Whether under a mounting sun or a fading one, time stops in the garden for tea. Wandering down paths in an almost meditative trance, one can find few moments in the day as contemplative and tranquil as those spent snipping scented leaves and flowers straight into the teapot. Then to settle on a bench, steeping the cuttings in simmering water as hints of fragrant steam escape from the spout, has been for centuries a spiritual, ceremonious event that transcends cultures.

Taking tea in the garden is a concept as old as tea itself. Asian traditions all value the reflective qualities of good tea enjoyed in a special setting, and Eastern cultures have long since stressed the importance if creating unique garden backdrops in which tea may be the central focus.

Some historians believe the tradition goes back as far as man's own beginnings, as discoveries of ancient Chinese cave-dwelling sites have revealed evidence in the form of wall etchings of prehistoric people collecting herbs to brew in a healing, sacred practice. The notion of taking tea outside was inherent to the development of Asian tea gardens, as the culture dictated the act of drawing spiritual and physical invigoration from the natural world. Tea gardens were slower to spread in the West, where man's urge to dominate nature made the relationship between the mind, body and nature more antagonistic. Europeans did not embrace the discipline of taking tea in the garden or countryside until the late 1700s, when it became fashionable to do so. Once it began however, gazebos and teahouses became au courant, and since then, teatime in the garden has never completely ceased as a part of daily European life.

Indeed, contemporary gardens are revisiting the time-honored traditions of designs that are practical and simple, yet visually appealing and physically usable. One of the strongest trends in West Coast gardening-where landscaping movements tend to be the most inventive-is a renewed emphasis on creating separate spaces in which to be in the garden, no matter how large or small the space. Though it is an English concept to make "rooms" within the garden, this new movement is not simply a continuation of the idea of making gardens an extension of the house, but also creating a space in which to feel a deep, powerful connection with the garden, and nature itself.

In Japanese culture, a garden is considered one of the highest art forms, expressing in a limited space the essence of nature through the use of selected plants and stones, It is to be a sanctuary through which people walk to cleanse themselves in preparation for taking tea. Even in small spaces, large landscapes are represented. At the Japanese Tea Garden in San Francisco, for example, the Zen Garden represents a modern version of a dry garden - kare sansu - which symbolizes a miniature mountain scene complete with stone waterfall and a small island surrounded by a gravel river. Makoto Hagiwara, a wealthy Japanese landscape designer, was responsible for making the garden a permanent fixture in San Francisco, as it was constructed originally as the "Japanese Village" at the 1894 California Midwinter International Exposition, or the World's Fair.

The garden, which is the oldest public Japanese garden in the United States, was designed in a rustic style to address the rugged site and its surroundings. Originally, it included a large public area and a small, private area for the Hagiwara family. Makoto Hagiwara actually constructed the garden, its pavilions and its teahouse, increasing the size from one acre to five. Since then, the teahouse has been the focus of the garden, emerging majestically from behind countless varieties of cherry blossom trees, such as the Equinox or Rosebud Cherry, biqan zakura, and more rare ones like the Golden Flower Cherry. Crossing a short, tall bridge to reach the teahouse, visitors are invited to peruse the simple menu of jasmine, green, oolong, and iced teas served with a complimentary bowl of almond, sesame seed and fortune cookies, as well as rice crackers. In fact, the Hagiwara family was actually responsible for introducing the fortune cookie to the U.S. to be enjoyed while taking tea at the teahouse. In addition to the landscaping and building, Hagiwara imported plants, bronzes, goldfish, rare Japanese birds, statues, a Shinto Shrine, a porcelain lantern, a wooden Buddha, and more. The family lived in, maintained and enhanced the garden from 1895 until 1942 and the beginning of World War II, when they were forced to relocate to concentration camps with other Americans of Japanese descent.

In its native, densely populated Japan, a tea garden is most commonly constructed in a very small area. "I consider how easy it is to be content with a small space," wrote Tao Yuanming, a fourth-century poet. "Every day I stroll in the garden for pleasure ... and walk around my lonely pine tree, stroking it." And to this day, the Japanese tea garden is appreciated as a place where people are to be made constantly aware of their interconnectedness with the natural world. Uninformed Westerners may see the traditional Japanese tea garden as more contrived than natural because so many of the tea garden's architectural elements, including plant selection and placement, are highly emblematic. But Japanese culture is immersed in literary and spiritual allusion, thus every object and plant in the garden carries enormous meaning in an effort to evoke the natural world. The overriding idea is that the link between nature and humans is just as much a spiritual one as a physical one, and the role of tea is a physical representation of that bond.

Ultimately, the tea garden, or roji, which means dewy garden path, evolved into a romanticized retreat from the stress of daily life. Many could not afford the stately, dramatic teahouses of the wealthy, so they constructed "tea huts" in the garden, tiny structures that were often no more than one square yard in size. Inside, four or five friends would gather, kneeling on tatami mats to take tea and discuss poetry and philosophy.

Sometimes the conversation could stray to art or music, but it would never consist of worldly or political dialogue, as the tea hut and the garden were meant to encourage contemplative thought.

According to tradition, visitors to a Japanese tea garden would prepare themselves to take tea by walking a narrow path that often zigzagged through a courtyard as a ceremonious act of leaving the outside world behind. Further, the jagged arrangement of the paths was meant to ward off evil spirits that may try to follow the visitor in hopes of deterring him from achieving a state of higher consciousness, in the evenings, stone lanterns lined the paths as symbols of a spiritual guide for those seeking enlightenment. Once they had reached the tea hut, guests would pause outside to dip their hands in a stone basin lull of water. A place for further purification, this area outside the tea hut was a place where worldly thoughts and problems could be symbolically washed away. The Japanese tea ceremony, which was developed some 500 years ago, heavily influenced the garden design, which until then had been modeled after the Chinese Buddhist philosophy of gardens, but evolved in Japan as Zen.

