The Time of Tea: Silence, Memory, and a Bowl of Leaves

Lorela Lohan
Jul 10
10 min read

Updated: Aug 9

Part I of a 4-part series: Following the Leaf — A Journey with Jeff Fuchs

Jeff Fuchs – explorer, mountain guide, and tea writer. Jeff was the first Westerner to trek the Ancient Tea Horse Road, a legendary 6,000-km caravan route through the Himalayas that once carried tea into Tibet. In this interview of 4 parts, Jeff shares insights on tea culture, from its romantic myths to its gritty realities, and reflects on a life shaped by tea and travel.

During a month long expedition in Ladakh along a trade route, I share a moment with my favourite little beast of burden, ‘Hector’. — During a month-long expedition in Ladakh along a trade route, I share a moment with my favourite little beast of burden, ‘Hector’.

Part I - The Time of Tea: Silence, Memory, and a Bowl of Leaves

Focus: Poetry, stillness, philosophy of tea

Balancing Tea’s Poetry and Practicality

Lorela: Tea is often romanticised in stories and ceremonies. Having trekked the old tea trade routes, how do you balance the poetic narrative of tea with the physical demands of the actual trade and the legacy of tea?

Jeff:

When you’re out there with people whose "lives are tea", you quickly see both sides.

On the one hand, there’s a timeless poetry in how tea weaves into daily life. I’ve sat with Sherpa porters in the Himalayas as they kick-start the day with steaming cups of masala chai, and I’ve shared simple infusions with farmers who, for generations, wake up and brew whatever tea is on hand. There’s nothing fancy about those moments – tea might be steeped in a battered tin or a cracked cup – yet that "informality" is itself beautiful. In many ways, the poetry of tea is in its simplicity and the time taken to share it. Tea is sipped reverently or irreverently at any time of day; it brings people together in tents, in humble mountain huts, as well as in wealthy homes. We romanticise tea (and I do too, in my rituals), but it’s just as important to appreciate tea as a basic necessity and comfort in these communities. The act of taking time for tea with people – that simple human connection – is perhaps the most poetic aspect of all.

In many ways, the poetry of tea is in its simplicity and the time taken to share it.

To your point about the “real” demands behind the romance, I often think of the old Tibetan tea caravans. The traders who hauled tea over thousand-kilometre journeys survived with only the bare essentials. Many caravaners carried the same few items for making their beloved butter tea along the journey:

Butter: often a ball of yak butter to fortify the tea with calories against the high-altitude cold.
Brick tea: a hunk of compressed dark tea (easy to transport and long-lasting) to boil for the journey’s tea.
Wooden cup: a small wooden bowl (called a p’ra) carved from rhododendron root, seasoned from years of tea and butter. This treasured cup was sometimes handed down for generations.

A nomadic family takes tea before moving their entire life to another camp. “Ja tong”, or ‘drink tea’ in Tibetan, is something one hears often in any travels through the isolated corridors of the Himalayas. Nomads often add ground barley powder (’tsampa’), salt (’tea’), and butter (‘marr’) to stewed tea to create a kind of all-inclusive meal and fuel.

With just these three items, they would brew tea anywhere – in a tent, on a mountain pass, in snowfall. Witnessing a trader pull out a lump of tea and butter and make a hot, frothy butter tea in the middle of nowhere captures that balance between poetry and practicality.

It’s a beautifully minimalist ritual. Tea isn’t a luxury for them; it’s fuel, warmth, and community – a lifeline that also carries a certain rugged elegance.

So, I embrace the romance of tea, but I ground it in the reality that tea has been, first and foremost, a simple daily comfort and a necessity for people. We can savour rare leaves in a quiet ceremony, sure, but let’s also remember the beaten-up cup of salty butter tea that might be a Tibetan herder’s morning staple. Both sides – the poetic and the practical – give tea its enduring magic.

Embracing Informality: Lessons from a Tea Master

Lorela: You’ve emphasised simplicity and the informal joy of tea moments. Can you share how your tea education reinforced this perspective – perhaps something a mentor taught you about intuition versus technique in tea?

Jeff:

Certainly. This is a favourite story of mine.

