Katherine Gregor

Follow author Add as friend Message author Subscribe to updates from author Subscribe via RSS
Katherine Gregor (a.k.a. Scribe Doll) is a literary translator and scribbler who has also been an EFL teacher, theatrical agent, press agent, theatre director, complementary medicine practitioner, and one or two other things. Perhaps that's why the literary characters she relates to most are Arlecchino, Truffaldino, Gianni Schicchi and Scapin, and feels empathy with crows, squirrels and cats. She lives in Norwich, Norfolk.

Tea Ceremony

A gentle hum that grows louder, then turns into a hiss that becomes a gurgle  The water is boiling, bubbling, impatient.  The teacher removes the electric kettle from its base, and pours its contents into a clear glass pitcher.  This hot waterfall emits steam, like gossamer climbing up the inside walls of the container, then spreading in the room, invisible, yet present.  

 

Patience is about waiting and being open to wonder.

 

A few seconds later, the teacher pours the water into all the double-bottomed glass cups arranged on a slatted bamboo tray.  The winter sun filtering through the window gives the small, clear glass a glow.  Another kettleful of water is put to boil.

 

It is by watching that you discover magical secrets.

 

He sits on the small black cushion on the floor, while we, his students, form a horseshoe around the small, beechwood tea table.  Some sit on chairs, others on the floor.  Nobody speaks.  He takes the earthenware bowl with the tea, and passes it around.  In turn, each of us gently fingers the black leaves, feeling the texture, smelling the slightly tart scent.

 

There are a thousand worthy words concealed in silence.

 

One by one, the teacher empties the cups into the slatted tray.  When the bowl of tea is returned to him, he tips the contents into a new glass pitcher.  The black leaves fall down the transparent shaft, with a soft rustling sound.  Once again, he transfers the freshly-boiled water into a glass pitcher, waits a few seconds, then pours it on the tea leaves, and puts the lid on.  Slowly.  Tea leaves, swelling with water, rise through a wavy sea of deepening amber, swirling, gathering on the surface where they linger for a minute or so.  We watch as the first tea leaf detaches itself from the other and gently sways down, landing lightly on the bottom of the pitcher.  Other leaves follow, and soon they are all quitting the surface, drifting to the bottom.  The infusion is now a rich golden amber.  

 

Who would have thought that there is so much beauty is watching tea draw?

 

The teacher pours the tea into every cup.  We all take ours but nobody drinks yet.  Each cradles the cup in the palms of his or her hand, admiring the colour, inhaling the steam, slowly, eventually bringing the tea up to our faces, feeling the warm condensation on our noses, guiding it through our nostrils until we can define its fragrance, delicate, slightly smokey, and send it down our throats and into our lungs.  

 

True pleasure is in sensing every detail, every stage, every minute impression.

 

We take our first sip, hold the hot liquid in our mouths, inhale through our noses, filling our lungs.  The terrain for a full experience of the flavour has been prepared.  After expelling the air, we swallow the tea.  A velvety, smokey, subtle tartness fills our mouths, then trickles down to our stomachs, like warm gold.

 

If you honour the food and drink, it will honour your body.

 

Red Robe Oolong.  Reserved for honoured guests.  It grows on the mountains of the Fujian Province, in China.  They say the mother of an emperor of the Ming Dynasty was cured of a serious illness by drinking this tea.  The grateful emperor sent swathes of Imperial red cloth to dress the bushes from which this tea had been picked.  Others say this tea saved the life of a much-respected scholar at the Emperor's court.

 

A small, shrivelled leaf that bursts with magic.

 

We take another sip.  It never tastes like the first.  The surprise is replaced with a closer acquaintance with the taste of the drink, a closer awareness of its effect on our bodies.  The third sip is pleasure, pure, rewarding pleasure.

 

Awareness flings open the gates to a universe of unlimited possibilities.

It's not just about drinking tea, it's about getting to know it like a friend, getting to know yourself, getting to know the world.  It's about learning, and learning leading to loving.

 

Happy Chinese New Year to all!

Scribe Doll

Recent Comments
Rosy Cole
Orientals have indeed refined the art of mindfulness. I'm fond of Lapsang Souchong and Black Oolong and have always maintained tea... Read More
Monday, 04 February 2019 00:23
Katherine Gregor
Chinese philosophy and Daoism are much closer to the Laws of Nature than, sadly, Western thought. I blame the Church (please note... Read More
Monday, 04 February 2019 08:25
Monika Schott
As a tea drinker, l love this. The second sip is never the same as the first! ?
Monday, 04 February 2019 03:25
484 Hits
8 Comments

