A Certain Mr. Takahashi. Ann Ireland

ladled the glistening snow peas onto a section of the plate, then arranged them in careful progression like fingers of a fan. The last pod she allowed to drop from six or seven inches above so it caused a very slight disruption in the pattern. A breath of wind from outside shuffled the leaves of the miniature orange tree.

      The scoop of rice settled in the centre like a fist of snow. Pickled cucumbers and daikon— radishes —surrounded it like a necklace. Hashi— chopsticks—were laid carefully to the side of the plate.

      She repeated the performance on a second plate and when both were assembled, nodded. She and I, clad in dark blue yukata, knelt at the low table, resting our buttocks on our heels. Pressing our palms together, we bowed, then, with the hashi, carefully picked off a grain or two of rice and placed it on the table. For Buddha.

      “What are you doing?”

      “I am meditating.”

      “What on earth for?”

      “Shh, go away.”

      We began to practise zazen more or less regularly. I was more disciplined about it, setting the alarm for an unearthly 7:00 A.M. Immediately on waking, I tucked the round zafu pillow under my behind. I kept track each day of how long I sat and what came to pass. Always I wore the black cotton kimono for zazen, and after wrote something on a scroll of rice paper with a bamboo brush.

      The passing of one cloud

      marks the ravens.

      Two abreast.