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Out of the corner of my eye, I see a brush glide effortlessly, and yet with great care and intention, over the crisp surface of sumi-e (Japanese ink painting) paper. Each quick stroke begins and ends its limited journey with a heavy intentional pause, leaving behind a dichotomous array of shadows masterfully etched in black and white. My own wafery sheet, however, is drenched in ink, punctuated by little streaks of white which strive to mirror the graceful nodes of a bamboo tree.
As a city-dwelling, nature-fearing amateur, I struggle to remember the last time I actually looked at a stalk of bamboo.
What do the leaves look like? Are there leaves?
A futile stare back at my own fraying sheet leaves me with a sense of dread and few answers.
With the brazen defiance of a teenager hoping to sneak a peek at a classmate’s test, I cast a furtive glance over at Daichi’s paper. A three-dimensional image of the woods stares back at me, mimicking the steady, haunting poise of bamboo, even as it bends to nature’s will.
My own sheet stares mockingly at me with straight lines and symmetrical branches emerging with an almost mechanical precision, bearing an uncanny resemblance to the organized chaos of a cityscape. Perhaps sensing my frustration, Daichi rises from his seat, resting his brush on the cold, hard surface of his black inkstone.
“Let’s go for a walk? I want to show you something.”
In a rush to appear just as calm and collected, I clank my ink plate down, inadvertently spilling some ink for good measure. No worries, I think to myself, I could always call my magnum opus: Bamboo in the Night.
We open the classroom door and walk down a flight of stairs, over the woodchips carpeting the surface of the school playground and around the bend to a garden.
“What do you see?”
Happily ensconced amidst other shrubs, the bamboo stands prominently, resembling the silhouette I had observed on my friend’s paper.
Few words are exchanged as we stand silently staring at the dignified bamboo for 10 minutes.
As we make the short walk back to the classroom, I know where I have gone wrong even before we ascend the steps. Artistic prowess aside, my bamboo stands rigid, inflexible, even arrogant; restrictive and symmetric shoots limit its true potential. The humbling asymmetry of the garden paints a different picture altogether.
Grasping a new sheet, I start afresh in an effort to bring to life the scene we had just observed on paper. By the end of my lesson, I am no closer to understanding the grace and finesse of a sumi-e artist, but I take solace in the fact that I can at least return knowing what bamboo looks like.
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Between the mindful intention of each stroke and the wordless exercise of observation, I learned a valuable lesson in humility that day. Our relationships with nature and with one another require the same level of care and intention afforded during a two-hour sumi-e session.
Over time, I have realized that the people I have the most to learn from are those who, despite achieving mastery in their craft, manage to embody humility in every action. Humility extends beyond attempting to downplay one’s accomplishments. It requires a willingness to shed any semblance of superiority or arrogance residing within us, and rather empower others to discover spaces to learn for themselves.
As parents, teachers, or even political leaders, we can all benefit from practicing the art of humility. And yet, it is a quality in short supply among prominent voices and everyday professionals alike. Perhaps what we all really need is not a Youtube channel or a follower count, but a blank canvas and the humbling, encompassing power of black ink and white space.
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Photo by Bundo Kim on Unsplash