted blues and greens,

and being stunned by the beauty and the simplicity of the space.

We share our relief that the weather has broken

and at the outcome of the election -- 

we'd both worked on the same campaigns but hadn't crossed paths.

She says she's driving to New York for the weekend

something I'll be doing as well only a week later.

Her mother-in-law is packing to go to Florida.

My mom lives in Florida and I'll be going too next month.

Fear is long gone and I am warmed by the many small connections we find.

The exchange of a bowl and some conversation . . .

so simple, so satisfying . . . 

and almost abandoned in the face of emotions that dissolved, like the storms, a just few moments later.

Bowl 26: David

He's reading as I approach -- it's book about how we're all connected . . .

thoroughly researched, including interviews with numerous physicists and other scientists . . . 

it sounded interesting, but I've already forgotten the title and the author.

 

He wants to know if the shape of the tea bowl has a functional purpose

and why I call them tea bowls and not cups . . . 

interesting questions.

I reply that the shape is serendipitous, there only to make the hand feel comfortable . . . 

and that for me bowls have gravitas -  evoking ceremony and offering,

 whereas tea cups seem flighty, somewhat lightweight, frivolous even.

I find myself explaining the process of inscribing the lines and inlaying the slip

 . . .  he tells me that he's writing a play.

 . . . and he is trying to devise a way for someone to put a secret message on the back of the Rosetta Stone . . . a message that could be revealed at a crucial moment . . .

we speculate about clay and glue and tar and acid . . . 

and what would stick to stone and what would look like it belonged.

Then we talk of making art for the love of it--

plays to be seen by friends and family,

tea bowls to be given away

sharing a joy in the process

then sharing the process with the world.

 

I walk away, embraced by the warm sun and the brilliant colors of the day,

filled with the contentment of a shared moment in time and space --

feeling connection.

Bowl 25: David

It's a circus of sound, color, movement.

The steady beat of Brazilian drummers holds the space.

Onlookers bounce in rhythm with the band.

Even the Tai chi players seem somehow in sync.

 Children running, trailing brilliant streamers.

While overhead a giant kite/banner/origami thing snakes its way through the space

defining it. . . sheltering it . . .without really enclosing it.

He is drawing bowls as I approach -- with black charcoal on white paper.

But he is sitting on a blanket with three colorful paintings arrayed beside him.

$15 each, he tells me.

He's studying fashion at MassArt, 

the child of Columbian immigrants who came here to build a better life, 

and he is grateful for the opportunity to study art, to live among museums, 

and to draw inspiration from artists both living and dead.

I offer him a bowl. Not for a painting, just for his photo.

Hands smeared with charcoal against the pale glazed surface.

the drawing of his bowls behind.

The image, and the trade, are just right.

perfectly in sync with the rhythm of the drums

and the spirit of the day.

Bowl 24: Miriam

I stop to help her with the parking meter.
It's the kind we all have trouble with.
And in the end her cards are unusable,
but it finally takes some bills
and spits out a receipt for her car.

As we begin to talk, she reveals that she is an artist --
a painter of icons.
It is something I know little about,
except what I've read in art history books
and what I've seen when I looked at them from time to time in museums.

I've heard that painting icons is a spiritual journey,
and she confirms this,
and she says that icons also reflect the culture of the country where the painter lives.
That people can tell from her images that her roots are here in the US,
rather than in Russia, or Bulgaria, or Greece.

And she tells me about some of her spiritual journey,
and of how she was drawn to the Eastern Church
a church that has maintained its connection to its mystical traditions, even in this modern age.
and she speaks of painting icons and how it keeps her in touch with the mystery.
and I can feel her groundedness both in the reality of this world and in its mystery.
And I walk away, lighter, happier, and feeling grounded as well
 in both the reality and the mystery of it all.

Bowl 23: Jose

He is looking at a bamboo sculpture when I approach.

What do you think, I ask.

It reminds me of a tree house, he replies . . . like those we used to build

when I was a boy in Puerto Rico . . .

we'd start them and then leave them partly finished.

Then move on and start another somewhere else.

Then he points to another sculpture . . .

and says how much he likes it . . .

 and tells me that it reminds him of nests that the tortolitos make . . .

he tells me that they're little birds that live on the island

and that hundreds of them live in a single nest.

Art is whatever you see in it, he tells me.

As an artist I sometimes think people will see what I want them to see.

But really, I think he's right.

And I love that he sees what he sees.

And that you see what you see,

no matter what I see

or what I think I've put out there.

It makes it all so much richer,

the coming together of different lives 

and different points of view.

