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“The Washi is alive. It breathes,” the
old washi maker told me. His body bent
with age, stretched upward to hold the
narrow strip of shoji paper towards the
window.
“Kansai shoji is narrower than that of
Kanto,” he went on.
As the daylight filtered through the near
transparent paper, the washi makerﾕs face
was bathed in a warm glow. In the washi
I saw the Japan of old − a mirror, one
showing the other. And there in the small
shop in the ancient root of Japan, with
the washi maker, his body old, yet his
face shining and wreathed in smiles, kneeling
together on aged tatami, surrounded by
mountains and hills of washi paper − rolling,
unrolling, spreading their softness to
my touch − I fell in love with washi and
Japan.
I too have made washi. Lifting the heavy wooden screen; trying to balance it evenly
− back and forth, back and forth − the cold water seeps through the pulp leaving
a wet sheet of newly formed washi. No subject, no object, person and paper meet
and become one.
There are seven steps to making washi,
from cutting the long mulberry branches
to drying the wet paper on tall vertical
boards under the sun. The remaining naked
branches I string together to made screens
using shuro, a heavy string. Hung from
the eaves of the roof, they act as a shade
from the intense summer's heat; nothing
need be wasted.
Earth, wood, fire, water - all given from
nature. The earth from where grows the
tree, from which the branches are taken.
Fire: providing the heat to boil the bark.
And water: the pulp is sifted in the pure,
cold water.
Western paper, hard, crisp, sometimes
cutting; only for practical uses, its
purpose is soon nullified and then discarded.
How different the washi is. Even the smallest
piece I can't part with, never could it
be thrown away. My washi is kept in a
wooden box and when making an art piece,
the smallest strip will find its way into
the design − the work creates itself.
I must only be sensitive to where the
pieces lead me to place them, and an ikebana
of flowering colors will emerge.
Throughout the entire process of working
with washi, silence reigns. I bathe, I
drink natural tea so no stimulant will
race through my mind and body. I light
incense and rinse my hands. Cold water
is first poured over my left hand, and
then my right hand. Again the left, and
I touch the water with my fingertips and
place a drop on my third eye and one more
on my lips, as an act of purification.
I sit on tatami “seiza style” and say
a silent prayer, inviting the flower to
enter into my hands and come to live in
the paper. With a clear mind I begin.
With no thought of beautiful or not beautiful,
I only make what can be made this one
time, with these materials.
My home is in the foothills. Birds fill
my rooms with their song. I live without
television, radio, cellular telephones.
My house is old, only two rooms − the
walls I have covered with washi, the ceiling
is darkened wood, the floor, tatami turned
golden with age. The small garden was
made by a temple gardener; a maple tree,
bamboo fence and flowers.
My husband is Japanese and our child is
six. I hope to impart on him, the Japan
of olden times. We go to Shrines and Temples,
instead of amusement parks. He drinks
macha (green tea) and has never tasted
soda pop. His toy is a taiko drum, and
on New Years Eve, we go to a nearby temple
and together sit in a silent meditation.
Japan may rush into the 21st century, yet I will try to hold tightly
back the reins and stubbornly refuse the conveniences of modernity which somehow
rob the soul.
Japan, washi, flower, how did I find this
world, where the aesthetic of wabi still
exists, quietly?
And my life - long or short I don't know
- yet here I am, alive, and together living
in this precious world. |
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Ode to the Flower
My world
My world is quiet
I can see the flower
Quivering in the breeze
Reaching out to the Sun
Soft
Strong
My world is beautiful
A field of flowers
The scent of each blossom
Rising to greet me
A visible art
A harmony of color
Living softly in the Earth
Lightly attached to the ground
Yet time breathes in this World
A new bud will open
A full blossom will fall
Poetry lives in each petal
Nature's silent gift
I pray too, I may join
This world of the Flower
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Washi maker/shop:
Shiokubako. Nishida-san
Misumi, Shimane 0855-32-1141 |
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