The gentle piyo piyo of pedestrian crossing signals and the cawing of crows no longer fill the urban soundscape. The faint scent of incoming humidity from the tsuyu plum rains is no more. Daily at 3 PM, an irresistible urge to sleep overtakes you, betraying your body's anchorage in the JST time zone. Vending machines and konbini are conspicuously absent. Your time in Tokyo is behind you.
As you know, my friends, last week marked my return from a three-week sojourn in Japan. This week has not been tinged with nostalgia, though—I am content to be back in London, not longing for Tokyo. However, an all-encompassing physical and mental exhaustion has engulfed me. The trip was an intense period of creativity, exploration, late nights and early mornings, crossing time zones, and switching languages. Travel's physical demands explain my weariness, while the joy I experienced in Japan might clarify the subsequent low that shaded the past week. Emotional reactions to stimuli often prompt opposite states, and following such a high, a downturn is possible if your well-being is unbalanced.
Amplified by the unceasing demands of daily life back home, I place this emotional state in the burnout category. My usual vigour has been absent. Despite efforts, for instance, to research a newsletter topic or sort and edit my latest photographs—activities that typically rejuvenate me—I've found it impossible. Instead, I've turned to self-care, concentrating on small habits gradually helping me regain my equilibrium. These practices form the topic of this week's newsletter. Writing about them has solidified their benefit to me and led me to consider their potential utility to others seeking solace during a challenging period.
Zazen Rafting
Adrift on a raft at sea, you find yourself amid choppy, unpredictable waves that rock your vessel. Rather than clinging tightly to maintain your position, you choose to let go, meeting each approaching wave with acceptance and non-resistance. Gradually, your raft drifts to a serene patch of ocean. The waves continue their tempestuous dance in the distance from this calm vantage. Now, with separation, you realise they can no longer impact you. You watch their currents rise and fall—cool, detached, and uninvolved.
The waves, of course, symbolise your thoughts. This relaxation technique was taught to me by a monk at Ryōsoku-in—a pagoda situated within Kennin-ji, the oldest Rinzai Zen Buddhism temple in Kyoto. During a brief visit to Kyoto in 2018, I participated in Ryōsoku-in's early morning zazen experience. Having pursued meditation throughout my adult life and learned various styles from different practitioners, this particular teaching from that morning has stayed with me. I turn to this technique when my mind is most unsettled. It is a gateway to meditation, which improves my capacity to address and resolve anxieties, transforming unproductive, repetitive thoughts into a productive cycle of action and rest.
My Kyoto zazen experience took place on a radiant mid-May morning. Our group was seated on the engawa platform outside the pagoda, overlooking pristine gardens maintained with the unique care only monks can provide. The chirping of birds and the distant hum of the Gion district stirring completed an idyllic scene. Whether Rinzai is the definitive school of Buddhism or not, this memorable setting may explain why I can so effortlessly transport myself back to Ryōsoku-in and why the raft and waves visualisation arises for me with such ease.
A cursory search indicates that Ryōsoku-in still offers the zazen experience. Based on my memories and its lasting utility, I can recommend it. The monk leading our session integrated English translations with his Japanese instructions, catering to the balanced mix of Japanese and non-Japanese attendees. While I cannot comment on how Kyoto's current issues with over-tourism might affect this experience, I suspect that dedicating a morning to practising zazen, as opposed to visiting crowded major temples and historical sites, continues to be a relatively fringe pursuit.
The Pour-Over Coffee Ritual
Pulling espresso shots, plunging a French press, and stove-top percolating are all activities I enjoy, yet they do not offer the meditative quality of brewing pour-over coffee. This method anchors one in the present, organised through a series of deliberate steps: heating the water, measuring and grinding the beans, pre-wetting the filter, warming the cup, and carefully pouring the water over the coffee in concentric circles, attentively watching the bloom and gently agitating to ensure even extraction. During exhaustion or stress, the pour-over ritual is detailed enough to demand focus yet simple enough not to be procrastinated over. It serves as an immediate mental reset, no matter how restless my thoughts may be.
When in Japan, stopping at kissaten serves as a moment of reprieve. The downtempo pace of life inside is more humane than the contemporary world outside; it is the mid-century suspended in time. I can't name many coffee shops where pour-over is the speciality in London—this is a caffeine-centric city that locks and loads espresso shots at scale. Pour-over, if present at all, is a novelty on the menu amidst flat whites and oat milk lattes. However, in a kissaten, pour-over is almost invariably the preparation method of choice. This method's deliberate and reflective pace is fundamental to the kissaten ambience.
Many kissaten offer their roasts and blends for sale, allowing patrons to take home a petite luxury from the shop. I often purchase a bag from my favourite spots, and I'm also drawn to experimental beans from contemporary coffee shops where young proprietors use the latest roasting techniques. While it's not essential to the pour-over routine to bring beans home from Japan, the familiar aroma that fills my home and the visible presence of the shop's branded label offer comforting reminders that help alleviate the fatigue following travels in Japan.
