I know at this point it is a widely popularized cliche, but the Marine Corps has taught me to make a perfect bed each morning. From the Japanese perspective, making the bed —or putting away a bed roll if you sleep on tatami —is not merely the end of the sleep cycle but the first meditative gesture towards the new day. Similarly, routines like a morning shower and shave make for a better day.
When I cook, I have a habit of opening jars of spices one by one, inhaling each aroma before deciding what belongs in the pot. I put the spice on the palm of my hand; do not use a spoon or a measuring cup. I never buy pre-mixed blends, because each spice has its own character and spirit. This small ritual is a moment of ichigo ichie (一期一会) — “one time, one meeting.”
When I cook, I have a habit of opening jars of spices one by one, inhaling each aroma before deciding what belongs in the pot. I put the spice on the palm of my hand; do not use a spoon or a measuring cup. I never buy pre-mixed blends, because each spice has its own character and spirit. This small ritual is a moment of ichigo ichie (一期一会) — “one time, one meeting.”
It is a conversation between nature and my senses, a way of meeting the present moment through something as ordinary as soup. I have come to understand that mindfulness does not require meditation cushions or temples; it happens in the kitchen, in the steam rising from a pot.
In Okinawa, where I once lived, this way of being seemed to exist naturally. The people there often said nankuru naisa (なんくるないさ) — “things will work out if you live sincerely.” It was not laziness or avoidance, but trust in the natural order of life. They treated their surroundings with quiet respect, believing that kami (神), the spirits of Shinto, reside in all things — the house, the tools, the garden, the wind. I feel this too. When I handle my kitchen knife or clean the counter, I sense I am tending to more than objects; I am honoring the spirit of the place. The home becomes a living jinja (神社), a personal shrine of gratitude.
I have also found this awareness in my work with tools, both physical and digital. I love Japanese joinery, not only for its precision but for the respect it shows toward wood and craftsmanship. The carpenter’s philosophy, shokunin kishitsu (職人気質), resonates with me as deeply as any teaching of Zen. To sharpen a chisel before beginning work is not preparation; it is part of the work itself. In the same way, I see software architecture — the structure before the code — as the sharpening of my craft. A well-tuned tool or a well-structured program allows the spirit of the task to flow without resistance. In both, mastery is less about performance and more about readiness.
These ideas have merged for me into a kind of personal dō (道) — a way of life. Whether I am practicing karate, writing code, or tending to a small bonsai, I feel the same rhythm. Each motion is shugyō (修行), daily discipline that refines not only skill but character. Each action ends and begins at once. The repetition is not dull; it is liberating. There is no “done,” only continuous practice.
Over time, awari wa hajimari has changed how I see everything. The end of the day, the last spoon washed, the final line of code written — none of these are true endings. They are bows, gestures of gratitude before the next beginning. This awareness brings a calm satisfaction, a kind of chōwa (調和), harmony between what I do and who I am. Life becomes less about achieving and more about participating in its cycles — the quiet flow of beginnings, endings, and the spaces between.
In Okinawa, where I once lived, this way of being seemed to exist naturally. The people there often said nankuru naisa (なんくるないさ) — “things will work out if you live sincerely.” It was not laziness or avoidance, but trust in the natural order of life. They treated their surroundings with quiet respect, believing that kami (神), the spirits of Shinto, reside in all things — the house, the tools, the garden, the wind. I feel this too. When I handle my kitchen knife or clean the counter, I sense I am tending to more than objects; I am honoring the spirit of the place. The home becomes a living jinja (神社), a personal shrine of gratitude.
I have also found this awareness in my work with tools, both physical and digital. I love Japanese joinery, not only for its precision but for the respect it shows toward wood and craftsmanship. The carpenter’s philosophy, shokunin kishitsu (職人気質), resonates with me as deeply as any teaching of Zen. To sharpen a chisel before beginning work is not preparation; it is part of the work itself. In the same way, I see software architecture — the structure before the code — as the sharpening of my craft. A well-tuned tool or a well-structured program allows the spirit of the task to flow without resistance. In both, mastery is less about performance and more about readiness.
These ideas have merged for me into a kind of personal dō (道) — a way of life. Whether I am practicing karate, writing code, or tending to a small bonsai, I feel the same rhythm. Each motion is shugyō (修行), daily discipline that refines not only skill but character. Each action ends and begins at once. The repetition is not dull; it is liberating. There is no “done,” only continuous practice.
Over time, awari wa hajimari has changed how I see everything. The end of the day, the last spoon washed, the final line of code written — none of these are true endings. They are bows, gestures of gratitude before the next beginning. This awareness brings a calm satisfaction, a kind of chōwa (調和), harmony between what I do and who I am. Life becomes less about achieving and more about participating in its cycles — the quiet flow of beginnings, endings, and the spaces between.
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