On a humid September afternoon in the lower west side of Sumida City, Tokyo, the crowd inside the Ryōgoku Kokugikan falls into a murmur. With a powerful, melodic call that pierces the air, the yobidashi caller summons the 39-year-old Mongolian sumo wrestler Tamawashi.
The moment arrives. Stepping onto the nijiguchi, the side entrance of the ring, Tamawashi faces his opponent, Kagayaki, and offers the traditional bow. He moves to his corner beneath the red tassels in the east, turns towards the entrance, and claps. Lifting one leg high into the air, he performs the shiko ritual, stomping forcefully onto the clay, dispelling evil spirits from the dohyō ring.
He takes a ladle of chikara-mizu from the previous bout's winner—water used to purify himself—drinking it before wiping his mouth with a small paper towel called chikara-gami. Next, he throws a handful of salt into the dohyō to purify the space. This act is part of the shio-maki ritual, where each rikishi, or fighter, brings his own unique style. Tamawashi, with the calm composure of experience, appears almost casual as he tosses the salt, yet his hand remains steady, followed by several firm thuds on his mawashi belt.
In a moment of subdued tension before the bout, the two rikishi face each other and assume the sonkyo posture—knees bent, backs straight, hands resting lightly on their knees. This stance shows respect for both the opponent and the dohyō. Then, they rub their hands together, clap once, raise their hands to shoulder height with palms facing upward, and turn their palms downward. This gesture, chirichōzu, signals that they are unarmed.
Both rikishi rise from sonkyo and enter the tachiai, the charged moment that signals the start of the bout. They synchronise their breathing, carefully watching for the subtle signs of mutual readiness, while the gyōji referee observes closely to ensure both wrestlers are prepared. Unlike most sports, where matches begin at the referee's signal, sumo bouts start when both wrestlers silently agree to engage, marked by their simultaneous forward motion.
Tamawashi signals first, lowering his left fist to the ground. Kagayaki taps the clay in response, and they charge forward. The impact is so forceful that the clash of their heads echoes thunderously through the arena. In a blur of shoves and thrusts, Tamawashi, unwavering, drives Kagayaki back towards the tawara bales at the ring's edge. With a final, decisive blow to the left shoulder, Kagayaki loses his footing, his legs flying out from under him as he falls face-first to the ground. The crowd erupts in wild applause, an expression typically reserved for decisive matches in the tournament's arc.
This bout wasn't a championship decider but an early match between two lower-ranked maegashira (前頭) fighters in the Aki Bashō, or Autumn Tournament. Still, the spectators knew they had witnessed something special. Afterwards, Tamawashi told reporters it felt like he had won the Emperor's Cup. It was his 1,631st consecutive appearance in top-division Makuuchi sumo, a new record.
Over 11 years of unbroken consistency, Tamawashi has neither suffered an injury nor taken a rest day. It's a feat that has earned him the title Tetsujin, or "The Iron Man." Fans were certainly glad to see him win this landmark contest, but what truly earned their applause was respect for his relentless ability to show up, perform with unwavering effort, and deliver reliable results time and again.
In the top Makuuchi division, rikishi aim to win eight or more matches during a 15-day tournament, securing a winning record and moving up the ranks. Within this structure, there is room for failure. In September 2022, Tamawashi won the championship with a 13-2 record. But a year later, in September 2023, he endured a harsh reversal with a 2-13 losing record. Still, he resets his mind and steps into the ring the next day, ready to go again. It is the essence of sumo: one match at a time, where consistency prevails over fleeting moments of heroism.
Lately, I've been sitting at my desk daily to write a short book. It's an idea that's lingered in my mind for years. While it's not as physically fearsome as stepping into the dohyō, anyone who has written at length—or undertaken any sustained disciplined effort—will know that it requires entering a figurative dohyō of the mind and finding mutual readiness with the toughest opponent: oneself.
In a previous newsletter about the flow of time in Tokyo, I spoke of the lifestyle challenges I faced due to a constant sense of time scarcity while working in the city. I'm not sure I have more time now than I did then, but I've reached a breakthrough in recent months. The key has been ensuring I sit down to write at the same time each morning before anything else can occur. A morning ritual, the bedrock of self-improvement, sustains this consistency.
