Crouching down, you enter the nijiriguchi (躙口), a deliberately designed crawl door. Its form demands a humble entry, obliging even the most distinguished guest to leave behind any sense of self-importance and bow low as they pass through. Inside, the space opens into the intimate dimensions of a mere two tatami mats. 

Your knees settle onto the kyaku tatami (客畳)—the mat reserved for guests. The air carries a cool, faintly earthy scent. Rough clay walls contribute to a style emphasising natural materials. Overhead, the low ceiling seems to press downward, drawing you closer to the earth.

Across from you, Sen no Rikyū tends to the ro (炉), the small sunken hearth. Each movement is deliberate, his actions imbued with intention as he boils the water. The faint hiss of steam rises, merging with the room's stillness. You watch his hands—steady and precise—as he prepares the implements. The tea bowl, the chawan (茶碗), rests securely in his hands, held with the ease of a master’s familiarity.

As you sit within the simplicity of the architecture, your gaze settles on the tokonoma (床の間), the alcove. It is in the murodoko (室床) style, where plain clay is plastered onto the ceiling, creating an unadorned aesthetic. Framing the alcove is the slender tokobashira (床柱), a vertical support post with cedar knots purposefully left visible in their natural imperfection. Hanging within is a solitary kakejiku (掛軸) scroll, its surface adorned with kanji characters rendered in expressive brushstrokes. You appreciate their aesthetic qualities rather than attempting to decipher their meaning.

When Rikyū places the tea before you, his movements are unhurried. You bow, lifting the bowl with both hands. As you turn it slowly, its rough, asymmetrical form invites your admiration, its texture and heft carrying the weight of history in your palms. The first sip of the koicha (濃茶), a concentrated preparation of matcha, is bold and complex, with a nuanced bitterness balanced by subtle sweetness and umami. 

There follows a moment of shared silence. As the ceremony ends, Rikyū cleans each tool and returns it to its designated place. You bow once more and then rise and exit the tea room, crawling back through the nijiriguchi. The experience has simultaneously elevated and grounded you.

This account describes what it might have been like to experience chanoyu (茶の湯), the tea ceremony, with Sen no Rikyū, the celebrated 16th-century master of the art, inside Tai-an (待庵), the tea room he designed. Rikyū is believed to have built this room at his residence around 1582. It is the only one of his structures still in existence. It was later carefully dismantled and relocated to its current home at Myoki-an, a Zen temple of the Rinzai Sect, situated on Kyoto’s southwest side near the banks of the Katsuragawa.