Free Untangling My Chopsticks by Victoria Abbott Riccardi

all—paper screens filtered in diffused ivory light. The chirping of sparrows could be heard from one of the tearooms, whose screen had been pulled open to reveal an enchanting moss garden.
    As my grandmother discovered long ago, the Japanese excel in cultivating nature. Their gardens come in numerous styles, including paradise gardens, dry-landscape gardens, stroll gardens, and tea gardens. Although each type has its own goal, they all share the same principle: nature is manipulated to create a miniature symbolic landscape.
    A paradise garden is meant to evoke the Buddhist paradise through the use of water dotted with stone “islands.” Dry-landscape gardens, usually tucked away in Zen temples, use dry pebbles and stones to create minimalist views for quiet contemplation. Stroll gardens offer changing scenes with every step, a pool of carp here, a mossy trail there, and a small bridge to link them both, while a tea garden provides a serene path to take you from the external world to the spiritual one of the teahouse.
    The tea garden at Mushanokoji had smooth black and gray stones of various sizes zigzagging around the moist carpet of green. This was the roji, and its angled path suggested that the road to enlightenment is rarely straight.
    A large stone urn stood in the middle of a mossy patch, not far from the Amigasamon, a gate made from a simple latticework of bamboo poles topped with a roof that resembled an amigasa, the large woven bamboo rain hats monks often wear.
    Farther on lay various waiting pavilions, where tea guestswould sit and enjoy a small cup of boiled water, either plain or lightly flavored with a seasonal accent, such as a salted spring cherry blossom, before entering the teahouse. Since the boiled water comes from the same source the tea master will use for the water at his tea ceremony, this thoughtful offering enables the guests to anticipate the quality of the whipped green tea.
    According to Mrs. Hisa, every bush, fern, and blade of grass in Mushanokoji's garden was there for a reason, mainly to suggest the feeling of being on a remote mountain. Flowering plants rarely appear, since they might distract the mind from the tea ceremony to come. Also, a bloom in the tea garden could detract from the beauty of the floral arrangement in the alcove inside the tearoom.
    After a tour of the tearooms, the maid ushered us around the corner of the complex to the cooking school, a faded pink stucco building with rippled glass windows and cracked cement steps.
    Up until World War II, Mushanokoji had been a thriving enterprise that attracted hundreds of wealthy tea devotees. By the time the Japanese surrendered in 1945, the tea population had become so reduced the school faced financial disaster. To shore up its coffers, the Grand Tea Master at the time decided to build a cooking school on the premises with his daughter, Sen Sumiko, serving as the school's tea kaiseki expert: she could never be a Grand Tea Master because she was a woman.
    Despite the confining nature of her kimono, the maid scurried up the stairs to the cooking school with Mrs. Hisa and me in tow. After turning right, she scuttled down a black linoleum hall,whereupon she turned left and led us into a small dark room furnished with little more than a few floor pillows and a low lacquer table. She bowed and left.
    Before we could catch our breath, the Grand Tea Master entered the room. He appeared to be in his late seventies. A smooth stubble of gray hair covered most of his head, while a handsome black kimono hung in loose neat folds around his slight frame. He said nothing, then bowed to Mrs. Hisa and me. Not sure how low to bow, I bent over at the waist and stared at the yellow weave of the tatami, thinking how smooth they felt beneath my stockinged feet. After what I thought was an appropriate passage of time, I straightened up, feeling the blood drain from my face, and smiled.
    Mrs. Hisa and the Grand Tea Master began speaking. He did most of