A Shapeshifter at Play

All the windows are locked.  Curtains closed.  Blinds pulled down all the way to the sills.  Even so, its chilly breath hisses through the tiny gaps and reaches my knees.  There is an occasional tremor in the candle flames on the coffee table.  The nervous awareness of the force outside.  The normally vocal pigeons on our roof are silent.  The shapeshifting dragon is letting rip, giving a spectacle of its histrionic power.  Now it soars into the skies, its tail lashing the dark clouds, sending crackling rain to slam against the window panes.  Now it's a tiger roaring in the night, sending a rumble rippling through the air.  Now a witch slaloming between chimneys on her broomstick, her impish giggle tickling the stars.  Then a gigantic owl, screeching in the roof, its wings whooshing in the air.  Then it swells into a tempestuous sea, foaming lips gnawing at the cliffs, then ebbing away before gathering into waves rising tall, fearless, tossing ships like juggling balls.  All of a sudden it retreats, quietens down, vanishes, like a memory you doubt.  Odd phrases of a tune that haunts you but which you cannot quite remember.  But, just two minutes later, it's a dragon again, spewing flames like a Venetian glassmaker's furnace, the bewitching fire of an Andalusian gypsy – spinning, swirling, lunging, turning raindrops into needles of ice, the supersonic speed of its flight making the windows quiver.  I am king, the dragon says. I am emperorAnd you've seen nothing yet. 

 

"It sounds like everything's about to come crashing down," H. says, looking up at the high ceiling of our living room.

I feel electrified, a thrill stroking my skin, like fingertips running up and down my spine, a sense of excitement and joy swelling inside me.  That and the unwavering sense that the power outside is choosing to keep me safe.

"I love – I've always loved the wind," I say.

 

Scribe Doll

 

 

 

 

Recent Comments
Stephen Evans
Marvelous!
Tuesday, 29 January 2019 17:31
Katherine Gregor
Thank you!
Thursday, 31 January 2019 16:12
Rosy Cole
Who needs Kay Nielsen and John Bauer?! Graphic and atmospheric! I feel the same, but could not express it as picturesquely as you.... Read More
Thursday, 31 January 2019 19:10
424 Hits
4 Comments

Telephone Nostalgia

It suddenly occurs to me that it's been months since anybody called our landline.  Except for my mother, of course.  Day after day, when I check the phone after coming back home, the display is always the same.  0 Calls.  0 Messages.  Come to think of it, hardly anybody ever phones at all.  I do get the occasional call on my mobile but even then, they have become an increasingly rare event in my life.  So much so that when the landline or the mobile ring, I jump, wary, assuming it's either a wrong number or someone demanding that I do something.  I no longer consider the possibility of  hearing  "Hi, Katia.  How are you? I just wanted to hear your voice and catch up".   

I often call a dear friend who lives in London – so we don't get to meet very often –  and a precious friend who resides at the opposite end of the country, and I haven't seen for over ten years.  But I call them.  Although when they pick up the phone, they sound pleased to hear my voice (either that or it's wishful thinking on my part), the fact that I am always the one to initiate telephone contact makes me wonder if they simply put up with my quirk because they're fond of me, but that among the rest of Western humanity, it's a custom that has gone the way of letter writing and non-digital cameras.  

One London friend sometimes calls me on my mobile, and there's my American aunt who sometimes rings me on the landline.  Other than that, it's text messages and e-mails.  Maybe it's the kind of friends and acquaintances I keep.  I can't remember the last time anybody called and actually spoke to me when inviting us over for lunch, dinner or to suggest coffee in town.  It's either a text message or an e-mail.  No tone of voice suggesting the person's mood or state of health, no opportunity for a brief moment of warmth with words exchanged a viva voce.  Just emoticons.  I, too, used to include emoticons in my messages, but I do so less and less now.  I actually dislike emoticons.  Intensely.  Centuries of languages, poetry, the Renaissance, the Enlightenment, the Sturm und Drang, millennia of words in all shapes, colours, sounds and subtle nuances and I get a lazy, bland 😀🤣👍👏🏻or 😘.  A fellow blogger I've become friendly with, recently removed the Likeoption from his blog.  As I understand it, his point is that if we enjoyed what he's written, then he would like us to express it in our own words.  And not resort to a lazy "Like".  I must admit, I often find the lengthy process of leaving a fully-worded comment a little trying but then, once I have made the effort, I feel like saying, "Thank you, my friend, for forcing me to use my imagination and my brain."  

I don't particularly like social calls on my mobile.  The reception quality is often capricious, there is the background noise to contend with if I am in the street, and my ear gets hot after a while.  Moreover, I am never able to concentrate fully when on my mobile.  At home, on the landline, on the other hand, I can sit down and give him or her my undivided attention.  

I get frustrated with the ping-pong of social text messaging or WhatsApp-ing.  I wish I could just continue the exchange in good old-fashioned human speech.

Text messages are very convenient for brief messages, or if you don't know if it's a suitable moment to call someone.  But then what's wrong with phoning and saying, "Is it a good time to talk now or shall I ring you back?" Text messages have their place.  But sometimes I would like to hear the person's voice, assess their tone, detect their mood or their humour – without a standard computerised emoji sign posting it.  Also, I like to hear a friend say, at the end of a telephone conversation, "OK, big hug" or "Love you" or "Mwah" instead of the obligatory "x" at the end of a text message or e-mail.  

I prefer face to face contact to talking over the phone.  But, when meeting is not possible, a telephone call provides a personal touch a text message or e-mail simply haven't.  And, for all its convenient brevity, I find it much quicker to call someone and get an answer straight away, than using my large, clumsy finger pads on the screen of my smartphone – and waiting for the other person to respond.  

