MA is a tea house in the north of Kyoto. Six seats. One kettle. No music. The pause is the point.
You leave your shoes, and with them the street. The path is seven stones long; walk all seven.
The door is low on purpose. Everyone enters the same height.
Iron, older than the building. It hums a note our founder called the pine wind, and we have never argued.
Eighty strokes, or none at all — depending on the tea, the season, and how your day has been.
The bowl turns twice in your hands. In the interval before the first sip, the whole house holds still. This is the 間.
This week: two seats remain. 空 means empty — for now.