What Is Chinese Tea Ceremony?

In the Chinese Soul, Tea Flows Like a Fragrance

As Lin Yutang once said, “So long as there is a pot of tea, the Chinese will be happy anywhere.”
From the ancient tale of Shennong tasting a hundred herbs, to Lu Yu’s Classic of Tea; from the bustling tea-horse trade of Tang dynasty Chang’an, to a single cup of tea beneath Jiangnan’s drizzling rain—tea has long transcended its function as a drink. It has become a quiet metaphor for the Chinese spirit.

But what exactly is the Chinese Way of Tea?

Is it the elegant tea-whisking rituals of the Tang and Song dynasties? The solitary tea moments of Ming literati beneath pine trees? Or the rough clay bowl of tea in a street-side teahouse?

Perhaps the answer lies folded within a thousand years of tradition—
The Way of Tea is China’s reverence for nature, its distillation of life, and the subtle refinement of the human heart.

Tang and Song: Tea as Art, Tea as Spirit

Before the Tang dynasty, tea was medicine, food, and a ritual offering.
It was only when Lu Yu wrote, “Tea as a beverage begins with Shennong,” that tea became a subject of philosophy and aesthetic pursuit.

In the Tang dynasty, the jiancha (boiled tea) method emphasized the “three boils”: the first like fish eyes, the second like bubbling springs, the third like roaring waves. Scholars gathered over tea and poetry—Bai Juyi once wrote,
“Sitting, I sip the murmuring water, watching the dust swirl in the boiling pot.”

The Song dynasty brought tea artistry to its zenith. Diancha (whisking powdered tea) flourished. Cai Xiang’s Record of Tea described how powdered tea was whisked into white foam. Song Huizong, a connoisseur-emperor, praised tea's ideal qualities as “clear, mild, light, and pure” in Treatise on Tea.

Tea contests compared not just flavor, but waterlines, color, and aroma. A single cup held the full elegance of human existence.

But the Song tea ceremony, for all its brilliance, became ornate and distant—beautiful, yet burdened by its formality. It was in the Ming dynasty that tea shed its layers of refinement and returned to simplicity.

The Ming Dynasty: From Grandeur to Grace

With a single imperial edict, the Hongwu Emperor banned compressed tea cakes, ushering in the era of loose-leaf tea.
From then on, tea leaves could stretch freely in boiling water, and tea returned from palaces to the people.

Ming tea drinkers valued purity. Tu Long wrote in Miscellaneous Records of Leisure:
“Tea has its own true fragrance—do not pollute it with flowers or fruit.”
A few fresh leaves, a pot of spring water—that was all it took to taste the essence of tea.

The pursuit of simplicity was never careless. The Ming elite were obsessive about water: Jade Spring’s clarity, Huishan Spring’s sweetness, even rainwater from the plum-blossom season.
As Zhang Dai famously put it:
“Tea’s nature is awakened by water. Eight-point tea meets ten-point water, and becomes ten-point tea.”

Wen Zhenheng wrote in Treatise on Superfluous Things:
“Mountain spring water is best, river water second, well water worst.”
A ladle of water, a cup of tea—each was a gift from heaven and earth.

Ming tea was solitary yet social, refined yet earthy—a dialogue between "chess, calligraphy, painting, poetry, wine, and tea" and "firewood, rice, oil, salt, soy sauce, vinegar, and tea."

The Realm of Tea: Between Humanity and the Wild

The heart of Chinese tea is not technique, but spirit.

Tang monk Jiaoran once wrote:
“One cup dispels sleep, and the world brightens in my heart;
A second clears the mind, like rain washing dust from the air.”
Tea and Zen are deeply entwined. Master Zhaozhou’s famous phrase, “Go have some tea,” captures the Zen path of seeing the sacred in the ordinary.

Ming thinker Chen Jiru said:
“One finds clarity alone, delight in company, and flavor among friends.”
Drinking alone, tea is a mirror to the soul. Drinking with others, tea becomes a bridge between minds.

In Wen Zhengming’s painting Huishan Tea Gathering, elderly scholars sit beneath ancient pines, a boy tends the kettle, mist curls from the teapot—blending tea smoke with mountain fog. One cannot tell if it’s the person tasting the tea, or the tea transforming the person.

The highest realm of tea is forgetting both self and world.
Li Yu wrote in Leisure Notes:
“When drinking tea, the heart must be empty. Watch the fire smoke rise and vanish—nothing more.”
A pot of tea, a window of moonlight, a peaceful heart—that is the most exquisite moment in the world.

Between Refinement and Daily Life: The Warmth of Tea

The Way of Tea in China has never been the exclusive realm of scholars.

In Along the River During the Qingming Festival, teahouses line the riverside, where boatmen and merchants pause for rest.
In Lao She’s Teahouse, a strong brew of coarse tea, peanuts and sunflower seeds, and a storyteller’s voice—it was the joy of ordinary life.

The Painted Boats of Yangzhou recorded the lively hum of morning teahouses—water boiling, laughter flowing, chess games in progress.
Tea could be West Lake Longjing brewed in a Yixing pot, or jasmine petals steeped in a chipped bowl. Elegance and earthiness were never far apart.

Zhang Dai recalled teahouses in Dream Recollections of Tao An:
“Water pure as jade ribbon, tea delicate as orchid snow, vessels always rinsed—never unclean.”
Even in the city’s dust, there was a pursuit of purity.

Today’s Way of Tea: Inheritance and Rebirth

Modern Chinese tea is a living tradition—rooted in ancient methods, open to modern creativity.

In Chaoshan, gongfu tea rituals still follow the symbolic gestures of “Guan Yu Patrolling the City” and “Han Xin Counting Soldiers.”
In the Wuyi Mountains, tea makers still roast oolong over glowing charcoal for days and nights without rest.

Meanwhile, young people in cities are redefining tea—with cold brews, tea lattes, and east-west fusions.

But whatever the form, the essence remains unchanged:
Through tea, we encounter the world, others, and ourselves.

Writer Zhou Zuoren once said:
“Tea should be drunk under a tiled roof and paper windows, with spring water and green leaves, in plain ceramic cups, with two or three close friends. Half a day of leisure like this is worth ten years of worldly toil.”

The Way of Tea Is the Way of Life

Chinese tea is not a rigid rule—it is an art of living.

It can be Su Shi boiling river water on a snowy night,
Wang Zengqi picking up tea on a casual market stroll,
Or just a cup of ripe pu’er after a family meal.

The Way of Tea is the balance between complexity and simplicity, between elegance and the everyday.
It is the wisdom of knowing when to hold on, and when to let go.

As the Ming thinker Feng Kebin put it:
“Tea suits quietness. It suits clarity. It suits solitude. And it suits the company of the like-minded.”

One leaf has risen and fallen for a thousand years.
All we need do is raise the cup, and drink this fleeting moment of serenity.

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