After I have cooked a meal and entertained guests, I would far rather receive a thank you call the next day, than a text message.

Yes, I too, am guilty of overusing texts and e-mails. I guess because people don't use the phone to make a voice call, I am often reluctant to ring them for fear of disturbing them.

As they say in Russian, when you live with wolves, you start howling like a wolf.

Well, I don't want to howl anymore.  I want to talk to people.  I want to hear their voices, in all their nuances.

Scribe Doll

 

311 Hits
0 Comments

New Year Resolutions?

I've binned my 2018 New Year's resolutions. Unopened.  They were past their use-by date.  Somehow, they ended up being kicked under the bed or falling behind bookcases, where dust grows in tumbleweed form, buried under dictionaries on my desk, or accidentally stepped on and crushed. 

 

No matter.  They've served their purpose.  They've made me aware of my true intentions.  Of where my focus truly lay and of where it was lacking.  

 

As I threw them all into the recycling bin, I wondered if I should form new resolutions for 2019.  Where would I put them, so they wouldn't get lost again? On top of the tower of books I hope to read, ever-growing and neglected in favour of all the books I feel I have to read for my work? This novel won a prize.  I'd better read it in case I can pitch a translation proposal to a publisher.  Next to the address book with the contact details of all the friends I've lost touch with? I must call or write to them.  I haven't seen them for ages.  But first I must finish this translation.  And then I have this other book deadline.  I haven't got time to see them right now, anyway.  I can only take one day off this month and I have to go and see my mother.  That reminds me, I promised to buy her those Italian biscuits.  Or in my writing folder? I must definitely write tomorrow.  Or possibly over the weekend.  My own stuff.  I'm too tired now.  I can't think straight.  It's past 9 o'clock and I've been translating since early morning.  But I really must write.  I know I've been saying this for months.  Oh, and I must remember to buy some more potatoes.  And do we have any yoghurt left? I'd better check the fridge...  When did I start writing this book...? Oh, I had no idea it's been this long.  How about sticking a list of resolutions to the mirror?  When did I last look at myself in the mirror? I mean really look at myself? I look so haggard, so tired, so grey.  Or perhaps I can add it to my list of travel plans?  Yes, I'd love to go there but not this weekend.  This weekend I really need to work.  I'm so behind already.  Besides, can I afford to spend the money? What if publishers don't offer me another translation project after this? 

I once saw a cartoon on Twitter.  A woman approaching an aged writer sitting at a café table.  "I'm a huge fan of your intentions," she says, shaking hands with him.  I've printed it and stuck it on my wall, where I can see it.

 

For 2019, no New Year's resolutions.  No more living in the future.  As Mame sings in Jerry Hermann's fabulous musical, "It's Today!" The time is now.  

 

No more planning.  But doing.  

 

Take a deep breath.  Focus on my intention.  Direct it... Now.

 

I wish all my readers a happy, healthy, prosperous, creative and fulfilling 2019!

Scribe Doll

 

Recent Comments
Nicholas Mackey
Happy New Year, Katya and thank you for articulating so well the thoughts of every struggling writer - myself included. You're abs... Read More
Sunday, 06 January 2019 21:21
Katherine Gregor
Go for it!. A very happy New Year to you and your family! (Katia with an "i", please)
Monday, 07 January 2019 09:14
Rosy Cole
Modern life. Exactly this! These days I feel grateful for a long wait at the level crossing so that I can have a good 'think' with... Read More
Tuesday, 08 January 2019 13:47
307 Hits
4 Comments

Writing For Life

We are a small, friendly community who value writing as a tool for developing a brighter understanding of the world and humanity. We share our passions and experiences with one another and with a public readership. ‘Guest’ comments are welcome. No login is required. In Social Media we are happy to include interesting articles by other writers on any of the themes below. Enjoy!


Latest Blogs

As we all know, I have a low threshold of fascination. Today for example as I have been working on a book, I have also been keeping an eye on my pet...
We were in Paris this time last year.  I was enjoying the buzz and feeling shortchanged: we don’t have national holidays in England, at least none t...
"There is nothing inorganic... The earth is not a mere fragment of dead history, stratum upon stratum like the leaves of a book, to be studied by ge...
The fountain pen feels heavy in my hand.  I haven't written for a long time.  I mean written – not typed.  That I do every day, all day.  Click, click...
Tennis courts may be covered over and croquet lawns may have disappeared beneath overgrowth upon overgrowth, but the football pavilion still stands a...

Latest Comments

Katherine Gregor Paris, 14 Juillet
20 July 2019
Independently of my own views about the monarchy, I feel it is poor show not to make the Queen's off...
Stephen Evans Paris, 14 Juillet
20 July 2019
No - In DC, a big concert on the mall in front of the Lincoln Memorial and lots of firework.
Stephen Evans Living Poetry
20 July 2019
More things in heaven and earth...
Rosy Cole Living Poetry
19 July 2019
This is so consoling.
Rosy Cole Paris, 14 Juillet
19 July 2019
I think there are some complex answers to this question to do with the economy, sensitive racial iss...