A Stem, a Shell, and a Calligraphy Scroll

When we close the door to our apartment, the urban noise doesn’t disappear—it slips through the screen, the notifications, the excess of objects, and our own mind—filled with the thoughts and expectations of others, a tangled web of desires, ambitions, and animosities. We no longer know—are they ours, or someone else's? In such a landscape, the tokonoma remains an almost countercultural phenomenon: an empty frame positioned across the logic of “staying up to date.” It doesn’t attract the eye like a television, nor does it offer functionality like a shelf. And yet, it is around it that the entire order of the washitsu—the traditional Japanese room—is arranged. In many old homes, the tokonoma was not an addition to the room. The room was an addition to it.

This alcove carved into the wall, usually the width of one tatami mat and a depth of 30–60 centimeters, carries an idea as old as zen: that the greatest meaning resides in what has not been filled. The name tokonoma (床の間) literally means “floor void” or “pause at the base,” but do not be deceived by its simplicity. Since the times of samurai wars during the Muromachi period, it has served as a frame for contemplation: a kakemono—a vertical scroll with calligraphy or a landscape—would be hung there, a flower placed in a simple vase, and beside it, a tea bowl, a stone, or a small sculpture. All in the spirit of wabi-cha, the tea philosophy of silence and purposeful ambiguity. In the Edo period, the tokonoma became the center of the zashiki—the formal room—and its decor became a commentary on the host’s character. Today, in the era of digital cacophony, it can become a domestic hearth of silence.

In 2017, environmental psychologist Kazuhiro Nakamura studied the impact of such silence on the nervous systems of residents in micro-apartments in Tōkyō. Among those who contemplated a simple tokonoma composition for a few minutes daily, a 16% lower rate of autonomic tension was recorded compared to those without such a space. No incense, no mantra—just the pause. And it is in this pause that the essence of the Japanese concept of ma (間) lies—the space between things that does not divide, but gives meaning. The empty alcove is not about decoration—tokonoma teaches us attentiveness. It teaches that a leaf in a vase may wilt sooner than we find the time to pause and appreciate its beauty, even once. The same applies to life as a whole. Tokonoma teaches that every thing—and every moment—passes. Without attentiveness, we are merely sleepwalkers who are suddenly born and suddenly die, with nothing in between that we managed to… notice.

In today’s article, we will explore what a Japanese tokonoma is, what role it plays in the lives of Japanese people, what its history and meaning are—and how to build one even in our Polish homes. Let’s begin!

The Kanji 床の間 (tokonoma) and Its Meanings

In Japanese, there are words that not only name things but also express an attitude toward the world—the silence they bring to a person, the rhythm of the seasons, the meaning of emptiness, and the weight of gesture. One of these words is tokonoma (床の間)—a word modest in sound but carrying more meanings than it might seem at first glance.

The character 床 (toko) is most commonly associated with the floor, a bed, a place where the body rests. It is ground—but not geological ground; rather, a base, a background, a foundation of existence. A Japanese home knew no beds or sofas; it knew tatami mats, upon which one sits, sleeps, meditates.

Between toko and ma lies the small particle no (の). This does not mean “floor space,” but rather: “space that belongs to the floor,” as if it were its natural extension.

And finally—ma (間), the key character of Japanese aesthetics. It can be translated as “interval,” “pause,” “in-between,” but most importantly—as “meaningful space” (we write more about it in the article on ikebana: Ikebana: The Japanese Art of Speaking in Flowers). In writing, it consists of a gate (門) through which light passes (日 – the sun). Ma is not simply “between this and that,” but a space that in itself carries meaning (in Japan, empty space often holds more meaning than the things it separates). A void that is not emptiness, but potential. Silence that is not the absence of sound, but its fullness. In tokonoma, ma is precisely that subtle space—the meeting place of the eye and the image, the heart and time, the mind and the pause. Tokonoma is thus not just a niche. It is a symbolic frame made of three characters: ground (toko), relationship (no), and meaningful space (ma). One could say: it is a physical place where the spirit may sit down.

