go natural way

“Shodo” is the Japanese word for calligraphy. It is composed of two characters. “Sho” means “writing.” “Do” means something like “way,” in the sense not only of method or technique but also journey, process, teachings, or even spiritual path. It’s the same character used to represent the word “Tao.” So shodo could be translated as “the Tao of Writing.”   

For decades, since I began practicing Zen Buddhism in the late 1990s, I found Japanese calligraphy moving and inspiring. I was especially drawn to the beautiful, fluid, so-called sosho style of shodo mastered by Zen monks whose works I’d seen. From time to time, I’d try my hand at it. I would look at an example, dip my brush in my ink, take a deep breath, and then, as quickly as possible, I’d scrawl an imitation of the form I saw. They looked okay, some were even beautiful in a way. But I could feel that they were missing something. 

Without intending to, my partner Hitomi, who is Japanese, gave me a glimpse of what was missing. I had asked if she would calligraph the word shodo for me. She learned shodo in elementary school and continued to practice through high school. But then she stopped, meaning nearly fifty years have passed since she last regularly practiced. 

Nevertheless, something from that deep past seems to rise and swell within her as she stands before the inkwell and blank paper, brush in hand. She breathes quietly. Then, slowly and smoothly—no hurry, no hesitation—she dips her brush in the ink, turns it to soak the bristles, rests it briefly, then lifts and glides it across the page. Less than thirty seconds later, the two characters, twenty-two strokes in all, seem alive, as though they were faintly quivering or breathing on the page. Even today, nearly a year later, the ink long since dried and her calligraphy behind glass in a frame, I look at it and feel something move in my chest. 

What is that, I wonder? What is in these simple black lines that has the power to move me physically? When I asked Hitomi, she said that she loves grinding the ink and its smell, loves the softness of dipping the brush in the ink, loves the still point just before the brush touches the paper, and loves the calm flow of the strokes. If she is aiming for a particular result—to duplicate a predetermined shape in her mind- she didn’t mention that. Love is what she emphasized: love for the process for its own sake, without anxious striving to make the present conform to any expectations about the future.  That was missing from my calligraphy: a joyful engagement with what arises in the present, just as it is.

After our first date, as we spent more and more time together, our feelings for each other grew stronger. But still shaky from the shattering of my life the year before, I was filled with self-doubt. Would I end up hurting her, too? I didn’t want to rush into a relationship, having suppressed misgivings and fears. I’d done that before and was left feeling trapped by choices I’d made without being fully present or honest with myself or my partners. But our first date had set a powerful precedent for honesty, so I shared my fears with her. 

“It’s okay,” Hitomi smiled, “Just go natural way.”

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