I'd like to show you some pictures of flowers I've taken over the years.
They are cut flowers, potted flowers and even withering flowers at my home.
And I want to share with you a book titled "The Book of Tea" (茶の本) by Okakura Kakuzo (岡倉 天心).
It was written in 1906 and originally in English.
The book emphasizes how Teaism taught the Japanese many things; most importantly, simplicity.
The Book of Tea is not just about tea.
It's also about flowers.
It's also about flowers.
But to me, it's a book more about the cultural difference between East and West.
No matter what it is about if there's really a must-read in life it will have my vote!
Let me quote some excerpts from the book.
VI
FLOWERS
"In the trembling grey of a spring down, when the birds were whispering in mysterious cadence among trees, have you not felt that they were talking to their mates about the flowers?"
"In joy or sadness, flowers are our constant friends. We eat, drink, sing, dance, and flirt with them. We wed and christen with flowers. We dare not die without them. We have worshipped with the lily, we have meditated with the lotus, we have charged in battle array with the rose and the chrysanthemum. We have even attempted to speak in the language of flowers. How could we live without them? [...] When we are laid low in the dust it is they who linger in sorrow over our graves."
"Flowers, if you were in the land of the Mikado, you might some time meet a dread personage armed with scissors and a tiny saw. He would call himself a Master of Flowers. He would claim the rights of a doctor and you would instinctively hate him, for you know a doctor always seeks to prolong the troubles of his victims. He would cut, bend, and twist you into those impossible positions which he thinks it proper that you should assume. He would comfort your muscles and dislocate your bones like any osteopath. He would burn you with red-hot coals to stop your bleeding, and thrust wires into you to assist your circulation. He would diet you with salt, vinegar, alum, and sometimes, vitriol. Boiling water would be poured on your feet when you seemed ready to faint. It would be his boast that he could keep life within you for two or more weeks longer than would have been possible without his treatment. Would you not have preferred to have been killed at once when you were first captured? What were the crimes you must have committed during your past incarnation to warrant such punishment in this?"
"The wanton waste of
flowers among Western communities is even more appalling than the way they are
treated by Eastern Flower Masters. The number of flowers cut daily to adorn the
ballrooms and banquet-tables of Europe and America, to be thrown away on the
morrow, must be something enormous; if strung together they might garland a
continent. Beside this utter carelessness of life, the guilt of the
Flower-Master becomes insignificant. He, at least, respects the economy of
nature, selects his victims with careful foresight, and after death does honour
to their remains. In the West the display of flowers seems to be a part of the
pageantry of wealth, – the fancy of a moment. Whither do they all go, these
flowers, when the revelry is over? Nothing is more pitiful than to see a faded
flower remorselessly flung upon a dung heap."
"In the East the art of floriculture is a very ancient one, and the loves of a poet and his favourite plant have often been recorded in story and song. With the development of ceramics during the Tang and Sung dynasties we hear of wonderful receptacles made to hold plants, not pots, but jewelled palaces. A special attendant was detailed to wait upon each flower and to wash its leaves with soft brushes made of rabbit hair. It has been written that the peony should be bathed by a handsome maiden in full costume, that a winter-plum should be watered by a pale, slender monk."
"In such instances we see the full significance of the Flower Sacrifice. Perhaps the flowers appreciate the full significance of it. They are not cowards, like men. Some flowers glory in death – certainly the Japanese cherry blossoms do, as they freely surrender themselves to the winds. Anyone who has stood before the fragrant avalanche at Yoshino or Arashiyama must have realised this. For a moment they hover like bejewelled clouds and dance above the crystal streams; then, as they sail away on the laughing waters, they seem to say: "Farewell, O Spring! We are on to Eternity."
"In the East the art of floriculture is a very ancient one, and the loves of a poet and his favourite plant have often been recorded in story and song. With the development of ceramics during the Tang and Sung dynasties we hear of wonderful receptacles made to hold plants, not pots, but jewelled palaces. A special attendant was detailed to wait upon each flower and to wash its leaves with soft brushes made of rabbit hair. It has been written that the peony should be bathed by a handsome maiden in full costume, that a winter-plum should be watered by a pale, slender monk."
