Chado in Japan has always been a man's discipline. It was a semi-monastic life in service to the shogunate and to the emperor. Not until Japan opened to the West and abolished feudalism did women begin to practice. And then, if women were newly allowed into places it's because men no longer deigned to go there. Now, more women than men practice chado, to my Kyoto teacher's dismay. In part, they do this because it improves their marriage prospects. But, that is not zen-based chado.

What does it feel like to be the elevated one at a chakai hosted entirely by men? All of them dressed in black, the seal of their suzerain sewn into the seam at the neck. They hasten across the tatami, the crisp flats of hakama rustling at the pace. They drop; they bow. Young black crowns, careful hands. They sleep in treasures—half guards, half treasures themselves.

It is one of the most remarkable things I have ever seen. A swarm of men, serving tea. If you think about it—and I thought about it—there can be no better matcha in the world. Most people will never have the finest of a thing; but here I am, having the finest of something. No others more learned, no ingredients or materials more refined. This is not a moment to be acquired, it occurs only because of serendipity. I am glad that I had the self-possession to notice what it was, at the moment, their slender figures in hakama scything in and out of the room.

They showed us where they lived.

The well that's always been there. Each day they determine the amount of water they will need for the day and they draw it all in small bucketfuls between 4:00a.m. and 6:00a.m.—the hour of the Tiger, when yang shifts to yin and the water is in balance.

All the famous rooms you only read about and catch glimpses of in accompanying snapshots. The old practice room has hosted notable guests: Kofi Annan, Mick Jagger—and Mick at the recommendation of David Bowie.

The house renews with the seasons: Bamboo drain pipes are replaced each year, for example. Roofs are rethatched periodically, not because the thatch degrades but because the birds pick it apart to make nests.

They explained that the house is equipped with a modern sprinkler system to protect against fire. But because the aesthetic harmonies of the rooms can't be disturbed, the intricate and sophisticated system is obscured.

That is something I admire: Embracing the technological imperative and making it yield to what is important to you.

We put on our zori and stepped into the filtered light of the garden. As our eyes adjusted, the entranceway darkened. The moment shut completely, like a door. Just as I could become aware of being welcomed into something rare and delicate, so I also noted how quickly and surely I was gently ushered out.