It is worth mentioning concepts that grow from this same aesthetic. Chigaidana—asymmetrical shelves that sometimes appear next to the tokonoma—operate under the principle of fūga—elegance through irregularity. Kakemono, the scroll hanging in the niche, is not a decoration but the voice of the moment—often a calligraphy of a single character that serves as a philosophical echo of, for instance, the season (of which there are 72 in a year—we write more about that here: The 72 Japanese Seasons, Part 1 – Spring and Summer in the Calendar of Subtle Mindfulness). Toko-bashira, the vertical post of the tokonoma, is sometimes made of unhewn wood—as if nature were allowed inside to look at us, not just be looked at. Zashiki and washitsu—traditional rooms—are spaces that are born around the tokonoma, not the other way around. Tokonoma is not an addition to the home. The rooms around it are the addition to it.

In this one word: 床の間—we can glimpse a Japanese lesson in presence. Seek not content in the object, but in the space around it. Not in the sound, but in the silence that follows. Not in the story, but in the pause between words. Not in the rooms of the inhabitants, but in the interval between them.

A Scene by the Tokonoma

The light of late afternoon trickles through the vertical slats of the balcony doors, just before it turns into the nocturnal blackness illuminated by neon-lit nightlife. In a two-room apartment on the eighth floor, a few blocks from Ōmachi-teiryūjō Station in the quiet district of Hakodate, a minimalist order prevails: milky-white walls, vinyl panels in the shade of light sugi, a folding table with a laptop, and a black zabuton (sitting cushion). Only one sliding fusuma leads to another era—to a small washitsu carved out of the apartment’s original layout.

When Sayaka returns from the office—her blazer still smells of vending machine coffee and open-space air conditioning—she takes off her leather heels, carefully aligns them in the genkan, and instinctively silences her phone. The transition from vinyl panels to tatami is almost an initiation gesture; the soles immediately feel the resilience of straw mats, the faint scent of igusa, and shadow.

The washitsu holds merely three tatami, arranged in a goza layout—one perpendicular to the other, the third by the entrance. On the right side, vis-à-vis the low zabuton cushion, a pine-carved niche—tokonoma. Its sugi (杉 – Japanese cryptomeria, mistakenly called cedar) frames retain discreet cracks and lighter resin streaks; the wood makes no pretense of perfection. The alcove floor is covered with a darker, almost brownish-green mat—slightly deeper in tone than the rest—a small difference, but noticeable to the eye.

On the back wall hangs a scroll—a clean, soft fabric down which boldly flows a brush-painted ichigo ichie (一期一会). “One meeting, one moment”—a famous reminder of the unrepeatability of each instant. The ink still seems damp, as if the calligraphy master had created it moments ago, not decades earlier. Below the calligraphy stands a tall, cylindrical vase made of unglazed Bizen pottery. From the vase leans a single young bamboo branch—slender, firm, with leaves still curled at the base. When Sayaka brought it back from Nishiki Market, the air was still crisp and clear. Now, in the height of a scorching summer, the leaves have unfurled almost imperceptibly—as if to whisper a reminder that each moment happens only once. If we miss it—we will not be granted the chance to experience it again, so we had better be mindful.

Sayaka places a kettle of water on the low table, adds a handful of sencha leaves into a bowl, pours. Steam rises in slow ribbons and mingles with the scent of straw. She sits on the zabuton, straightens her back. Her hands cradle the bowl, but her gaze does not seek the smartphone—it rests on the emptiness between the rolled edge of the scroll and the line of the alcove floor, on the millimeter of shadow beneath the toko-bashira beam, on the slender bamboo stem. She breathes; once, then again. Layers of noise and others’ expectations from work begin to fall away, one by one, one by one. Until only Sayaka remains—alone, by her Tokonoma.

There is nothing religious or ceremonial here. No ritual that requires kneeling or reciting. Only a conscious pause.

The tokonoma reminds her that the season is stirring—quietly, yet inexorably. That today’s “self” will soon become yesterday’s “someone.” That the branch needs water and attention, but not words, not worries.

