by Beth Kempton
WAHI-SABI -INSPIRED WISDOM
FOR SIMPLIFYING AND BEAUTIFYING
• Beauty is in the heart of the beholder.
• When you realise you are perfectly imperfect already, you have less need for things to boost your self-image.
• Soulful simplicity is a source of delight.
TRY IT: EXPERIMENTING WITH SOULFUL SIMPLICITY
In a notebook, jot down some thoughts about the following:
• How does your physical space make you feel? What is your favourite thing about it? What would you like to change?
• What kind of objects do you own more of than you need?
• What accumulation habits do you have? What life habits might these be reflecting?
• What kind of items do you own that you treasure, and could use more in your daily life?
• What particular aspects of Japanese beauty and soulful simplicity inspire you? How could you bring these ideas into your own space?
• If you could let go of one thing in your life (material or otherwise), what would it be? What difference might that make? How could a deeper awareness of beauty and soulful simplicity support you in letting that go?
• What else in your life would you like to simplify?
• What is it that you really need?
M illions of tourists are drawn to Japan every year by the lure of its natural treasures – mountains, volcanoes, hot springs, subtropical beaches and some of the best snow in the world. There are reminders of nature and the seasons at every turn. People don’t just look at nature, they live inside it, name themselves after it, feast on it, wear it and are guided through life by it.
The nature connection
I’m shuffling along in my socks, trailing a Zen monk wearing samue (temple work clothes) and a small cloth cap. This monk from Zuihō-in Temple is a man of deep wisdom and scrolls of stories. I think I’m asking too many questions for such a quiet place, but he’s so fascinating I can’t help myself. I have booked an appointment to sit inside Taian, a replica of Sen no Rikyū’s original tea house, built in honour of the four-hundredth anniversary of his death. We have paused for a moment to admire a simple sand garden from the wooden veranda, when the monk notices two other temple visitors just around the corner.
One is a manicured guy with sharp clothes but tired eyes, carrying a silver-studded tote bag. Transplanted from the bustle and bright lights of Tōkyō by the bullet train in just a few hours to this quiet temple in Kyōto, he looks disoriented. The monk steps forward to talk to him.
‘Oi, have you come from Ginza?’ he asks in a surprisingly familiar tone.
‘No, Akasaka,’ blurts the man with the bloodshot eyes, looking to his girlfriend, as if for confirmation. She looks exhausted too.
‘What’s your job?’ the monk wants to know.
‘I work in commercial communications,’ the visitor replies, clearly unsure as to why he is having a career conversation with a Zen monk in a sand garden.
‘Huh? What’s that? You mean ads? Selling stuff?’
‘Umm … yes,’ says the man from Tōkyō, looking down at his stockinged feet uncomfortably.
It’s pretty obvious what the monk thinks of this career choice. It’s less a judgement than a show of pity for this guy, who clearly works late into the night, and probably survives on a diet of energy drinks and midnight rāmen.
‘I think spending time in a temple is going to do you good,’ says the monk. And then to me, ‘Do you mind?’
I had made a solo reservation to view the place, but this felt like a gathering of three weary travellers who could do with some tea-room serenity.
‘Of course not,’ I reply.
And so the monk takes us all under his wing and flies us into Taian, the smallest tea room I have ever seen. Made solely from individually selected pieces of wood, the tiny building is exquisite. Inside, hazy sunbeams filter through the paper-covered windows and hover in the air, searching in vain for dust motes. The corners are dark, yet the hanging scroll seems to glow in the tokonoma alcove.
In this intimate space, representing hundreds of years of culture and history, I break the silence to ask about wabi sabi.
The monk pauses for a moment, tilts his head and offers this: ‘ Wabi sabi is naturalness; it’s about things in their natural, most authentic state. That’s all.’
The man from Tōkyō nods his head slowly, recognition dawning on his face. ‘ Naruhodo,’ he says. ‘I see.’ And then, ‘How come I had to travel all this way, and wait all these years, and have a foreigner ask that question, before I could know the answer?’
