傷も、物語になる. My journey across Japan turned brokenness into beauty
For ten years, I chased numbers in the bank, each promotion leaving me emptier than before. One day, I walked away — come to Shikoku’s 88-temple and 1200km pilgrimage in Japan, where strangers offered tea, fruit, and kindness that quietly began to mend my spirit.
When the pilgrimage ended, Kyoto called. By chance, I entered the quiet world of Master Matsuda-san, an 80-year-old Kintsugi craftsman whose hands moved like water over broken clay. Together, we repaired a cracked bowl, brushing gold into its fractures. As the golden lines took shape, I felt my own scars glimmer for the first time. In that moment, the art spoke to me: nothing is truly broken — it only waits to be made beautiful again.
I asked to stay one month, and worked in Matsuda-san’s quiet studio, learning the slow, deliberate rhythm of Kintsugi. Between strokes of gold, they spoke of impermanence, of beauty that hides in imperfection. The lines between teacher and student blurred, replaced by a bond that felt timeless. At The end of the long workshop, the world was no longer a hollow chase. Every chipped teacup, every fallen leaf, every moment — perfect or not — glowed with quiet, enduring beauty.
