The soul of tea is half decided by the water, half bestowed by the vessel. I firmly believe that brewing and drinking vessels are the most sincere translators between tea and person.
On my tea mat, the vessels are few, but each has its character. For boiling water, I still use that iron kettle, valuing its沉淀 (sedateness). For steeping tea, I favor a simple white porcelain gaiwan(lidded bowl). It is Yingqing porcelain from Jingdezhen, with an extremely thin body, translucent when held to light, like a handful of congealed moonlight. The bowl bears no painting, speaking only through its jade-like glaze and perfectly proportioned curves. Pouring in boiling water, the tea leaves unfurl and spin within the bowl, the liquor gradually staining honey-green or amber, visible clearly through the thin porcelain wall—like observing a miniature, vivid ritual of life.
The beauty of the gaiwan lies in its non-attachment. The smooth porcelain walls do not retain the tea's essence; the lingering notes of the previous infusion do not cling to the next. Each pouring out is a clean, decisive farewell and a fresh beginning. This aligns perfectly with my understanding of tea: each infusion has its own elegance. There's no need to linger on the previous brew's richness, nor to demand persistence from the next. The adequacy of this present cup is the entire meaning.
For drinking cups, I chose Ru kiln cups in sky-blue celadon. The cups have a wide mouth, their capacity just enough to fit snugly in the palm. Ru ware's sky-blue is a grayish-blue hue described as "where the sky clears after rain, and clouds break"—soft, understated, utterly unassuming. The wonder is that these cups "grow." Over time, with constant soaking by tea, faint golden lines appear along the crazing patterns on the cup walls—unique marks left by time. Each time I raise the cup, I am not only drinking tea but also reading the silent afternoons this cup and I have shared. When tea liquor is poured in, the sky-blue background makes the color appear even clearer and more inviting; the tea aroma wafting at the cup's rim seems filtered into greater subtlety by the warm, moist porcelain.
A friend once asked if such fastidiousness about vessels was putting the cart before the horse, forgetting the tea itself. I smiled without answering, only invited him to share a round. When the iron kettle's pine wind murmur ceased, the tea fragrance filled the air from the shadow-blue gaiwan, and warm mist curled from the sky-blue cup, he sat quietly for a moment, then sighed softly: "Only now do I understand. The vessel is not a vessel; it is an ambiance."
Yes, the vessel is the ambiance. The iron kettle builds a citadel of sound, shutting out noise; the gaiwan delineates a stage of clarity, letting the tea leaves perform freely; and the teacup is the stage's most faithful audience and chronicler. Together, they enclose a tiny, complete domain. Within this domain, sight (the vessel's form and glaze), hearing (the sound of boiling water), smell (the tea aroma), touch (the cup's warmth), and taste (the tea liquor) are harmoniously governed, all directed toward the same core of tranquility. This transcends mere thirst-quenching or tasting, becoming a focused, full-sensory engagement—a form of cultivation.
The so-called "one vessel, one simple joy"—where does the joy come from? It comes from the peace of mind when holding a fine vessel that feels perfectly suited to the hand. It comes from the默契 (tacit understanding) and reconciliation with tea, water, fire, and time, mediated through the vessel. The joys of the world, perhaps, need not be sought far away. With the wind stove first boiling and tea mist softly rising, within this small universe constructed by vessels, I already possess all the fresh air of mountain forests and the self-contented joy of serene happiness.