Similarities between Chinese and Japanese gardens abound. Both cultures typically had little land with which to work, and crowded cities eliminated possibilities of traditional sanctuaries until the city garden was established. The design of the Chinese garden is meant to embody the duality of nature, of yin and yang. It is thought that when a balance between the two is reached, harmony is achieved. This delicate balance is meant to stimulate all the senses subtly yet simultaneously. Hearing water trickle while wind wafts between the bamboo branches, a guest in a Chinese garden is meant to also smell spring blooms from orchids, feel the sensation of carefully laid mosaic stones underfoot and, eventually, taste a variety of Chinese and Japanese teas. Adding potential complexity is the fact that all this serenity, plant growth and careful artwork must often exist in the heart of a city.

In 2000, Portland, Ore., opened its Classical Chinese Garden to the public in the city's bustling Chinatown. Enclosing a full city block, the garden landscape moves from winding walkways over a bridged lake, past open pavilions to, eventually, a stately two-story teahouse. The first level of the teahouse opens onto the garden and includes a bar-type seating arrangement so that visitors may opt to sit gardenside as they sip tea and nibble on traditional Chinese tea snacks. The upstairs, traditionally a high view, is a more contemplative place for visitors to reflect on the garden and their own place in the natural world.

But how is this achieved next door to tall modern buildings alongside heavily trafficked streets? The Chinese tradition is to rely on "borrowed views." Because of limited space, landscapers and designers of Portland's Classical Chinese Garden were faced with a daunting challenge of creating myriad views in order to make the area seem larger than it is. This was accomplished by including curved walkways that traverse in and out of pagodas. Windows are carved in stone to reveal tiny, separate gardens simply meant to be reflected upon, not traversed. These are called "picture windows," and often include constructed light elements meant to resemble the black-and-white ink paintings admired by Chinese scholars. A waterfall disappears into a small lagoon made to look large with shadows from carefully placed tiles. Bridges that meander from left to right and up and down make it necessary for guests to take more steps than they would normally. dividing the overall area into a series of smaller gardens facing each other in "borrowed views."

Chinese gardens combine five elements: stone, water, architecture, literature and the arts, and plants. Westerners commonly consider what is done in the backyard as planting a garden. But in Chinese culture, this act is regarded as building a garden. Rather than imitate nature, a Chinese gardener tries to re-create it, building a miniature landscape of mountains, valleys and rivers, as well as their qi, or energy. Man's energy is most tangibly harnessed in the teahouse, where he partakes of nature, or seemingly becomes one with nature, by drinking tea.

Though Asian gardens existed well before the classic English gardens, there are fascinating similarities between the genre's two parent styles. Both rely on the sense of enclosure, of sealing oneself off from the hectic world. While Chinese and Japanese gardens strive to create a seamless separation between one world and the other, the English garden works to distinguish work from leisure, viewing the garden setting as a social place for enjoying oneself. "Nowhere is the English genius of domesticity more notably evident than in the festival of afternoon tea," George Gissing wrote in The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft. "The mere chink of cups and saucers tunes the mind to happy repose."

But while Asian and English gardens share the vital elements of enclosure and structure, this is where the similarities end. In fact, this is where their goals are opposite, as the Asian garden's intent is to blur the lines between man and nature while the English gardener is concerned with abundance and control within that enclosure. And the enclosures, themselves, were not the tiny plots of land skillfully landscaped to create a sense of expansiveness plotted by Japanese and Chinese gardeners. They were, instead, massive. In England, guidebooks refer to anything less than 10 acres as a "small" garden. Consider English novels by Jane Eyre, in which the characters always find themselves taking tea under silk parasols in a lovely, colorful tea garden. They munch of cress sandwiches and crumpets, plum cake with jam and biscuits. An English high tea is an abundant affair, with boiled eggs and cheese served alongside toasts and jams. High tea was originally meant to satisfy hungry farmers and laborers taking a break for tea to replenish themselves before heading into the rest of the long workday. In those situations, tea was primarily taken outside, and those workers were known for finding a quiet, lovely spot in which to enjoy their tea and food in a rejuvenating setting. They came to call those places their tea gardens.

Profusion is the key quality of English gardens, whether the area they cover is massive or small. Beds and borders are meticulously trimmed and shaped, but within them, bright, roving plantings abound. Generous clusters of a variety of daphnes, rhododendrons, viburnums, and mahonias flourish within their tidy confines, and zealous gardeners happily change the flowers to reflect the changing of seasons. Teas served in these gardens will reflect those shills, as seasonal herbs are planted with the intent of spicing the brew in accordance with the occasion. English gardens are very vouch social backdrops meant to set the happy, ebullient tone for celebratory events, from a romantic rendezvous to a family gathering or a ladies tea. Where in Asian tea gardens the intent is to balance with nature, the English tea garden is more of a stage on which to be performed by the wealthy, the social and the young at heart.

In any culture, the practice of making and taking tea in the garden is about dedicating time to mending one's spirit, whether in a festive way as the English do it, or by quiet, solitary means, as in Asian cultures. The most fundamental element of tea is the ceremony of it, which is perhaps impossible to avoid given the delicate, often time-consuming preparation it requires. So it shouldn't come as a surprise that gardens - traditionally places where one works alone, quietly and thoughtfully - grew up around tea. Regardless of how one chooses to enjoy tea, most seasoned tea takers would agree that sipping the brew of herbs and leaves harvested from the earth while immersing oneself in the very fold of that landscape can be an other-worldly experience.

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