Note: All asterisk-ed names have been changed so as to respect the person’s right to not be named.
I’ve poured gong-fu tea many times; surely in the hundreds, potentially in the thousands. It’s something that almost comes naturally for me, at this point. Shit, I have had dreams about doing it.
By definition, my role as a tea server is to make tea. Usually, I make tea for guests who have never done it before; or perhaps, they have done it before, but they forget the steps. It’s usually one of those two. On occasion, there will be the guest who, in fact, knows all the steps, but wishes to have someone else demonstrate. In this situation, they either want to connect with you, or have someone, presumably more knowledgeable, explain to their companions.
Not every time is significant. In fact, many times, it is relatively uneventful, really. Most of the time, people sort of accept whatever you’re doing, maybe ask a few questions. If you are lucky, people get into the process, and start a conversation with you. If you somehow get even more lucky, they fall in love with the process, and you get a new friends out of it. That’s usually as good as it gets.
This isn’t to say that you can’t have extraordinary moments. You absolutely can. I’ve had many beautiful moments, some even glorious and ethereal. But many are not life-changing-ly profound. Some are just fun, and that’s worth it, by all means.
Because of this usual flow of events, I have come to not expect much when pouring tea for big groups…or, I try to, anyway. What ensued from one night of pouring tea, however, was more than I ever could have imagined.
A dear friend, affectionately called Bodhi, tells me one evening that he intends to serve tea at some recurring event held by college students called Sonosilva. He invites me to join. At first, I cannot place the name. Sonosilva to me sounds like a romance-language surname.
It occurs to me then that I know this name. I know the event. I’ve even been invited once previously. I learned of it at the memorial of Cameron Poole (may he rest in tea), a guest I used to serve regularly. In mourning his death, I connected with friends of his that seemed to run in similar circles. They had invited me to a previous iteration of this event. Because I did not attend it, I had forgotten the entire notion of it until Bodhi spoke of it.
On the night of the event, I meet Bodhi and our other friend, Celia. After gathering our needed supplies, we make our way to a local spring on Empire Grade to collect local water to make tea, in the true fashion of crazy-tea-people. Whilst there, we meet a fellow spring-enthusiast gathering water on his last night in Santa Cruz. Pleasant conversation, I wish I could remember his name.
We gather our water, head somewhere on Empire Grade, and park. We debate what we need: how much water, what tea, what teaware, what materials to create a lovely altar and tea serving station-all of the essential tea-geek matters. After some down-sizing, combining, and minor adjustments, we begin our trek in the dark forest.
I’m not from here. I didn’t go to the university. I have no idea where we are going. As far as I’m concerned, I am just along for the ride. As such, I leave it to Bodhi and Celia to both take us to where we are going, and create our space for tea. All I’m here to do is aid.
We hike along the road, cars speeding past us, missing by only a few harrowing feet. Because we have so many supplies, we chug along, ducking into the brush when cars pass. Occasionally, we stop to discover the path markers, but only find broken fences and grass. If only we had parked closer.
I have no idea what to expect. Is this a casual, sit-around-a-camp-fire event? Is it a space where everyone coming shares personal experiences over tea? What could this possible be? I keep wondering so I can act with proper decorum.
We finally find ourselves up the road to the site. I am slowing down, but enjoying the walking. The air is thick, the fog is enveloping us in a ghastly mist; the sky is dark, forest quiet. All is peaceful here. It’s nights like these that I wish we had the capability to effectively capture the mystical “atmosphere” a time, day, or place exudes. Since no such technology exists, I won’t bother to grasp at the asymptote that is this brief, ethereal moment of existence.
We eventually come across a fellow Sonosilva-goer, who shone their flashlight at us from across a meadow until we intersected. We hike further, through gnarled roots and deceiving forks on the windy path. All the while, more fellow guests seem to join us as I see more and more flashlight rays flickering around us.
Eventually, we get to the site. I’ve never been to a festival like the fabled Burning Man, but I imagine it to be something like this, but perhaps much larger and palpable. There is an electricity in the atmosphere; a textbook case of visceral experience; a place of wonder, childlike imagination; and a place of great hedonism manifested in bong rips, cheap liquor, and psychedelics. Even in spite of not knowing this world, I feel a sense of quiet awe. Somehow, everyone ends up in the same place with similar intentions, and somehow, this space is beautiful. Here are all these young people-my peers-celebrating life in an odd, but extraordinary manner: one in the middle of the central-coast redwoods with a palisade-like structure of trees surrounding a DJ booth and small dance floor.
