Go to a different country and you have to do things differently: Look left instead of right for oncoming cars, use chopsticks instead of forks, bow instead of shaking hands.
The other, subtler differences have surprised me. For instance, I can’t stream my favorite shows here, at least not without a great deal of effort, and I didn’t realize how often I watch something while eating back home. Now, when I eat, I eat. That means I am present for the depth and mystery of umami, the sweet juice in a cool peach on a hot day.
And then there’s what happens with The Bowl.
One day, after eating curry whose spice left my lips humming, I tried to avoid both the brutal sun and the incessant traffic by making my way home through a maze of alleys instead of going on the main road. Homes, stores, and restaurants blend seamlessly here into one another, and it’s often difficult for my untrained eye to tell which is which.
But it was easy to tell one place was a store when I approached. Out front I saw everything from old roller skates, to a kneeling bench, to rich textiles. When I read “Antiques” on the front window, I knew I had to go in.
I marveled at the paintings and prints, the old kimonos, the jewelry. One of the things I was looking for was a mug for my coffee in the mornings. I found one with flowers on it that was sweet and small, and I was sure I would get it, but I returned it to the shelf until I was ready to buy it. Because I don’t know about you, but every nerve and muscle is on high alert when I’m around breakables. I wanted to keep my hands down by my sides so I couldn’t inflict any damage.
When I made it to the back of the store, I saw more mugs, but these were big, more like bowls. The old woman behind the register smiled at me and explained, “For tea ceremony.”
“Ah,” I said.
Many of them were so fancy and fine, I was afraid to touch them.
Then my eyes landed on one that was rustic, plain, compelling. The Japanese might say it exuded wabi sabi, an elegant and undeniable simplicity.
Because of its size and worth, I reached out with both hands to take it off the shelf. As soon as I did, a beautiful jolt went inexplicably up both of my arms. “Oh my,” I whispered as I held the bowl.
I knew I could no more put this bowl back than I could give up my left hand. This bowl pulsed with an ancient energy, exuding the groundedness and sacredness I seek in almost everything I do.
I was just about to reach for my yen when it occurred to me to ask the bowl—in my head, because I didn’t want the old woman to think I was a weirdo—if it was sure it wanted to go with me. My life was very, very different than a quiet tea ceremony in a tatami room.
It literally felt like my hands were locked on that bowl.
I smiled and turned toward the woman. I held up the bowl, and she gently took it from me and sealed it in bubble wrap. I carried it back to the apartment and unwrapped it as carefully as I could. Putting it on the table, I poured water into it. In that moment, I knew I would never be able to drink out of this bowl with only one hand. I would never be able to be distracted when I took a drink, because otherwise it was sure to break.
Since I would always have to be mindful and always have to use two hands, taking a drink from The Bowl felt like a prayer.
Yes, life is different here, and what’s happening is I am being invited to move away from progress and into presence. A soft way of being that is right here, right now, attending to what is happening in this moment.
It isn’t surprising that the Japanese have a name for that, too: ichi-go ichi-e. It gets translated in all kinds of ways: one time, one meeting. One lifetime, one encounter. In this moment, an opportunity. It means to treat each moment as a rare and sacred thing—as rare and sacred as my new bowl. Now is the only time you will take this breath. Now is the only time you will inhabit this moment. Now is the only time you’ve got.
Back home, I’m often trying to do six things at once. As a result, I often experience a restless, jangly energy that leaves me feeling exhausted and enervated all at the same time.
Here, especially when I am in the presence of The Bowl, I feel this primal pull to drop into whatever is unfolding. To center. To be. To breathe in. To breathe out. And for the Moment, to live light and shine.