The Japanese love of nature
The monk’s thoughts notwithstanding, it is unexpectedly challenging to explain the connection between wabi sabi and nature. It’s like trying to see something under a microscope, but getting up so close that it’s actually blurry. A wabi sabi world view is one predicated on the fundamental truths of nature and the cycle of life. Wabi sabi is borne of a people whose traditional view of nature is that they are part of, not separate from it. And yet because wabi sabi and nature are so closely related, we get this blurred view when trying to put words to that connection. To see it more clearly, we have to pull away a little, refocus our microscope and adjust our eyes.
According to the Cambridge English dictionary, nature is ‘all the animals, plants, rocks, etc. in the world and all the features, forces and processes that happen or exist independently of people, such as the weather, the sea, mountains, the production of young animals, or plants, and growth’ and ‘the force that is responsible for physical life and that is sometimes spoken of as a person’. 1 The main definition given in Kōjien , the Japanese equivalent of this dictionary, simply states: ‘Things as they are.’ 2
At its essence, the experience of wabi sabi is an intuitive response to beauty which reflects the true nature of things as they are. That is, a beauty which reminds us that everything is impermanent, imperfect and incomplete. This experience of wabi sabi is often felt in the presence of natural materials, which is why spending time in nature can be such a powerful experience. It reminds us that we are part of something miraculous. By momentarily lifting us out of the fog of to-do lists, chores and admin overwhelm, wabi sabi holds up a mirror to life’s magnificence – and in that mirror, we get a glimpse of ourselves.
The forest does not care what your hair looks like. The mountains don’t move for any job title. The rivers keep running, regardless of your social-media following, your salary or your popularity. The flowers keep on blooming, whether or not you make mistakes. Nature just is, and welcomes you, just as you are.
Our capacity to experience wabi sabi reconnects us to these truths, which allow us to feel, in the moment, unconditionally accepted.
The influence of nature on literature, art and culture
When I consulted with a Japanese professor on the translation of ‘living with nature’ they suggested shizen o mederu ( ), which actually means ‘loving nature’.
This endemic love of nature, which has ancient roots in religion, has heavily influenced the arts and literature over the centuries. Still today, nature influences the rhythms and rituals of daily life, and particular attention is paid to the changing seasons in Japan.
As a teenager, I had a haiku poem by Matsuo Bashō pinned on my bedroom wall. It read: ‘The first Winter rains. From now on my name shall be Traveller.’ 3 In just a few words, the gifted poet captured all my ideas about adventure and discovery out in the big, wide and wild world outside my bedroom door, while simultaneously transporting me to a cold wet day in seventeenth-century Japan.
The Tale of Genji , the world’s first novel, written a millennium ago by Murasaki Shikibu, is filled with references to nature and the changing seasons. Likewise, The Pillow Book , written at a similar time by Sei Shōnagon, opened with the classic line ‘Haru wa akebono ’ (‘ In spring, the dawn’). 4 The whole opening section of this famous Heian-period court journal goes into detail about the writer’s f
avourite parts of each season. There are many more nature references throughout The Pillow Book, which remains a classic ten centuries later.
The Japanese have been writing about nature and the seasons for as long as they have been writing.
Japanese nature writing does not just emphasise a sense of place but also, crucially, a sense of time. This is evoked by seasonal references or implications, and through observations of impermanence. This impermanence is expressed in two ways – through the absence of something that was but is no longer, and through the notion of transience, in the sense of something that is but will soon no longer be.
One of Japan’s most influential poets, Fujiwara no Teika (1162–1241), often wrote about the seasons in this way, weaving together nature and literature with heavy vines of emotion. From the woodblock prints of Hokusai to the contemporary films of Studio Ghibli’s Hayao Miyazaki, nature is everywhere in Japanese art too.
