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Nakashima sensei (center)
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It
was during the fall of 1996. After several months of looking for a credible
person to teach me about Japanese gardens, a store owner of a local bonsai
store gave me the phone number of a lady, who did a presentation about Japanese
gardens at the University of Illinois. Her name was Dr. Ikka Nakashima.
I
vividly remember my first conversation with her on the phone. Her Japanese
accent was difficult to understand at first, but I managed to understand most
of what she said. I was disappointed to hear she no longer did Japanese garden
presentations at the university. Instead, she taught Chanoyu (Japanese tea
ceremony) and Ikebana (Japanese flower arranging) at her house. When she
detected my disappointment, she told me I could learn much about the gardens
through Chanoyu.
“Chanoyu
and Chaniwa (tea garden) same spirt,” she told me several times. “Both are
harmony,” she continued. “You come next week to see, I no charge tuition first
time,okay?”
Without
hesitation, I accepted her invitation and attended my first Chanoyu class that
following week .
It
took me a little more than an hour to reach her house in Chicago’s north side,
but it seemed much shorter because of my combined excitement and anticipation.
With my Zafu (Japanese Zen meditation cushion) under one arm and my Zabutan
(meditation mat) rolled under the other, I pressed the doorbell. Nobody
answered. After a minute or so, I pressed it again. Still nobody answered. I
clenched my fist to knock on the door when suddenly, it slowly opened.
A
short lady with dark black hair and very pale skin appeared as the door opened.
She looked up at me with a big smile, bent forward and nodded. Awkwardly, I
nodded in return.
“Hello
Mrs. Nakashima,” I said. “I’m Rex, the one who talked with you on the phone
last week.”
“Ahso,
Hai,” she replied in Japanese. “Please come in Alex.”
“Did
she not hear me correctly?” I thought. It
wasn’t until she repeated my name several times more that I realized she couldn’t
pronounce the letter “R” with words that began with “R.” Instead, she pronounced the letter “L” with a
brief “Ah” in front of it, much like how Filipinos interchange their “F” and “P”s.
She
looked at what I was holding under my arms and smiled. “You won’t need those,”
she said. “Chanoyu is not zazen. Our meditation is not sitting. It is moving
meditation,” she continued as she smiled.
She
had me take my shoes off and instructed me to place them neatly against the
wall facing outward so that I can easily slip back into them on my way out. We
then entered the house and sat down as she gave me a brief introduction to
Chanoyu. After about twenty minutes, her students began filtering in to attend
class.
There
were five people including myself that night. Four of us were the guests and
the fifth person was the host. He was the person who performed the actual
ceremony, which included the making and serving of tea.
Inside
the tea room, us four guests sat on our knees next to each other as we watched
the host carefully and gracefully prepare tea like I’ve never seen before.
Every movement he made was precise and graceful. I knew right then that Chanoyu
involved a great level of discipline. Unfortunately, just when I began
experiencing the serenity of the ceremony, a million ants seemed to fill every crevice
of my feet.
I
was not used to sitting on my knees, so after only ten minutes, the discomfort
associated with one’s legs falling asleep overtook me. Thankfully, I was
allowed to sit cross legged for the remainder of that night. At the end of the
evening, I was so impressed that I enrolled in her classes.
Two
years into my training with her, she helped make it possible for me to travel
to Kyoto, Japan to attend an intensive course on Japanese gardens geared
specifically for international students. After returning from Japan, I
continued with my Chanoyu training. After my third year of training, an
opportunity to work for master gardener, Hoichi Kurisu, in Florida came my way.
Naturally, I seized the opportunity and move my family to Florida.
With
the new opportunity, also came the end of my Chanoyu training with Nakashima
sensei. I kept touch with her through hand written letters and an occasional
visit or phone call. Of the several people who made an impact in my life, she
is definitely one I will never forget. Sadly, I learned today of her recent
death.
She
was more than a Chanoyu teacher to me, and I will always hold a special place
in my heart for her. When we first met, I was still dealing with the fresh and
heavy pains of losing my parents and sister. She was there to both comfort me
and encourage me to move forward in life. She always referred to me as her “boy.”
When she asked me how I was, she would say, “How’s my boy doing?” Even with
others, I heard her refer to me as such.
She
taught me about the importance of living what we believed through our actions,
living each day in the present moment, choosing a path in life that serves
others, selflessness, compassion, dedication, and discipline. She was a living
example of someone who lived a life of vocation; a life that centered on
helping others.
She
will be missed, but never forgotten. Her spirit will continue to live on
through the good things she passed onto me and many others. May eternal rest be
granted upon her, and may perpetual light shine upon her forever.