A Wabi-Sabi Kind Of Life
And I returned to San Francisco, and it was spring.
It was somebody’s spring, at least — I’m not sure whose. It certainly wasn’t mine, as mine was back in Tokyo among the tiny pink buds that were starting to blossom from the knotted, wiry branches of the cherry blossom trees.
The Japanese concept of wabi-sabi is centered around the art of imperfection. It is the notion that unique beauty is found within the transience of nature and age — that things weathered are beautiful, and just like in nature, these things change with time.
If wabi-sabi includes that which is inherently flawed, then I certainly brought a version of it along with me to Tokyo. It was luggage of a permanent kind that when splashed against the fresh white walls of my new room was both exceptional and yawn-worthy, extraneous and weighty in the old familiarity of it all.
My bedroom in Rappongi was functional and spare. There was a thick mattress on the floor and a long spotless mirror and stiff coat rack that leaned against the left wall just past the entryway. The sheets were a crisp white and the matching soft, spotless towels were so pristine that at first I was reluctant to use them.
There was one other item in the room, a small bonsai tree that sat placidly on the floor with short needles that were starting to crispen. Every morning my routine included spraying the tree with water and placing it on the patio to soak up the day’s sunshine. The windows were thin and a crisp chill permeated the air, hinting at the arrival of spring.
The Japanese have another phrase called “ma” which means “gap.” Ma is the space between two parts, like an interval. It represents a negative space or a liminal state. Ma is the opposite of “wa,” which roughly translates to “unity.” Wa is an underlying principle of the country of Japan.
Ma can represent many gaps, including one’s public versus private presentation of self. In a society that thrives on order, ritual, and respect, this “gap” can become pronounced.
Maybe this explains the impeccably-dressed salarymen who pass out drunk on the subway, or the weather that changes at the drop of a dime.
One afternoon I took the subway to Akihabara, Tokyo’s famed electronics district. The buildings, bright with colorful advertisements, were towering and deep. Most were filled with enough nuanced electronic gadgetry to satisfy even the most niche-fied otaku. It was dazzling — a real sight to behold — and went on for as long as the eye could see (or could stand from a sensory perspective).
After a few hours of aimlessly wandering the streets I decided to take a break. I stopped at a food stand and purchased a spongy crepe filled with strawberries and cream. I took in the scene as I ate, admiring the colors and the vast amounts of people packed together on the sidewalks like sticky rice.
I thought about things like the movie Blade Runner and wondered how far the depths of this city could take me. I finished the crepe and threw the wrapper into the trash can along with the other garbage I had been collecting in my pockets that afternoon, because curiously enough public trash containers aren’t a thing in Japan.
A few blocks and several alleyways later, I came across a small wooden door. The entryway seemed out of place in this modern part of town, so I figured that it made the most sense of all the buildings and of all of the doors to see what was on the other side. I pushed the door open.
I didn’t find a smoky bar filled with hackers on the other side. Nor did I discover a black market retailer featuring disembodied robot parts, or even something more typical like a densely-packed vault of iPad knock-offs.
I heard soft jazz music playing and followed the sound down to the end of a long corridor, where at the end I was handed a small cup of green tea by a young Japanese girl and firmly — yet kindly — asked to remove my shoes.
Slipping off my sneakers in favor of soft, navy blue slippers, I looked around. I had stumbled into a private cat cafe.
I soon learned that the premise of the cafe was for one to relax to the fullest extent of their willingness and/or capacity. Running along one wall were small loungers where one could indulge in manga chosen from a vast library of titles. Another wall was lined with flat-screens and VR headsets for virtual escape. More plainly, there were also little pods for catching a snooze.
After pretending to search my pockets for a pass, I offered the attendant ten-thousand yen for entry which she gracefully accepted. I removed a plush cashmere blanket from a tall stack and curled up on a couch where for the next hour or so I’d watch cats play, eat, sleep, and leap gracefully like fluffy ballerinas from one tiny cat castle to the next.
I closed my eyes.
When I’d return to the United States a month later I’d spend weeks looking inwards, trying to reconcile the gap between my old life and who I was becoming as a result of this trip.
Something new was unfurling inside of me like tender petals pushing their way into the warm spring breeze. I had taken my own leap by temporarily moving to Japan, and as a result was starting to blossom in other ways — so much so that instinctively I knew that I would never be the same again.
Back in Rappongi, it had taken me a few days to remember to take my shoes off at the door as in the typical Japanese tradition.
Here in Oakland, a re-entry problem seemed prevalent at every pass. I noticed it as soon as I stepped back into the noisy urban landscape, as I re-entered the daily rituals, as I participated in the usual chit-chat where my mind now simply wanders.
Nothing from my old life feels like mine anymore. I have to remind myself that this chapter had never belonged to me in the first place — that everything here was always meant to be temporary.
Maybe there’s no gap that needs to be reconciled. Maybe it just expands and contracts with time and with the experiences we collect — weathering itself with age, finding beauty in its grace.
More from the series: http://losangelestonewyork.tumblr.com/
More about the author: http://nicolecifani.com
