Kyoto and On Being Present

Things seldom go as planned. From the weather to trains and beyond, I quickly learned the importance of improvizing and slowing down. At the same time, a desire to see and do as much as possible meant that my latest trip to Kyoto was fueled almost entirely by adrenaline and caffeine. It was not until I shifted my perspective that I began to adopt a more positive outlook, cultivating mindfulness along the way.

While the more frequented destinations among tourists can certainly make this difficult, there is no shortage of lesser-known temples, shrines, and gardens 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 resonates: “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.” The places I was fortunate to visit helped me do just 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 learn that reservations needed to be made weeks in advance. Fortunately, one of these and what ultimately served as a 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 hanawarabi, a chilled, jelly-like mochi filled with seasonable edible flowers, served with brown sugar syrup and roasted soybean flour. Admittedly, the slippery quality of the hanawarabi and my repeated failures to properly grasp it 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 for my wagashi (Japanese confectionary, which includes hanawarabi) but gave me time to study the morning sunlight illuminating 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 meditation. Focusing on the taste of the tea, savoring its flavor, anchored me in the present, and when I concentrated on the present in the way that tea prompts you to, I began to see more around me. This quality is inherent in Japanese tea culture and quickly appeared during 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’s a more deliberate and intentional way of engaging with the world. From traditional tea salons to more modern, minimalist cafes (one of my favorites, COMFY), each sip of matcha was an invitation to be more fully present.

Towards the end of my trip, when my affinity for matcha began to border on the obscene, and I gradually felt the effects of caffeine sensitivity (mostly through headaches), I began to gravitate towards hojicha, roasted green tea. Derived from mature tea leaves that are naturally lower in caffeine, hojicha is renowned for its markedly milder experience and distinct nutty, almost chocolate-like flavor. This is in stark contrast to koicha—literally “thick tea”—a rich, syrupy 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 Kyoto, 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 Kyoto, but the universe’s way of redirecting my attention to what was actually in front of me.

Here, 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 articulating their meaning is a way 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 earlier misgivings suddenly seemed trivial.

If there was one lesson from my experience, though, it was to make the best of my situation. In 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 constructing one’s happiness.

In 2017, when I first visited Kyoto, I discovered Daisen-in, a sub-temple of Daitoku-ji, and the words of one of its priests, Soen Ozeki. In his poem, Words for Each Day, he writes, “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 have thought about these words often. As hard as it is to remember sometimes, there is only the present. Facing it, even with the slings and arrows, takes practice, no doubt, but when is there a better time to do so than today? If nothing else, this is what Kyoto taught me, and for that, I am eternally grateful.

This theme of continuously moving forward is one that I am constantly reminded of when visiting Kyoto. I think back to one of my last nights there, trudging through the rain, cold and exhausted. My feet were wet, my shoulders ached, but 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.”