As it turns out, there are two potential areas for us to set up our tea corner. The intended space was a jerry-rigged pergola made from logs, brush, and large branches. But that doesn’t seem fitting. It somehow feels too open. Instead, we opt for the adjacent yurt-like tent, in which we find a perfect spot to position ourselves.
Bodhi and I tend to be similar in our thoughts, which means I can help him set up in a way that makes logistical and aesthetic sense. We carried what we thought worked well for a tea table: teaware suitable for serving multiple people, wooden serving tray, bamboo tea boat, assorted lights, stones, and other accoutrements, and, of course, a nice spread of teas and our spring water. We have a simple space made from some of what we brought, but also materials and objects acquired serendipitously from the organizers (read: a milk crate and an ornate scarf that seemed to be made for adorning a tea table).
After some configuration and light introductions and small talk, Bodhi begins tea service. We both agree on a shou that we mutually enjoy, as it seems to fit the vibe of the yurt: calm and down-to-earth. Immediately, a friend of Bodhi’s, Lauren*, desires hot water, and perhaps, a cup of tea, she says. Bodhi, ever the connecting thread to so many people of different communities, greets all of his friends on an individual basis as if they were the only two here, a characteristic I respect and admire.
A festival go-er sits, gazing in wonder at what this might be. Bodhi answers his question with simple explanations in a passionate, but soft manner. Already, our new friend is amazed such a larger world of tea exists, and can hardly believe any of what Bodhi explains. A few times, Bodhi will stop and ask my thoughts on a matter, or for me to explain something in a different way. I try my best to keep it simple. I know I can sometimes lose myself in an explanation, leaving the other person more confused than before.
For a while, this is the general rhythm of the night. People come in, stop for a mere cup of tea, then leave to go back out to enjoy DJ sets, spliffs, or their friends. Some people stay for a while to get away from the festival-like energy and busyness. Regardless, we are here to serve them tea and create a safe for them to enjoy. As Bodhi serves and explains, I keep a watchful eye on guests who might need tea. If appropriate, I give new guests a cup, serve our current guests more, or offer some explanations on pu-erh, tea, or why we drink in the form we do.
In these settings, I often find it simple to give as little information as possible. Tonight is no exception. Perhaps it stems from laziness, perhaps from a desire to keep the subject of tea interesting and mysterious. Personally, I think it makes the most sense in situations such as these, seeing as some guests only want tea. Not information. Not backstory. Not some long-winded explanation of something that doesn’t even really give a concrete answer.
Now, if people really desire, I strive to give them explanations that satisfy their curiosity. Even still, I try to convey it in an appropriate manner that will make the most sense to the people in question. Tonight, there are some people desiring such answers.
As Bodhi presents our tea, and explains some of its facets, I find myself wanting to butt in and clarify a point he makes. I even find myself wanting to steer his answer in a direction that I see more fitting for our audience. The tea-geek in my head finds it appropriate to give the most correct answer to everyone, to give concrete explanations on tea and tea culture.
I know this isn’t the best place to do it. At the end of the day, we should only be here to serve people what they require. I shouldn’t insist with ferocity that my way of explaining and presenting tea in a very specific way. In fact, all my education and experience has been rooted in openness and resistance to dogmatic explanations. Why should tonight be any different?
While we serve guests, I stay quiet. I don’t want to give my dogmatic insistence a voice. Instead, I attempt just to serve, to be mindful of our guests’ needs. Occasionally, somebody will unknowingly indulge me by asking for some sort of information, thus letting me explain something in a manner I can appreciate.
Occasionally, Bodhi and I will stop and confer on whether to add a tea to the pot to keep it interesting. We even check on the other, making sure the tea can flow, the other is awake enough, and that all is well. At some point, we decide to add another shou to the pot, one that complements the one we are serving. Of course, the vibe changes immediately, and a large group comes in wanting tea.