Japanese architecture is also heavily influenced by nature, as discussed in Chapter 2 . Cultivated nature plays an important role too, central as it is to many traditional aspects of Japanese culture – in ikebana (flower arranging), the nurturing of bonsai , the tea ceremony and so on. One of the country’s native instruments, the shakuhachi , is a flute made from bamboo. In the hands of a skilled player, it can replicate many sounds of nature, from rushing water and eerie winds to honking geese and pouring rain.
Nature in language
Nature-related words are frequently used in both people’s and place names. A quick scan of a map of Japan will reveal the likes of Akita (Autumn Rice Paddy), Chiba (One Thousand Leaves) and Kagawa (Fragrant River).
Some of the most popular boys’ names in recent years include Asahi ( Morning Sun) and Haru ( Fine Weather), while popular girls’ names include Aoi ( Hollyhock), An ( Apricot) and Mio ( Beautiful Cherry Blossom). 5 And it’s not just first names. In the top ten most popular family names in Japan we find Kobayashi ( Small Forest) and Yamamoto ( Mountain Origin). 6
There are beautiful words for particular happenings in nature, such as komorebi ( ), which describes sunlight filtering through the trees, dappling the earth below. Kogarashi ( ) expresses a particular kind of winter wind. And there are at least fifty ways to describe rain in the Japanese language. Onomatopoeia is used extensively, including to convey sounds related to nature. Zāzā describes rain pouring down heavily, kopokopo suggests the gentle bubbling of water and hyūhyū is the sound of a whooshing wind.
There are entire almanacs of seasonal words to use in poetry, and guides to writing letters and emails with season-specific greetings. A recent missive from a male Japanese friend began:
Hello Beth, How are you?
The narcissi started to bloom yesterday, and the cherry blossom is on its way. We had Chinese chives from the garden for breakfast this morning. They tasted delicious, and show us that spring has come …
The most beautiful thing about notes that open in this way is their power to reveal a momentary window into the writer’s life, through the details of the seasons they are experiencing at the time. In a few lines, they can transport you to the warmth of a patch of sunlight beneath a plum tree, or legs tucked under a kotatsu (heated table) eating mikan (satsumas), while the snow falls softly outside.
The rhythm of the seasons
Creating our own seasonal traditions can be a wonderful way to honour the rhythms of nature, and notice the passage of time in our own lives.
One of my favourite memories of life in rural Japan was the time my elderly neighbour, Sakamoto-banchan (‘Grandmother Sakamoto’ in the local dialect), a delightful lady in her late eighties, corralled me into helping her make hoshi-gaki (dried persimmons). She taught me that after peeling the firm fruits, you tie the stalks together with a long piece of string and hang them over a bamboo pole. Then you leave them to dry. For the first week, you don’t touch them, but then you give them regular gentle massages over the next three weeks or so. This draws the fructose to the surface, so they end up looking like they have been dipped in sugar. Tasting note: hoshi-gaki are delicious with green tea.
Ever since she was a little girl, every year for eight decades Sakamoto-banchan had carried out this ritual of food preparation. To her, hoshi-gaki were autumn.
The wabi sabi connection
So how does all this connect to wabi sabi ? In a subtle, beautiful, komorebi -sunshine-filtering-through-the-leaves-kind-of-way.
Each ray of natural inspiration is a reminder to notice and appreciate what is here now, in all its ephemeral beauty. If you visit Japan you will soon realise how the four main seasons of spring, summer, autumn and winter 7 are woven into the fabric of everyday life: spring brings cherry blossom and hanami (flower-viewing) parties, summer offers festivals and kimono -clad strolls along the river in search of fireflies; autumn welcomes moon viewing and momiji (maple) leaves, especially memorable when lit up at night; and winter ushers in the quiet beauty of snow. There is evidence of the seasons in the tiniest of details, from food to decoration, from clothing to festivals.
I suspect that the importance of these observances, the rituals and traditions and the thousands of tiny reminders in daily life, are the reason that wabi sabi is so deeply embedded in the hearts of Japanese people.
