The wind rises beneath the autumn bell flower, yellow grains of sands drops onto the desolate scenery. Sitting in a small group, brewing tea, under a light for the afternoon. With a needle and thread we embroider the ancient wisdom. The late afternoon frost climbs up the umber-black tiles. Shake off the frost; the tea is becoming cold! Strumming the Koto as if engaged in a conversation. Don’t you know you can speak through movements and grace?