"The ideal lover of
flowers is he who visits them in their native haunts, like Taoyuenming, who sat before a broken bamboo fence in converse
with the wild chrysanthemum, or Linwosing, losing himself amid mysterious
fragrance as he wandered in the twilight among the plum-blossoms of the Western
Lake. 'Tis said that Chowmushih slept in a boat so that his dreams might mingle
with those of the lotus. It was this same spirit which moved the Empress Komio,
one of our most renowned Nara sovereigns, as she sang: "If I pluck thee,
my hand will defile thee, O Flower! Standing in the meadows as thou art, I offer
thee to the Buddhas of the past, of the present, of the future."
"However, let us not be
too sentimental. Let us be less luxurious but more magnificent. Said Laotse:
"Heaven and earth are pitiless." Said Kobodaishi: "Flow, flow,
flow, flow, the current of life is ever onward. Die, die, die, die, death comes
to all." Destruction faces us wherever we turn. Destruction below and
above, destruction behind and before. Change is the only Eternal, – why, not as
welcome Death as Life?"
"Anyone acquainted with
the ways of our tea- and flower-masters must have noticed the religious
veneration with which they regard flowers. They do not cull at random, but
carefully select each branch or spray with an eye to the artistic composition
they have in mind. They would be ashamed should they chance to cut more than
were absolutely necessary. It may be remarked in this connection that they
always associate the leaves, if there be any, with the flower, for their object
is to present the whole beauty of plant life. In this respect, as in many
others, their method differs from that pursued in Western countries. Here we
are apt to see only the flower stems, heads, as it were, without body, stuck
promiscuously into a vase."
"When the flower fades,
the master tenderly consigns it to the river or carefully buries it in the
ground. Monuments even are sometimes erected to their memory."
"The tea-master deems
his duty ended with the selection of the flowers, and leaves them to tell their
own story. Entering a tearoom in late winter, you may see a slender spray of
wild cherries in combination with a budding camellia; it is an echo of
departing winter coupled with the prophecy of spring. Again, if you go into a
noon-tea on some irritatingly hot summer day, you may discover in the darkened
coolness of the tokonoma a single lily in a hanging vase; dripping with dew, it
seems to smile at the foolishness of life."
"Flower stories are
endless. We shall recount but one more. In the sixteenth century the
morning-glory was as yet a rare plant with us. Rikyu had an entire garden
planted with it, which he cultivated with assiduous care. The fame of his
convolvuli reached the ear of the Taiko, and he expressed a desire to see them,
in consequence of which Rikyu invited him to a morning tea at his house. On the
appointed day Taiko walked through the garden, but nowhere could he see any
vestige of the convolvulus. The ground had been leveled and strewn with fine
pebbles and sand. With sullen anger the despot entered the tea-room, but a
sight waited him there which completely restored his humour. On the tokonoma,
in a rare bronze of Sung workmanship, lay a single morning-glory – the queen of
the whole garden!"
"In such instances we see the full significance of the Flower Sacrifice. Perhaps the flowers appreciate the full significance of it. They are not cowards, like men. Some flowers glory in death – certainly the Japanese cherry blossoms do, as they freely surrender themselves to the winds. Anyone who has stood before the fragrant avalanche at Yoshino or Arashiyama must have realised this. For a moment they hover like bejewelled clouds and dance above the crystal streams; then, as they sail away on the laughing waters, they seem to say: "Farewell, O Spring! We are on to Eternity."
A long one, isn't it? But isn't it lovely to read so much about flowers in the time of spring? And isn't it good to read such inspiring words from Mr. Okakura Kakuzo written more than a hundred years ago, defending his culture and our constant friends - flowers?
And last, one thing about flowers has always been confusing me - are we attempting to speak in the language of flowers, or we let flowers speak for us?
And last, one thing about flowers has always been confusing me - are we attempting to speak in the language of flowers, or we let flowers speak for us?
