Where the Heart Whispers: The Alchemy of Care and Creation

As a child, I never considered the care woven into the things I owned or created. Objects, to me, were purely practical—tools meant to serve a purpose. A cup was simply a vessel to hold liquid, nothing more. The idea that a cup or any pieces could possess a soul, or that it could bring quiet joy to the rituals of daily life, was foreign to me. I had never been taught such things, nor had I witnessed them. I was simply existing.

Over the years, I lived in various countries, immersing myself in unfamiliar cultures and customs. That experience was enriching in many ways, yet it wasn’t until I moved to Japan that something within me truly began to shift. Here, philosophy is not just studied—it is lived. It weaves itself into the ordinary. Even the smallest acts carry an undercurrent of reverence.

Living in Japan is both like living anywhere and nowhere else. What sets it apart is a profound sense of pride and presence in everything people do. There is a care and attention to detail that feels sacred. As an outsider, it caught me off guard—it felt like witnessing a secret art form, quietly practiced but never flaunted. Even now, three years later, I remain in awe of this attentiveness.

Recently, I traveled to Kyoto with my husband to witness the fleeting beauty of cherry blossoms before they vanished. As we wandered through a bustling alley, we stumbled upon a hidden ceramics shop, quiet and almost imperceptible amidst the clamor. The moment I stepped inside, I felt I had entered a sanctuary. Shelves cradled pieces made by various ceramic artisans, and each one seemed to hum with a quiet life of its own.

A particular artist’s pieces stopped me in my tracks. That artist’s works, although beautiful, weren’t the most perfect in form—its shape was slightly uneven, its glaze imperfect, and the flower petals, although intricately attached, were not perfectly shaped. But it stirred something deep within me. There was a soul in those creations, a presence. It felt like the artist had left a piece of themselves in those works, and somehow, it reached me.

In Japan, there is a philosophy called wabi-sabi—a quiet reverence for imperfection and transience. I had heard the term in college, but never gave it much thought. Only in that quiet moment, standing before the cup, did I understand it.

We left the shop that day without buying anything, yet the memory of that particular artist’s works lingered in my mind like the fading scent of blossoms on the breeze. The next day, I couldn’t shake the feeling. I had to see those ceramic pieces again. We returned to the shop, and the owner welcomed us warmly, recognizing our faces. We asked a few questions about the artist and then left once more, continuing to explore and photograph the cherry blossoms.

As the afternoon wore on, a soft anxiety bloomed in my chest. The image of one particular cup kept returning. My husband gently urged me to go back—we still had time, he said, before the shop closed. I let fate decide. If the shop was still open when we passed by again, then the cup was meant to be mine. If not, I would accept that it wasn’t.

One of the reasons I hesitated was the price. Handmade ceramics in a city like Kyoto, especially along tourist-worn paths, are not inexpensive. But still, we walked back.

To our surprise, the shop was still open. It was nearly 6 o’clock, their closing time. For the third time, we stepped inside. I stood there, quietly contemplating, and chose the one.

The shop owner wrapped the cup with exquisite care, as though she were wrapping something sacred. Each fold of paper, each gentle tuck, felt intentional—an unspoken ritual of respect for the object and for me, the new keeper of it. If anything happened to that cup, I knew I could never replace it. I know that cup is the only one of its kind in this world. The particular artists whose work I admired in that shop had a quiet courage in his pieces — each one a variation on a theme, yet none identical.

As we traveled home on the Shinkansen, a thought floated into my mind—if I had left Kyoto without that cup, it would have haunted me for a long time.

When I unwrapped it at home, a smile bloomed across my face. I felt a quiet thrill at the thought of using it. The next day—and every day since—I’ve used that cup for the most mundane things: drinking water, and sipping matcha. But somehow, those simple acts feel different now. More present. More alive. That cup, with all its beautiful imperfections, transformed my daily mundane moments into dreamy delight.

With that spark of inspiration, I came to understand—it’s not only about collecting pieces that move me but about offering pieces to the world that echo the whispers of my heart.

Our time in Kyoto was more than witnessing the fleeting, dreamlike beauty of cherry blossoms before they slipped away—it was about the story, the lesson, the quiet magic of finding the cup.

Somehow, through the gentle unfolding of that trip, I accidentally stumbled upon the answer I had been waiting for: the kind of ceramics artist I long to be. I want to make pieces that tickle my inspiration with intention and accept that even when the lines are uneven or the curves imperfect, it is those subtle, human flaws that make handmade ceramics truly alive and unique.

And when you create from that place of love, of listening, it weaves care into every curve, every form. Maybe, just maybe, that same softness and wonder will find its way into the hands and hearts of others, too.