I notice something as the night continues. I notice something I don’t like. It is something in me. I yearn to be the one people focus on; to be the one explaining; to be the focus of attention in the room. But why? How? Bodhi is doing a wonderful job of explaining. He’s passionate, very clearly; he is engaging and friendly; he is serving everyone with a spirit of love, patience, and humility, the true spirit of tea; he is doing perfect. It isn’t fair to him that I feel as if I need the attention to be on me. That isn’t his problem. That is mine. For a while, this distracts me; it makes me reflect on why I feel like this; it makes me realize that this isn’t a one-time experience. This is an issue within myself. This is me wanting to be recognized, heard, seen, and appreciated for me. This is me feeling inadequate, as if I am not enough. I feel ashamed to think that I need the spotlight, that I need recognition. The serving of tea should not be about me, or my bullshit need to have attention.
I’m brought back to the serving when someone thanks us. They thank us for the beautiful experience, they tell us how rad the entire process and beverage itself made them feel. They get up and leave. And just like that, new people, inexperienced with tea, come in, sit down, and ask for a cup.
I check in with Bodhi once more. To my enjoyment, Bodhi wants to get up and explore the festivities, meaning that someone must take over: me. I had wanted the attention, and now here it was, being handed to me. To think that the very thing that I had yearned for- conflicted about my desires-was now being given to me in the form of a duty I knew very well.
I jump in, ready to serve our guests. Surprisingly, there have been a few people that have stayed here for a while. I add another shou, continuing with tonight’s tea theme, to accommodate for the growing number of people entering the tent and wanting tea. In fact, a crew of people that had previously come in had now returned.
After some light small talk and simple explanations on tea, I found myself engaged with the people who returned. One of them, a young woman name Emily*, strikes up a conversation about mushrooms and psychedelics, neither of which is subject for which I have strongly feelings. I have been in these discussions, however, and usually it has been best to listen to what someone has to say about these substances. Usually, most people talk about their trips as well as why they feel everyone should experience substances. It all starts to sound similar after a while, I must admit. Nevertheless, I nod, not understanding much of the details, as I don’t have any experience in this realm.
Eventually, the conversation comes to a point where someone asks my name, which I say while trying to make my voice loud enough to be heard over the music. Emily, stopping what she was saying about psychedelics asks me where it comes from and what it means. As I do with most people, I explain that it is a family name, trying to keep it brief. She, however, wants know more, and insists on telling both me and our other guests that she will hear its origins.
My name comes from my maternal grandfather, Savin. To put it simply, he was a man from an impoverished immigrant family. He grew up in a tenement building, where he paid for lumps of coal to keep warm. He grew up watching polio, influenza, and a number of other diseases and maladies ravage the people of his neighborhood. In fact, he contracted a few of those diseases, and experienced just how awful these conditions were. In response, we wished to become a doctor, both to heal people and rise out of his conditions. Through a job mercifully given to him by a butcher, he worked his way to working in a pharmacy, then pharmacy school. With this experience, he pursued and acquired a medical school education at Columbia, a massive feat for a poor Italian kid who had contracted polio.
After his residency, he enlisted in the army to be a medic. This would send him through numerous trials in Europe, including: arriving at Normandy Beach on June 7, 1944 to treat maimed, suffering soldiers of the largest seaborne invasion in history; joining the forces raiding Dachau, where he treated inmates to his best ability; and raiding Hitler’s estate.
After returning home from his time in the European theater, my grandparents moved to a small town in California, where my grandfather started his private practice as a gynecologist and general practitioner. As he practiced, he treated a vast number of patients, assisted in the births of many children, and, in doing so, amassed a reputation as a man and doctor of kindness, strength, and phenomenal ability.
I never was able to meet him. He passed away some years before I was born. My father had a near-blood relationship with him, in spite of the fact that he was his son-in-law. Through a rather odd, nay, uncanny set of circumstances that demands another piece of writing, my father accurately predicted my birth in a dream. When I was born, in light of his predictions being true, and now having one boy, my father named me after my grandfather.
I proceed to explain this story in full detail, with the occasional interruption, while pouring tea for all those willing to listen. At first, it appeared to only be Emily, myself, and a few others sitting around our cozy tea table. I progressed further and further into the story, stopping to explain minor details and checking everyone’s cup. At some point, I lost my train of thought to a bewildering sight: everyone in the tent-even those not drinking tea who were sitting in the back-were watching me in silence.
