Kyoto and On Being Present
Life seldom goes as we expect it to, and nowhere was this more apparent than in my most recent visit to Japan. From rain, jet lag, impromptu train inspections and delays, unanticipated construction, and an ever-nagging sense of imposter syndrome, each day was filled with challenges. Very quickly, I learned the importance of improvizing and slowing down. At the same time, a desire to see and do as much as possible meant that this latest venture was fueled almost entirely by adrenaline and caffeine. It was not until I arrived in Kyoto that I began to shift my perspective, adopting a more positive outlook, which is to say, cultivating mindfulness.
While the more popular tourist destinations certainly made this difficult, fortunately, there is no shortage of lesser-known temples, shrines, gardens, and teahouses in Kyoto. Tucked away in quiet alcoves, seemingly removed from the rest of the world, these are the places that resonated with me most, the ones I found myself actively searching out each day. There’s a quote from Shōgun that I especially like: “You must train yourself to listen without hearing. For instance, you can listen to the sound of a blossom falling or the rocks growing. If you really listen, your present circumstance vanishes.” These are the places that actively facilitated that.
Japanese Tea Culture: A Gateway to Mindfulness
Despite meticulously researching various teahouses, there were at least one or two that I arrived at only to discover that reservations needed to be made weeks in advance, much to my dismay. Fortunately, one of these and what ultimately served as my reintroduction to Japanese tea culture—the Terminal Kyoto—did not. Located in a restored machiya, a traditional Japanese townhouse, and doubling as a gallery and exhibition space, the Terminal Kyoto offers a truly unique experience. Sipping matcha while overlooking a picturesque zen garden prompted the first of many pauses.
At another teahouse, Roku Juan, I had the opportunity to try hanawarabi, a chilled, jelly-like mochi filled with seasonable edible flowers and served with brown sugar syrup and roasted soybean flour. Admittedly, the slippery texture of the hanawarabi and my repeated failures to grasp it properly forced me to slow down, to really concentrate on making precise movements with my chopsticks. Eventually, I succeeded. An earlier miscommunication forced me to wait longer than usual for my wagashi (Japanese confectionary, which includes hanawarabi) but gave me time to study the morning sunlight filtering through the adjacent rock garden. Everything became an opportunity for reflection.
While I never attended a formal tea ceremony in Kyoto, the simple act of drinking tea frequently served as a conduit for meditative practice. Focusing on the taste of the tea, savoring its flavor, anchored me in the present, and when I began to hone my radar in the way that tea prompts you to, I began to see more around me. This focus is inherent in Japanese tea culture and quickly began to bleed into those times when I wasn’t drinking tea. I began to ask myself, “How do I look at the world through the lens of tea culture?” Undoubtedly, it is a more deliberate and intentional way of engaging with the world. From traditional tea salons to more modern and minimalist cafes (one of my favorites being COMFY), each pause or rest and each sip of matcha was an invitation to be more fully present.
Towards the end of the trip, when my affinity for matcha began to border on the obscene, and I gradually felt the effects of caffeine sensitivity (namely in the form of headaches), I began to gravitate towards hojicha or roasted green tea. Derived from mature tea leaves naturally lower in caffeine, hojicha is renowned for its markedly less intense experience and distinct nutty flavor. This is in stark contrast to koicha—literally “thick tea”—a rich, syrupy matcha preparation characterized by its deep green color and strong umami notes. Here again, the idea of proceeding slowly was apparent, if not necessary. For the remainder of my time in Japan, I became more selective about when, where, and how I chose to consume matcha. Doing so made the experience that much more memorable.
Bending Adversity and Turning It Into Happiness
There is nothing quite like bumping your head on the ceiling of a tea house—with enough force to elicit audible gasps from a table of elderly Japanese women—to jolt your focus back to the present. Later, when recounting my experience to someone, they responded by asking, “How many people can say that’s how they’ve received a wake-up call?”—which, of course, was a reminder to be grateful, not just for the opportunity to return to a place I’ve long been fascinated by, but for the universe’s way of redirecting my attention to what was actually in front of me.
I’m reminded of the point-and-call system used by Japanese railways and how I likely could have benefited from adopting a similar approach. Pointing at signs or markers, if not literally, then mentally and verbalizing their status is meant to raise awareness and prevent mishaps. Later, at another temple, when an Italian tourist tripped over a beam on the floor and went tumbling almost in cartoonish fashion, my misgivings suddenly seemed trivial.
If there was one lesson from my experience, though, it was to make the best of my situation. In his book, Bending Adversity: Japan and the Art of Survival, David Pilling writes about a particular Japanese phrase, wazawai wo tenjite fuku to nasu: “The dictionary rendered it, rather prosaically to my mind, as 'make the best of a bad bargain.' I thought about it and settled on a more literal translation - ‘bend adversity and turn it into happiness.’” What he was referring to was, in many ways, the uniquely Japanese quality of enduring the seemingly unendurable—from natural disasters to those inflicted by man—and while my own experience in no way compares to the collective struggles of a nation, there is nevertheless wisdom in the notion of actively pursuing one’s happiness.
In 2017, when I first visited Japan, I stumbled across Daisen-in, a sub-temple of Daitoku-ji located in Kyoto. Here, I discovered the words of Soen Ozeki, a priest of Daitoku-ji. In his poem, Words for Each Day, he proclaims, “I am alive - I am this moment. My future is here and now. For if I cannot endure today, when and where will I?” Since then, I’ve thought about these words often. As hard as it is to remember sometimes, life is not tomorrow. It is always now. Confronting that now, even with the slings and arrows, takes practice, no doubt, but when is there a better time to practice if not today? If nothing else, this is what Kyoto taught me, and for that, I am forever grateful.
This theme of continuously moving forward is one that I have constantly encountered in my experiences with Japan. I think back to one of my last nights in Kyoto, trudging through the rain, frigid and, admittedly, exhausted. My feet were wet (despite my best efforts to waterproof my boots just two weeks prior), my shoulders ached from the weight of my backpack, and, once again, a seemingly inexplicable sense of existential dread emerged, but then I remembered that I was in Kyoto. Inwardly, I may have smiled or at least imagined myself doing so. I thought of one of my favorite Japanese phrases, something I had used repeatedly throughout my trip and for good reason: daijoubu desu (大丈夫です), “It’s ok.”