I wake.
Stillness is all around me like the hush of the theater in the moment before the curtain rises and the show starts. Slipping on my kimono robe and knotting the sash, I pass into the kitchen to brew my matcha tea. This has been my morning ritual for years. It’s the way I wake into a state of grace. It’s the way I let myself begin again.
On this morning, like all mornings, I heat purified water in the kettle and while I wait for the water to boil, I contemplate a passage from my story, the words dancing in my mind.
With a bamboo ladle, I scoop some matcha into a rustic tea bowl made by a potter in Kyoto. I use as much matcha as the bamboo ladle can carry and scoop twice. I admire the bowl’s rough texture and wabi sabi nature, its imperfect beauty; I think about the potter’s hands.
I whisk a small amount of water in the powder, and whisk and whisk and whisk. I inhale the grassy scent of the tea. I gaze at its brothy emerald color like an abstract painting, or a tiny island viewed from above.
I sit at my desk. I raise the brimming bowl to my lips and slurp. It tastes like leaves, light, rain, sky. I savor the tea’s thickness, its slight bitterness, its sweetish aftertaste left in my mouth. The elixir inspires yet relaxes me.
Time blurs beneath the sky’s pale glow. The stars and moon slip away. Everything slips away but the tenor of the moment. My mind shifts to ease and attention. It’s a strange thing to do – floating around in darkness and half-dreaminess – and yet it’s the way I enter that other world. I hear a voice: Look at the stars, Fatima. Look how they fade to dawn for you.
I breathe. I raise my bowl and slurp.
A feeling spreads over me – this is my magic. I’m in a Moorish courtyard soothed by the sound of the trickling fountain. I’m swimming with living colors in a Tahitian lagoon. I’m standing amongst a tribe trilling tribal songs of joy.
* * *
Matcha is a form of meditation for me. It is the way of being present to the words that come from inner stillness. Writing, like any art, demands a great deal of care, consideration, and discipline. Most of all, it demands giving the attention of one’s highest and holiest self.
Attention to the world is the work. Writing is simply an apprenticeship to see the world with more clarity and to live in a constant state of openness to receiving. As an artist, the greatest goal I can hope for is to train myself to look carefully at everything around me and express what I see. To live fully is to create.
The sun’s first light comes through the window. Gentle birdsong mingles with the click clack of the keys. The eucalyptus lends the peace a scent. I blink and look again. An emerald mosaic butterfly is left at the bottom of my bowl. Perhaps it’s real. Or perhaps it’s just another chapter in my dreams.
Donna Obeid is an award-winning writer and educator who has been nominated multiple times for the Pushcart Prize. She earned a BA with Class Honors in English and Comparative Literature from the University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, and an MA and MFA from American University. She currently lives in Stanford, California. Read more at: www.donnaobeid.com and follow at: @donnaowrites