I wake at 6 AM and wash my face. In A Monk's Guide to a Clean House and Mind, Shōkei Matsumoto shares an old Zen teaching: if you haven't washed your face, everything you do throughout the day will be impolite and rushed. It's the first thing a monk does each morning. After washing my face, I do a set of push-ups and a set of squats, as many as I can. While I've temporarily deprioritised physical exercise to make room for writing, I maintain these bodyweight exercises as a bare minimum.
After a brisk cold shower, I brew green tea and sit with my thoughts until the cup is empty, allowing my mind to wake up gradually and freely. A notebook rests beside me, ready to capture thoughts worth keeping—a light form of journaling—while I let the rest drift away. I do this outdoors, knowing morning sunlight helps regulate the circadian rhythm. Being outside also serves a second purpose. Matsumoto's teachings suggest that modern conveniences like air conditioning and heating, which keep our environment constant year-round, disconnect us from nature. When it's hot, we should feel the heat; when it's cold, we should feel the cold. Exposing your body to the early morning chill naturally invigorates and energises you for the tasks ahead.
A brief meditation follows. Ideally, this would be a full hour of zazen, but that would compromise my writing time. Instead, I practise Wim Hof breathing. Hof, the creator of this breathwork method, claims it can accelerate reaching a meditative state that traditionally takes years to achieve. I'm unsure about this claim, but the breathwork has been effective for me, offering a dose of the clarity people seek from meditation in around 10 minutes.
I don't eat breakfast, preferring to fast until at least mid-morning. If I've been deliberate enough with my actions, I'll start writing by 7:00. From there, I have until 9:00 before heading to work. Sometimes, it feels like a frustratingly short window, especially when I find my flow just before the cut-off time or when a fascinating thread of research engrosses me. I often feel that if I could have a week of uninterrupted writing, I could finish the project—though, in reality, such ideal circumstances usually lead to procrastination. Instead, I harness the time limit and remind myself that I'll be back again tomorrow and that these short sessions will compound with consistency.
One aspect of my focus I still need to mention is avoiding my phone and email early in the morning. The Zeigarnik effect, named after Lithuanian-Soviet psychologist Bluma Zeigarnik, explains how unfinished tasks create mental "open loops" that pull at your attention. If this is true, email inboxes and app notifications offer a flood of open loops at any moment. Seeing them first thing in the morning doubtlessly makes it harder to concentrate on creative work. I keep my mind clear by staying away from them until later in the day.
A common critique of power mornings is that only those with time and flexibility can afford to indulge in them. Others find themselves stuck in routines, sitting in ice baths and meditating, leaving no time for the actual work. Over time, I've deliberately refined my routine to be time-efficient, allowing me to start on the project as soon as possible without being impolite and rushed, as Matsumoto would say. It might sound like a checklist of typical wellness techniques, but this structure has finally allowed me to progress on ideas I've held for a long time. Everyone has to find their own rhythm—some may not need anything like this. But for me, this is what it takes.
Alongside writing the book, I'm also committed to this newsletter, which has its own weekly rhythm. I set out to explore and explain Tokyo's urban landscape through art, design, architecture, and the experiences of coffee, books, and walks. Lately, my letters have been shorter and less polished, as the book takes up more of my time, but I hope you'll stay with me as I work to finish this larger project. For now, these notes are a way to maintain momentum during the process.
Away from the spectacle of the stadium, sumo rikishi train daily. Their tournament performances are what we see, but year-round, they rise early, undergo intense physical training, and repeat. Tournaments happen every other month—January, March, May, July, September, and November. It's an experience I highly recommend, but if you're in Japan outside of tournament months, you can still partake by visiting a sumo beya or training stable. These are the places where wrestlers live and train, and you can often watch their morning practice through large, street-facing windows. Arashio-beya in Nihonbashi and Kasugano-beya in Ryōgoku are well-known stables that allow spectating. Watching morning training might be the most authentic way to witness these immense athletes' remarkable dedication.
With their imposing size and strength, rikishi may seem almost otherworldly, but they are human, resisting the same pull toward fatigue and decline that we all face. The difference is they have found the right rituals to keep showing up, day after day. Despite Tamawashi's glorious win earlier this week, his September tournament has been a see-saw of victories and defeats. But that doesn't change one thing: tomorrow, he'll be back on the dohyō, ready to do the work again.
Until we meet at the Kokugikan,
AJ
Links
A Monk's Guide to a Clean House and Mind