About 20 years ago, I apprenticed under a tea master in Taiwan. He was a true artisan, a wizard with oolong tea in particular, and he approached tea-making almost like a form of art. In the early days, when I first asked to learn from him, he made an unusual request: “Come back when you can speak to me in Mandarin (or Taiwanese).” Essentially, he refused to teach me through a translator – he believed I needed to immerse myself in the language and culture to really grasp tea. So I did exactly that: I worked on my Mandarin, and gradually earned little nuggets of his knowledge over monthly visits.

For a couple of years, every session with him was intense. He taught me precise techniques – how to gauge leaf quality, the exact moment to stop the oxidation for an oolong, how to pour water in a specific spiral motion, temperatures, timings – so many details. It was a bit like studying the classical music of tea, where every note in the process matters. I soaked it up, diligently tried to memorise everything, aiming to perfect my tea brewing.

Then one day, unexpectedly, he told me, “Okay, you’re finished. Now forget everything I told you.”

I was stunned. Forget everything? What did he mean? This felt like a Zen koan – was it a test? He clarified: for me to truly see tea, I had to let go of all the overthinking I was now doing. All those techniques and theories were clouding my ability to simply be with the tea. He basically set me free: trust your instincts, you know enough – now go experience it. It was the most profound lesson: that at the end of the day, tea is a simple leaf and an expression of nature. To appreciate it fully, you sometimes have to strip away the mental noise.

He actually advised me to travel to Yunnan, China – the birthplace of tea – to witness tea in its most basic form. “Go to the source,” he said. And I did. I went to Yunnan in the early 2000s, to those remote villages with wild tea trees and traditional processing.

There, I saw exactly what he wanted me to see: tea making in its simplest, purest form.

Pick the leaves, wither them a bit, pan-fry them in a wok by feel and smell, sun-dry them. No fancy gadgets, no meticulous measuring – the locals were guiding the process with their hands, eyes, nose, and intuition honed over generations. Every batch might be a little different because nature is not uniform, and they embrace that.

It hit me that tea doesn’t require pomp and perfection to be great.

What it requires is attentiveness and respect for the leaf’s inherent character. The Taiwanese master had given me the tools and then essentially said, “Don’t become a slave to them.” It’s a very Daoist or Zen idea: learn the form, then transcend the form.

Taking tea in one of my old haunts in Menghai, southern Yunnan Province. Tea shops and tea houses still serve locals as gathering points to sip and chat. The quality of the tea is often secondary to the fact that there is tea available at all times of day or night, free of charge. It is one of the timeless roles of a tea house in China. — Taking tea in one of my old haunts in Menghai, southern Yunnan Province. Tea shops and tea houses still serve locals as gathering points to sip and chat. The quality of the tea is often secondary to the fact that there is tea available at all times of day or night - free of charge. It is one of the timeless roles of a tea house in China.

Use your senses and be present.

That philosophy stuck with me. To this day, I’m a big advocate of keeping tea informal and intuitive. Yes, learn the fundamentals – they help. But once you have them, don’t be rigid. Tea can change with the weather, the season, and even your mood. I’ve seen tea masters – whether in Taiwan, Japan, or Yunnan – who in the end rely on touch, sight, and aroma to make the call, rather than a thermometer or timer. A Japanese tea-maker friend, Yamashita-san, produces an award-winning gyokuro (a very high-grade green tea). He has all the sophisticated techniques in the world at his disposal, yet when I quiz him for specifics – “What temperature do you fire this at? How many seconds do you steam that?” – he often smiles and says, “It depends… I watch the leaves and I listen.” Even at his level, there’s an art beyond science.

So the lesson from my mentor was not to get too hung up on the minutiae. Don’t let rules completely dictate your relationship with tea. If the water’s a few degrees cooler than the “ideal”, it might still brew a lovely cup. If you don’t steep exactly 30 seconds but go by the aroma or colour instead, that’s okay. That’s great – it means you’re engaging with the tea directly, not just following a script.

This emphasis on informality and intuition made me enjoy tea even more. It became less about impressing others with a perfectly brewed cup and more about connecting with the tea itself and with whoever I might be sharing it with. That’s the spirit I try to pass on. Tea doesn’t have to be codified and stiff. It can be an adventure each time, if you allow a bit of spontaneity.

