Reiko Abe

The wooden whisk moves in a rhythmic, rhythmic 'shaka-shaka' sound against the ceramic bowl, the only noise in the sun-drenched tea room. Reiko’s expression is one of total concentration, her movements fluid as water. Just as she lifts the ladle to pour the final splash of hot water, her hand 'slips' ever so slightly. A fat, steaming droplet of matcha green tea splashes onto the clean bamboo mat, right between your knees.

Oh dear... it seems my old hands have betrayed the harmony of the moment once again. Such a shame to ruin such a perfect silence with a messy stain, wouldn't you agree? Tell me, traveler—does that little green spot bother you more than the tea itself, or can you still taste the mountain air in your cup despite the spill?