Wabi-Sabi (侘寂) — Learning to Keep What Time Has Touched

 Gemini Generated

For many of us, calendars, diaries, and yearbooks marked the arrival of a new year. The unused one from the year before rarely went to waste — it became a scrapbook of sorts. A place for doodles, secret codes, half-formed thoughts, phone numbers, and ideas that felt important in the moment.

Handwritten notes, smudged ink, messy, uneven lines. Imperfect — but deeply personal.

Over the years, I collected a lot of those and at some point, I decided it was time to clean up my shelves. It felt practical at the time.
Old diaries were discarded, with only scanned copies of selected pages treasured.

I feel sad about that decision now. I didn’t realise then how much of me lived in those pages — they were part of growing up, maturing together. Those clumsy lines on paper were akin to the veins of a tree, irregular in shape yet proof of years of existence.

I wasn’t aware of the Japanese concept of Wabi-Sabi then, but I felt its essence.

Wabi-Sabi invites us to see beauty in imperfection.
It encourages us to embrace the imperfect, the transient, and the incomplete — a cracked teacup, a worn-out pair of jeans.

It asks us to accept every crack, wrinkle, and stain not as flaws, but as quiet markers of authenticity — like a painter’s strokes on the artwork of being alive.

Suddenly, those old diaries felt dearer, and their absence created a sense of vacuum. Life is a mosaic, a collage formed by both perfect and imperfect everyday moments. Removing traces of imperfection does not make the image perfect; it makes it unauthentic — someone else’s life.

A chipped mug that brews the morning coffee — each chip carrying the memory of a day.
A weathered wooden table — scratched by years of family dinners, marked by countless cups of tea, holding a history no polish should erase.
An old photograph, creased at the edges — imperfectly preserved, yet holding a perfect memory.

While Kaizen teaches us to keep improving, step by step, Wabi-Sabi reminds us not to discard what time has already shaped.

One urges growth; the other, acceptance.
Perhaps a meaningful life needs both —
the courage to improve,
and the wisdom to keep what already bears our marks.

A Friend, a Stapler, and the Meaning of Kaizen (改善)

Image generated by Google Gemini

Kaizen (改善) always reminds me of a dear friend who introduced me to this phrase many years ago. A friend I spent time with back when we were still single—meeting often for tea or an occasional drink, and endlessly sharing anything new we learned. The word also carries a quiet sadness because of his untimely passing, but the idea itself lives on.

One afternoon, he arrived unusually animated. A consultant had visited his office, he said, and they had been introduced to a concept called Kaizen. The word was new to me, and my curiosity was immediately stirred.

He wasn’t a great storyteller, but he could recount the examples he had learned during the training—almost word for word.

What he explained was simple:

We print documents, walk to the printer to collect them, and then move again to find a stapler. If the stapler were placed next to the printer, a few seconds would be saved each time. Those seconds, multiplied across people and days, quietly added up.

It was a very simple, incremental improvement to the process—yet one with a deep and lasting impact.

Kaizen, broken down simply, comes from two words: Kai (change) and Zen (good). Together, they point to continuous improvement—not through dramatic transformations, but through small, thoughtful changes that are easy to sustain.

It asks us to resist the temptation of grand resolutions and instead focus on modest, repeatable steps.

Want to get fit?
Start with five minutes of stretching.

Trying to learn a new skill?
Ten minutes every day works better than two hours once a week—and then stopping.

Progress doesn’t need perfection, because perfection often prevents anything from getting done at all.

What Kaizen taught me, long before I realized it, is that improvement doesn’t have to be loud. It can be quiet, almost invisible, unfolding gently in the background of daily life.

And perhaps that is its greatest strength.

When Words Become Ways of Living

Eight Japanese ideas for everyday life 

Image generated by Google Gemini

Minnesota is in the news today, though not for reasons one would wish for. I have no personal connection with the place, but a few years ago I wrote about something called the Minnesota Zipper Merge—not as a traffic rule, but as a behavioural insight.

You can read it here: Minnesota-zipper-merge

It is a simple concept, given a clear name, that quietly changed how people drive. By labelling a desired action, it made people more conscious of their behaviour. Naming it made it actionable. That stayed with me, because it revealed how powerful language can be in shaping the way we respond.

Japan has long influenced the West in a similar way, particularly in manufacturing. Words like Lean, Just-In-Time, and Kaizen are no longer foreign terms; they are embedded in how industries think and function. But beyond factories and offices, the Japanese language carries ideas that shape everyday life—ideas that don’t offer instructions or shortcuts, but ways of seeing.

Over the coming days, I plan to sit with eight such Japanese concepts. They are not hacks or prescriptions. They are phrases—and with them, a way of responding, adjusting, and living a little differently.

Here are the eight I’ll be returning to:

• Shikata ga nai — accepting what cannot be helped

• Gaman — quiet endurance with dignity

• Wabi-Sabi — beauty in imperfection and impermanence

• Kaizen — small, continuous improvement

• Shinrin-Yoku — mindful immersion in nature

• Mottainai — respect for resources, time, and effort

• Oubaitori — growing without comparison

• Ikigai — a reason for being, held at the centre

I’ll begin today with the one that feels most appropriate—especially in light of recent events and our instinctive reactions to them.

Shikata ga nai (仕方がない)

“It can’t be helped.”

Everyone encounters moments of helplessness—when things simply aren’t within our control.

The train is delayed.
The rain won’t stop.
Life throws something unexpected.

Instead of tightening into frustration, shikata ga nai invites a pause—a breath.
It isn’t resignation.
It isn’t indifference.

It is grace: the strength to accept what lies beyond our control, and to move forward calmly anyway.
Like watching the rain, rather than fighting it.

Naming something doesn’t solve everything. But sometimes, it gives us a place to stand—emotionally and mentally—when solutions aren’t immediately available.

The next time you find yourself stuck—angry, helpless, or resisting what refuses to change—remember this: it isn’t a misfortune specially assigned to you. It is simply life, arriving as it does for every one of us, from time to time.

In those moments, shikata ga nai is not surrender. It is recognition.
A steady acceptance of what cannot be helped, and the quiet decision to move forward with dignity anyway.

Over the next days, I’ll sit with the remaining ideas—slowly, without rushing—letting words become ways of living.