Pour-over coffee as a mindfulness practice renders the resulting cup a mere bonus, but when time permits, consuming coffee can also become part of the mindful ritual. My approach to drinking pour-over coffee begins with tasting it black, which I consider a gesture of respect towards the coffee itself. For particularly delicate and acidic roasts, I find it best to enjoy the entire cup as is. For the robust medium-dark roasts served at a kissaten, however, it's permissible to add cream from the provided miniature jug after the initial sips.
On a recent visit to Antique Café Kazuma Coffee, a basement-level kissaten frequented by dandy Ginza salarymen seeking respite and refined older women enjoying social gatherings, I discovered a surprise on the menu. It suggested a coffee-drinking sequence that mirrors my preferences—initially enjoying the coffee black, tasting it with sugar (a step I skip), and finally adding the cream. This approach, as Kazuma proposes, allows you to experience the nuances of several cups in a single serving. I had never considered this perspective before, but it offers another opportunity to extract mindfulness from your coffee beans.
Wearing Purple Socks
I departed the bar bearing various small gifts: a paper bag brimming with crackers and sweets, a miniature golden laughing Buddha statue, and two pairs of socks—far from what I had anticipated upon entering a few hours earlier. During my five-night stay in Ginza, I had noticed a captivating micro-bar. One afternoon, as a bartender swept the entrance with the door open, I caught a glimpse inside: the bar was furnished with splendid redwood, and inviting purple hues infused the interior. A pianola occupied the hallway.
Ginza is best known for its department stores and fashion boutiques, yet it is also abundant with refined, discreet havens perfect for a tranquil drink. However, choosing the right venue can prove elusive. I passed by a few nights later following an evening of street photography in the vicinity, and with the bar now open, emitting an inviting glow, the decision to end my photowalk with a nightcap inside felt right.
The visit didn't unfold as straightforwardly as I had anticipated: upon entering, the owner emerged from behind the bar to explain that it was a members-only establishment. This declination is often given, particularly in Kyoto, where the underlying concern might be the potential communication challenges with non-Japanese speakers. I understand this predicament. Many negative Google reviews for small bars and restaurants in Japan are from tourists distressed by unclear seating charges or the lack of a priced menu or itemised bill.
However, these are customary practices in such establishments. The fear of cultural misunderstandings arises here—uninformed visitors might perceive the seating charge as a hidden fee, but those versed in Japan's exclusive hospitality culture understand that it requires no explanation. In some more enigmatic restaurants, formal menus may not exist. Instead, customers might casually talk with the owner at the counter, inquire about today's recommendations, or express their mood for tailored suggestions. While it is possible to ask the master about the cost of each dish, such inquiries can be laborious. Frankly, these venues are not inexpensive, and by choosing to enter, you implicitly agree to the associated costs.
Back at the bar in Ginza, had I paused to decipher the calligraphic characters on a small plaque by the door—会員制, kaiinsei, indicating a 'membership system'—I might have understood its exclusivity. Nevertheless, a part of me is glad I didn't, as it might have deterred me from entering. Although some venues wield the kaiinsei status to exclude foreign visitors, numerous exceptional bars and restaurants maintain legitimate membership systems, complete with interviews and annual fees. This element contributes to the challenge of discovering the ideal bar in Ginza, as many establishments operate under this system.
I did not attempt to negotiate my entry—instead, I apologised, explained my misunderstanding, and was about to leave when the owner, a dignified woman clad in white, stopped me. She inquired about my origins, the purpose of my visit, and my profession. This impromptu interview led to an invitation to sit at the bar. The atmosphere was intimate, designed for conversing with the bar staff and fellow patrons. It was not the solitary nightcap I had envisioned.
It emerged that the owner and all her staff were ardent practitioners of Transcendental Meditation or TM. While generally considered a non-religious practice, it assumed a spiritual dimension in this setting, entwined with Buddhist beliefs. Additionally, the owner revealed herself to be an uranai-shi. The term 占い (uranai) means "divination" or "fortune-telling," and the suffix 師 (shi) indicates mastery or expertise. Their skill set often blends traditional Japanese divinatory methods, like onmyōdō—an esoteric form of cosmology and divination—with imported practices such as tarot card reading and astrology.
Before leaving, the owner sat with me and subtly wove an informal soothsaying into our conversation. I prefer to suspend disbelief about this type of mysticism. She made some astute observations and—even removed from the idea of divinity—I received insights from a person of wisdom and extensive experience with people. However, there was some unexpected content: I usually dress entirely in black, which led to a discussion about the meaning of the colours we wear. As I was told, black may be a strong colour for outerwear, but we shouldn't wear black undergarments. For the most part, white is recognised for inner strength.
Finally, she recommended purple socks to balance my emotions and quickly had a bartender fetch them. This bar stocks an assortment of socks in different colours, prepared for the frequent necessity of correcting patrons' poorly chosen hues. I agree that our clothing choices profoundly influence our self-perception, and I recognise the validity of colour psychology. Amidst my burnout this week—with figurative waves rocking my raft—I opted to wear the purple socks from the uranai-shi in Ginza. These socks, featuring a vibrant pattern of planets and spaceships, are not my usual style, yet their effect was surprisingly uplifting. While I attribute my regained balance to a series of routines, I cannot entirely dismiss the influence of the purple socks.
Until we meet in post-Japan recovery,
AJ