Bowl 22: Paul

He is lying on a bench,
looking up at the trees.

that's an ancient one, he says.
not too many that old around here.
and this one,
I think it's sassafras. . .
and I learn that sassafras has three different kinds of leaves --
one oval, one mitten shaped, and one with three lobes.

then he tells me about a banyan tree where he grew up in Florida . . .
so big it spread across three yards!
we used to climb them and crawl along the branches
 to the mango trees in our neighbor's yards . . .
delicious! and we never needed to touch the ground.

we talk of clay, and of seeing contemporary ceramics in ancient settings --
he in Oaxaca, me in Certaldo,
and of a Chinese teacup he once held that was made for an emperor
so fine that when you held it to the light, the emperor's portrait was visible in the porcelain.

he talks on, about music and musical geniuses he's met,
about painting houses for billionaires
and at a certain point I begin to wonder how much he is making up
for my benefit
and how gullible I am for believing it all . . .

and then I decide
it doesn't matter in the least
the stories are fascinating
the day is beautiful
and I am totally enjoying our encounter.

Bowl 21: Chris

It's been a difficult few days. . . 

things that I thought were done and tied up neatly

have been unravelling,

falling apart,

plunging me back into uncertainty.

Feeling the sinking in the pit of my stomach

I begin walking,

breathing,

allowing myself to touch back into just this moment

just this step.

I see Chris fishing, his mom nearby.

Although he appears to be no more than 10 or 11

he is a surprisingly knowledgeable and competent fisherman,

Arcing the line far over the water

and pulling it in with adept flicks 

so that it truly seems that a live frog is on the end --

tempting bait for the large-mouthed bass that swim the pond.

"I always throw them back," he tells me. 

I'm very careful with them. Sometimes I have to cut the line and leave the hook,

but the acid in the fish's stomach will dissolve it," he says.

Then I give him the bowl and start to photograph..

"Wait," he says, "wouldn't it look great if I hold it up and you can see the water behind it."

He is absolutely right! Much better than the first few against his shirt.

Later, I encounter the shards of a goddess left three years before.

I walk home.

Things are still unraveling . . .

but I am more at peace with that . . . 

for this moment at least.

Bowl 20: Laurie

The space is huge, but intimate, 

perhaps because of the warm wood that surrounds me.

Wooden beams soar high above.

And looking up it's as if we are in a ship turned topsy-turvy.

She is leading a tour for two contractors who know a lot about buildings.

I join in. 

They talk of the curved beams, unnecessary from a structural point of view,

but beautiful nonetheless.

And how churches in England were built this way 

because they had used up all of the straight trees, 

and only curved ones remained.

 

After they leave she shows me the Victorian wallpaper 

installed during one of several renovations. 

And photos of the interior all dressed up in Victorian garb.

It is so different from the plain beauty of the wooden pews 

and simple walls that surround me now.

And she tells me that when they removed the box pews, 

some families took them home and stored them.

And when they decided to restore the church,

 families brought them back again . . . 

more than 100 years later!

I leave, and return, catching her as she heads out down the driveway.

Grateful that she has shared this bit of history with me.

I offer her a gift in return.

 

Bowl 19: Laura

She appears so content, 

sitting on a bench,

reading.

On a screen, not a book!

Curious, I ask if she likes it.

"Yes," she tells me, "and I never thought I would."

And, I am struck once again

by how we all make assumptions.

Every day.

This will work for me. . . 

this won't.

I will never give up the feel of a real book in my hands.

I could never enjoy reading a newspaper online.

So definite about so much.

She reminds me to try to hold these thoughts more lightly.

To leave space for possibility.

To allow that today I might feel differently.

I have given her a bowl.

And she has given me a gift.

Of inestimable value. 

Bowl 18: Michael

There's a pile of stuff on the sidewalk,
interesting stuff.
And being someone who likes to find treasures
in someone else's trash
I begin to look through it.

Someone else joins me and we look together . . .
78 records, an "original authentic desk blotter", empty violin cases.

The person responsible for the pile emerges from the brick-front town house.
He carries a Russian poster of Lenin, clearly old, clearly original,
and offers it to my comrade.
I am chagrined . . . I want it!

But he invites me inside and says I can choose anything I want,
there is nothing I need, but I am intrigued by the decrepit beauty of the building.
"It was my father's he tells me . . . he was born in 1920"
the same year as mine, I note.
And he shows me photos of four generations . . .
his father,
his grandfather,
himself,
and his daughters.

And now he is leaving it all behind.
Clearing out the remains of lives lived here.
Leaving it on the street
for others to find and recycle into their lives.

Later I pass by again.
Almost nothing remains
but some very old books, pre- and early 20th century
I pick them up and bring them home.