A Truly Good Cup of Coffee
Until a few years ago, it was difficult to get a truly good cup of coffee in Switzerland. By now, people here have come to realize that it’s worth giving this topic the attention it deserves. If we want to brew a good cup of coffee, we need to pay attention to several factors: good, as pure as possible, water that neither smells of chlorine nor is overly hard; fine beans that have been carefully grown, harvested, dried, and roasted; and a precise grinder capable of producing a very fine grind when needed. If these conditions are met, we don’t necessarily need an expensive machine. A small coffee maker or hot water with a paper filter can suffice.
It also takes someone who can skillfully prepare coffee and enjoys drinking it themselves. Over the years, they develop a refined sense of what makes a cup of coffee truly good. Each brewing method calls for its own parameters: How many grams of beans are needed for one serving? How fine should the grind be? How much water is needed, and at what temperature? Anyone who makes espresso will eventually notice that the grounds behave differently depending on the humidity. The grinder may then need to be readjusted.
Just as the Japanese tea ceremony is closely linked to Zen and can be understood as a path of practice, for me, making coffee is also a form of meditation. In a well-made espresso, all the conditions of its preparation come together. We can distinguish and describe its aroma, color, texture, and taste. Yet none of these aspects alone is sufficient to fully grasp the coffee. The same is true of Zen. We can describe it through various aspects and try to convey something of it to others—for example, through the sixteen Bodhisattva Precepts, the Noble Eightfold Path, or the four kinds of nourishment.
We can also single out just two aspects: samatha and vipassanā. Both terms are usually known in the West by their Pāli names. Samatha stands for calming and gathering the mind, while vipassanā refers to clear observation and the understanding that arises from it. Just as the aroma and taste of coffee interact, so too do samatha and vipassanā depend on one another.
Imagine you’re splashing around in a pond. The water is muddy. First, you stop flailing about, and the coarsest sediment gradually begins to settle. Then your body and breathing also become calmer. The surface grows still; only gentle ripples remain, and finer particles slowly settle to the bottom. The water becomes clearer. Now you try to maintain this calm or return to it again and again. You become even more composed and concentrated, and you can perceive more clearly what is happening within and around you.
Concentration means directing our attention toward an object of meditation and returning to it again and again. This can be the breath, a visualization, or a theme for contemplation, such as impermanence or compassion. As we return to our object of meditation and examine it closely, concentration and insight deepen, and we come to understand more and more how the mind works. Concentration and insight do not arise separately, but together. In this process, the mind is like water: the more it comes to rest, the clearer it becomes. And the clearer it becomes, the more easily it finds rest. The stillness and clarity of water—and of the mind—are interdependent.
Why does this matter? Because it makes no sense to buy the most expensive coffee beans without understanding how the grinder and the brewing process work. In Zen, too, we must understand how the individual conditions work together. It’s about preparing a truly good cup of coffee. For you and for me.
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