As if his spidey-senses went off, Bodhi returns. As he walks in to check in with me, he notices the crowd listening to me. He smiles, waves, and motions for me to continue. So, continue, I do.
After I finish, Emily and the few people immediately around me are quiet. I figure I have probably bored them with a long-winded story about something meaningless. Emily then tells me, “Your grandfather is still changing lives through you. Do you think he imagined that his grandson would inspire joy and change the lives of some nineteen-year-olds by telling the story of his name? You have changed my life with this experience and your beautiful story. Sure, I could have chosen another thing to do tonight, and that would have been beautiful, too. But this is very beautiful, and has changed my life and inspired joy.”
By now, the majority of people inside the tent have gone back to their own experiences, naturally. Nevertheless, my immediate guests and I share more stories, especially those of great significance to us. While continuing to pour tea, I share meaningful experiences of my life and those associated with tea (many of which I feel merit their own piece of writing), and continue to pour for people wanting to join us. We even have a discussion on cultural differences, youth, and drugs.
As we approach the dawn hours, people begin to leave, or they crash on some comfortable blankets in the corner. Our water supply dwindles. The tea is lightening, losing its divine complexity. My guests must leave. As they get up, they all ask for hugs, and tell me departing thoughts. They claim I am beautiful, that my stories are beautiful, that my existence and their time with me has changed their lives, that I am patient and wise.
After the last guest leaves, I make one last pot. I sip the basically-flavorless tea, and reflect. I had spent my time craving attention. Then, I got it. I received my desire for attention in a way where I could explain who I was; where I could tell my origin story to an audience that was apparently ready to listen.
I stepped out to get some air, and to explore the other festivities. I leaned against a tree to watch the DJ that had been hypnotized the dwindled crowd, dazed by all that had just happened. When I was feeling inadequate and yearning for someone to notice me, something-God, the universe, the spirit of tea, whatever you want to call it-gave me an audience and opportunity to tell the world of my pride, my existence, and my origin. All of this just occurred over pouring tea-an entity I already consider indescribably beautiful- in the beautiful, ethereal realm of some festival-like event in the middle forest. And I began to weep.
After some lo-fi dj sets, I made my way back to the tent to look for Bodhi and pack up. Lauren*, his friend from earlier, had been drifting in and out of our tent throughout the night, and had stayed for some of my regaling of stories. I found them there comfortably catching up, and I joined.
Within the hour, the sun rose, most people had left, and we began packing up our tea corner, now ravaged by spilled tea, piles of cups, and disheveled blankets. Eventually, we wake those sleeping in the tent so that we could assist in dismantling both it and the rest of the site. The rest of clean up and disassembly takes some time, but Bodhi and I enjoy the company of Lauren and friends.
On our way back to our cars, Bodhi, Lauren, and I discuss our time pouring tea, and why it is meaningful to both Bodhi and me. We begin to depart ways. Before she leaves, Lauren claims that I have a, “Profound way of doing exactly what is needed when it is needed in the way needed for the time.” Somehow, this night became even more beautiful with that sentence.
Bodhi and I proceed back to the car, tired, but satisfied with our evening. As he handles some bodily needs, I look to the now bright morning sky and consider how beautiful life was these last several hours; how unimaginably beautiful and pleasurable it was to experience the moments in the manner we did; how all those moments came and went like a whisp of smoke.
Our journey back home consists of us debriefing our evening. Somehow, Bodhi and I took part in the amazing experience of serving others, of pouring tea. In my recap, I thank Bodhi for his spirit and passion in pouring tea, and for being a big part of the experience. Without him, I may not have had it. In his recap, he remarks how captivating it was to see an audience listen to me. To think all of this came from some gathering in the forest.
On my drive home, I sobbed as I took a voice memo to capture the experience as quickly as I could. For someone like me, someone who has felt insufficient; for someone who has struggled with mental illness; for someone who had felt not beautiful the days leading up to this experience; for someone who seeks to serve others, this night was a humbling experience of divine splendor and majesty. I could show someone-even if just a few people paying full attention-who I was, and where I came from; I could serve others tea, an act, beverage, and ritual that I enjoy for innumerable reasons; I could be myself and be found beautiful and needed when I needed it most.
These are the moments you don’t have often. This is why I pour tea.