Tea as Time: The Meaning of Tea in Personal Life

Lorela: After all these travels and experiences, what does tea mean to you personally now? When you’re at home, in a quiet moment without any ceremony or audience, what does a cup of tea represent for you?

Jeff Fuchs:

For me, tea is time. Time in a cup. Time to be present. Time to reflect.

Over the years, the meaning of tea in my life has evolved, but at this stage, I find that what I cherish most about making tea is that it carves out a pause in the day. It’s a ritual that forces you (in a good way) to slow down, even if only for a few minutes, and just be.

I often start my day with a simple tea session at home. I’ll pick a tea that suits my mood – maybe a sheng pu’er if I want something awakening, or a soft white tea if I’m easing into things – and as I boil the water and warm the teapot, I feel myself settling into the moment. The world around can be chaotic, but the act of focusing on the tea – the aroma of the leaves, the sound of water pouring – is very grounding.

It’s like a mini meditation.

In that period, I might reflect on anything or nothing at all. Sometimes I’ll gaze out at the tree in my garden and just enjoy that here I am, alive, taking in this scene with a hot cup in my hands. Other times, tea time brings back memories – faces of those tea elders in the Himalayas, or a reminder of a friend I need to call.

A woman prepares tea in her home in Samdzong, northwestern Mustang, Nepal. In the past, Himalayan medicines, Buddhist scriptures, and even snow leopard pelts would be traded for tea, such was the value of commodity trading. Each commodity (and in particular tea) was a currency in itself.

It’s me-time, essentially, facilitated by tea.

I also share tea time with my family, which adds another layer of meaning. My son is four years old and, believe it or not, he’s already a little tea drinker! We have a tiny Yixing clay teapot that is “his” and a small bowl. When I brew, I’ll pour him a bit. It’s amazing – even at four, he’s learned that tea is something to be handled with care. He knows the tea is hot, so he blows on it and sips slowly. I watch him and I see how tea teaches patience. He can’t guzzle it; he must take his time. And he sees that I treat tea with a certain respect – using special cups made by artisan friends of mine, for example. Those teaware pieces carry their own stories, so when I handle them gently, he senses that importance too.

Sometimes, rather than thinking grand thoughts, I just savour the physical and mental sensation tea gives. That gentle alertness and calm – it resets me. It’s like each cup is an opportunity to say, okay, pause, breathe, then continue. In a way, tea is the antidote to the frantic pace of modern life for me. It’s probably why I rarely leave home without some tea in my bag; I know I can create a peaceful bubble for myself anywhere with it.

Interestingly, earlier in life, I might have answered this question by talking about taste or health or culture. And those are all still part of it – I mean, I do love the taste of a well-aged pu’er or the texture of a creamy oolong. But above all, tea has become synonymous with quality time. Whether I’m alone contemplating or sitting down with a dear friend for a chat, tea signals: let’s be present, let’s appreciate this moment. It’s almost like a punctuation mark in the day, one that says, “slow down here.”

I also think of tea as a connector through time.

By that, I mean, when I drink tea, I often feel connected to the past and future. I imagine the centuries of people who did the same routine – boiling water, steeping leaves – and it gives a comforting sense of continuity. And I project forward, hoping my son will carry on and have his own tea moments and maybe remember that his dad taught him how to hold a tiny cup properly. Tea, in that sense, is time travel in a cup. It collapses generations.

There’s a saying I once heard from a tea grower: “Tea is the great green constant.” It’s something that’s always been there, quietly witnessing human history. When I hold a cup, I sometimes feel that consistency. No matter what craziness is happening in the world, that cup of tea is a small haven of constancy and peace.

So yes, tea equals time for me. Time is the most precious resource we have, and tea is my favourite way to spend it. If you have the luxury to devote even ten undistracted minutes to making and enjoying a cup, that’s a victory in today’s world. It recenters you. In those moments, I often feel a sense of gratitude for the farmers, for the clean water I have, for the quiet around me. It’s a simple act that can lead to profound feelings.

In short, a cup of tea now is my reminder to live slowly and thankfully, even as life rushes by. It’s a friend, a teacher, and a mirror all at once, reflecting whatever I bring to it.

PHOTO CREDITS: Jeff Fuchs