UNLOCKING THE EXTRAORDINARY: What I Learned from a Noodle Maker, a Tea Ceremony, and the Japanese art of Ikebana.

When my children were very little, 6 and 3, we went to Japan for the first time.  We spent most of our days in Kyoto.  One of our excursions was to visit a noodle maker.  Making noodles is what he did and ALL he did.  He would wake at around 4:30am each morning to begin grinding flour.  He would grind a variety of flours to different consistencies to make different kinds of noodles.  His calloused hands were evidence of his years of grinding, mixing, and cutting.  After he showed us aspects of his daily process, we sat down to a multi-course meal based on the noodles he made. 

Here is the magic: 1. despite doing the same thing daily for decades, he seemed completely inspired by his work, fulfilled, and happy. 2. I never felt so much reverence for noodles before, or since, and the taste was never so exquisite. 

Another experience that clings to memory was participating in a tea ceremony.  I can still remember exactly what the tea tasted like, how smooth and robust, but I think it was as much due to the tea as to the ceremony.  In Japan, a formal tea ceremony involves a very specific process beginning with how the room is entered and including rituals around the utensils that are used, how they are cleaned, as well as how the tea is prepared, handed over, and received. The teacup must be turned in a specific way as the tea is served and as it is sipped. The whole ceremony is done in silence. There is meaning behind each step, but the tea ceremony overall represents the principals of harmony, respect, purity, and tranquility. 

Third, I was fortunate enough to participate in the Japanese art of flower arranging, called Ikebana.  Ikebana, as I experienced it, is another ceremony done in silence where each branch or blossom is given meaning and arranged with intention one at a time in a vase filled perfectly to the rim, creating a perfect dome of water at the top. The fist branch represented grounding, foundations, earth.  The second, family.  I placed each blossom I was asked to focus deeply on what each meant.  As I went through the ritual, I started to cry.  Not because of sorrow, but because the experience overwhelmed me.  It is to this date, one of the most spiritual experiences I have had, and I attribute that to the reverence, intention, and mindful presence with which each action was performed. 

What struck me deeply in each of these experiences, what made them so powerful, so memorable, so profound, was I believe, the reverence with which we were asked to approach each ritual. In fact, I learned a lot of everyday interactions in Japan are ritualized: how you greet someone, how you accept a business card, how you smile.  The beauty of these rituals meant you approached every action with presence and intention. The intention meant every movement, gesture, act, had meaning. 

Why does any of this matter?

We talk so much about finding our life purpose but what these experiences made me reconsider is maybe instead of finding our life purpose, it is about finding purpose in our life.  Maybe it is about finding beauty in what already is, discovering profundity in all the small moments. 

We look for meaning as if it is somewhere out there to be discovered; if we find the right job, reach the highest pinnacle of whatever we deem to be success, meet our great love, impact 10,000 lives, we will find meaning and be fulfilled.  But perhaps it works the other way, maybe meaning is generated from within, from approaching each moment and task, no matter how small, with presence, reverence, and an understanding that each is a privilege and even challenge.  We can approach anything in life as just a perfunctory task to be checked off our list, or as something that can teach us to be the best of ourselves. 

It takes a love and respect of the details to build the curiosity and discipline needed to develop mastery.  

Imagine understanding the intricate balance between different qualities of flours, the amount of pressure and type of movement used to grind it, the impact of water and heat on the grain, and the eventual texture and taste of the noodle.  (There may be other intervening factors, but this reflects the limits of my understanding on noodle making).

Imagine the discipline required to master any skill, the understanding required to become a master of anything. 

As I am writing this blog, my husband is sitting next to me reading a tome on the Italian artist Amedio Modigliani. He was inspired by the artist’s mastery of color and texture in his paintings.  The artist must have spent years experimenting to discover the impact of color and texture, to understand the quality of paint, and the emotions evoked by different tones, who knows what else (this also reflects the limits of my knowledge of art). 

Here is the thing, we can learn to love the details when we see meaning in each small thing, and suddenly the world around us feels extraordinary.  Color becomes extraordinary, flour becomes fascinating, sharing tea can feel like a dance, arranging flowers can lead to a spiritual breakthrough.  The world gives us endless opportunities to invoke curiosity, challenge, meaning and purpose, but it begins with opening ourselves to a different way of thinking.  Anything done with full presence, intention and purpose can feel charged with meaning.   

I was listening to a Tim Ferris podcast and an interviewee noted, “We have a meaning shortage.” I agree we are experiencing a crisis of meaning, but I think part of it might be that we are searching for it in the wrong place.  It might actually be the “searching for” part that is misleading us, as meaning may be less “found” than ‘created.”  We find meaning in the things we give meaning to. 

This is good news: everything we need to live a meaningful life may already be right in front of us.  When I make my coffee in the morning, I can be present and enjoy the smell and flavor of the bean.  When I hug my kids hello, I can be present and consider what a privilege it is to hold them in that moment.  When I teach a class, I can focus on purpose, why I teach and the impact I hope it to have.  When I eat dinner, I can take time to sense the different ingredients it took to create the flavors and appreciate the work it took to prepare. 

Imbuing each moment with presence and meaning wakes us up to it. It orients us and opens us up to see the extraordinary in the ordinary.