Marking time
Japanese people have paid close attention to the seasons since ancient times. According to the classical Japanese calendar, there are in fact twenty-four small seasons known as sekki ( ), each lasting around fifteen days, and seventy-two microseasons known as kō ( ), each lasting around five days. 8 The calendar was originally adopted from China in AD 862 and eventually reformed to suit the local climate (particularly around Kyōto) by court astronomer Shibukawa Shunkai in 1684. 9 Each of these sub-seasons and microseasons has a name, which paints an evocative picture of what is going on in the natural world at that particular time.
A quick tour of the year with some of my favourite microseason names would include: ‘East wind melts the ice’, ‘Nightingales sing’, ‘Mist starts to hover’, ‘Cherry blossoms open’, ’Silkworms hatch’, ‘Grain ripens’, ‘Hot winds arrive’, ‘Earth is steaming wet’, ‘Blanket fog descends’, ‘Rice ripens’, ‘Swallows leave’, ’First frost’ and ‘North wind rattles the leaves’. 10
The seasons are a kind of wabi sabi metronome, a steady call back to the present, to noticing, savouring and treasuring.
QUESTIONS TO HELP YOU TUNE IN TO NATURE
Whatever time of year, wherever in the world you are, you can use the prompts below to help you notice more about what is going on in your immediate surroundings. Try to use all your senses, and look for the details. If you return to this over the course of a year, you’ll discover how tracking the seasons can change the way you see the world.
1. What is the weather like? Consider water, wind, sun and any conditions specific to where you are.
2. What is the light like?
3. What is the night sky like?
4. What plants and flowers are emerging? Blooming? Fading? Hiding?
5. What animals have you noticed recently?
6. What ingredients are in season right now?
7. What have you been wearing when you go outdoors lately?
8. What seasonal colours have you noticed lately?
9. What seasonal sounds have you noticed lately?
10. What seasonal smells have you noticed lately?
11. What seasonal textures have you noticed lately?
12. How do you feel? What is your mood?
13. How is your health? How are your energy levels?
14. What self-care do you need to be practising right now? How could you yield to the season?
15. What traditions or observances have you celebrated recently?
16. Dig into memory. What nature-related or seasonal traditions did you grow up with, either in your own home or in your community? How could you bring an element of those traditions into your life now?
17. How could you mark this particular
season in some gentle way?
Tuning in to your natural rhythm
The Japanese expression ichiyō ochite tenka no aki o shiru ( ), tells us that ‘With the fall of a single leaf we know that autumn is here’. As a proverb, it is used in the context of recognising imminent change. The Japanese see the seasons as signposts, visible reminders of our own natural rhythms.
In modern life, these often get disrupted, as we extend our days with strong artificial light, interrupt our sensitive biorhythms with blue lights from our electronic devices and push ourselves to be highly productive just because it’s another weekday. We push on, regardless of whether our body is trying to tell us it’s time to hibernate, or get outside for some summer sunshine – and then we wonder why we get sick.
The seasons are a regular reminder that we don’t need to push all the time. Every push needs a pull. Every expansion needs a contraction. Every effort needs a rest. There are times for creating and times for seeking inspiration. Times for noise and times for silence. Times to focus and times to dream. Ebb and flow. Wax and wane. There are those contrasts again. Wabi sabi invites you to tune into your natural rhythm, in this season of your life, in this season of the year, in this moment of your day.
Lessons from the fire festival
Normally, the tiny village of Kurama in the north of Kyōto is a peaceful place where visitors relax in the natural hot spring, or follow the shrine trail far on up the mountain. But today is different. Today is the annual Hi-Matsuri (fire festival) and the stories of blazing torches and glowing skies have lured others too. Lots of others. The streets are alive as dusk falls and the darkness creeps in.
The chanting has begun. Stamping follows. Men clothed in little more than G-strings and leafy miniskirts start pacing the streets, slowly at first, getting accustomed to the weight of the 15-foot torch on their shoulders. Small children clutch their own burning brands, following in their fathers’ footsteps, proud smiles revealed by the dancing flames of two hundred and fifty pine torches.