Empty Tea House

The teacher is gone, but we feel him there.

We enter the room with more than a memory, 

more than the same feeling as when he was alive.

We realize the essence of Chado 

has permeated our lives.

In the discipline, our teacher is actually there; 

his essence, his spirit is the same as the tea

in the ceramic bowl, looking up at us with a

quizzical swirl of steam.

If discipline fades, memory fades, 

magic takes a powder. 

Where tradition continues, the teacher remains.

How can this be? Yet, it is, because

the mind never dies.

New flowers have the same perfume.