정(Jeong) in a Cup: The Korean Art of Sharing Through Tea
The Bond in the Cup
The Bond in the Cup
Last Sunday in Zurich, I found myself in a quiet gallery—white walls, soft light—and came face to face with something I used to overlook: Korean culture.
The exhibition was called 한류 (Hallyu)—the Korean Wave.
Posters from dramas I used to hear in the background.
K-pop songs that once played from someone else’s speaker.
Traditional clothes I used to avoid, thinking they were just for holidays.
Back then, I was a student. Korean culture felt like homework, not heritage.
But there I was, two decades later, thousands of kilometers from home, watching strangers lean in—smiling, nodding—recognizing the very things I once brushed aside.
That recognition?
It wasn’t about trend.
It was about connection.
And in Korea, the purest form of connection isn’t a gift, or a hug, or even a word.
It’s a cup of tea.
In Korea, Sharing Tea Was Never Just About Drinking
Tea in old Korea was rare. Sacred, even.
Not because of taste—but because of what it meant.
It was:
Picked only once a year, with spring’s first breath.
Grown wild, deep in untouched mountain forests.
Reserved for monks, kings, and scholars.
Harder to find than food.
Took longer to prepare than silk.
Sometimes cost more than silver.
You drank tea because someone believed you were worth the time.
And when someone served you that tea—
they were offering a piece of themselves. Their hands. Their season. Their soil.
We call that 정 (Jeong).
A bond not born of blood, but built through care—carried over time.
The Last Grandmaster of the Bond
In a quiet valley in Hadong, where mist gathers between tea trees like breath between thoughts, lives an 82-year-old man.
His name is 박수근 (Park Soo-Geun). He may be the last of his kind.
He roasts each batch of tea by hand. Nine times.
Waits an entire year before releasing a single jar.
Uses only wild-grown Korean tea trees—each over 25 years old, their roots stretching 20 meters deep into untouched earth.
It takes 50 kilos of fresh leaves to make just 5 kilos of finished tea.
No machines.
No shortcuts.
No help.
To him, tea is not a product.
It’s a legacy of effort. A living expression of 정.
What You’re Holding Isn’t Just Tea
When someone pours you this tea, they’re not just serving you.
They’re trusting you.
They’re inviting you to hold:
A grandfather’s quiet method, passed down in breath and bone.
A forest’s patience, measured in decades.
The silence of fire, wrapped into every curled leaf.
You don’t need to speak Korean.
You don’t need to be from Korea.
All that matters is the cup.
And what it carries.
This Is the Bond We Must Protect
Korean wild tea isn’t a trend.
It’s not a product to scale or a story to export.
It’s memory you can hold.
A moment when culture becomes care—when strangers become friends.
And that—more than fashion, more than soft power—
is why Korean wild tea, real tea, tea made with 정,
is something worth remembering.
And something worth protecting.
Taste the 정(Jeong)