The minutes pass without haste. Outside the window, the lanterns of Kaigan-dōri begin to glow, and the green-and-cream Hakodate City Tram, line no. 2, screeches along the curve by Ōmachi-teiryūjō stop. Sayaka finishes her tea, gently sets the cup down on the edge of the mat. She moves nothing—not the slender branch, nor her own thoughts. The emptiness seems tailored to her measure: neither too narrow, nor overwhelming. A space that serves no purpose—simply persists, and allows her to persist without purpose—however long Sayaka may desire. And perhaps it is precisely because of this that, although the night thickens beyond the glass, the little apartment becomes just a touch brighter.

The History of Tokonoma – Origins in the Chaos of the Sengoku Wars

We have already seen how the tokonoma lives and breathes in the 21st century—how in the shadow of modern walls, amid the clamor of technological fatigue, it can still fulfill its ancient role: useless, and thus priceless. A niche assigned to no function, yet concentrating everything necessary to pause for a moment and devote time to oneself. But how did it come to be that this unassuming fragment of Japanese architecture became one of the expressions of its spirituality and aesthetics? It's time to travel back several centuries—to an era when the tokonoma was just being born, in the half-light of temples and the chill of mountain residences.

The roots of the tokonoma reach back to the Muromachi period (1336–1573)—a turbulent era, full of fratricidal wars and transformations, and at the same time a period in which a subtle zen civilization was emerging. It was during this period that Japanese interiors began to designate special spaces for the display of objects with symbolic significance: first in monastic meditation pavilions, where Buddhist scrolls were hung and byōbu screens were set up to separate the sacred from the profane. Later—in the villas and residences of the powerful—these same spaces were adapted for secular use, though traces of their religious function never entirely disappeared.

The shoin-zukuri architectural style, which blossomed precisely during the Muromachi period, was the first systematic step toward the tokonoma as a permanent interior element. Shoin-zukuri was the style of residence for the intellectual elite—the samurai, whose lives combined bloody warfare with contemplation and calligraphy. It was in these ascetic yet carefully conceived spaces that the first true tokonoma appeared: shallow alcoves in which a scroll might hang bearing the calligraphy of a Buddhist kōan or a monochrome landscape in the suiboku-ga style. These were often accompanied by a simple flower in a ceramic vessel—not for decoration, but as a reminder of impermanence. This was also where the first toko-bashira—the vertical support post of the tokonoma—was installed: imperfect, often rough and asymmetrical.

Soon, the alcove found its place in homes throughout the prefectures—not as a sacred space, but as a silence in which to reflect. A space that said nothing, and therefore said everything. It became part of daily life, but remained untouchable. Sacred, though not in a religious sense (at least not always). This is where the tokonoma revealed its role as kamiza—the place of honor in a room, directly opposite the entrance, where the highest-ranking guest would sit. But this position was not merely a matter of hierarchy—it reflected the Japanese understanding of space: that which is empty and still moves us the deepest.

All this reached its fullness thanks to a master who could transform an empty room into a temple of everyday life—Sen no Rikyū. He made the tokonoma the central element of the tea pavilion. In his philosophy, expressed through the four canonical principles of wabi, sabi, sei, and jaku, the tokonoma became the focal point for concentration. In the pavilion, where there was no room for accident, a hanging scroll could say more than a treatise, and a branch without flowers meant more than an entire garden.

With time, the tokonoma detached itself from the sacred—at least formally. But it still retained its afterglow. It transformed into ma—the space between. Not in the sense of emptiness, but of pause. It is not a wall. Not a decoration. The tokonoma was not created to store anything, but to experience something—without touching, without taking, without commenting. Simply to be. And in this sense, though born in feudal times, the tokonoma speaks to the 21st-century human in a language we still need: the language of attentiveness, silence, and conscious observation.

Tokonoma Through the Ages of Japanese History

Though the origins of the tokonoma derive from the Muromachi period, the true development and transformation of this architectural form can be traced through the successive historical eras, from the 16th to the 21st century. Each epoch brought significant changes—both formal and symbolic—that influenced the function, appearance, and presence of the tokonoma in Japanese homes.

The Late Middle Ages: Azuchi-Momoyama (1573–1603)

In the Azuchi-Momoyama period—a time of great political change and power consolidation by Oda Nobunaga and Toyotomi Hideyoshi (more on this here: What Does “Shōgun” Really Mean? One word that forged the Japan of samurai in steel and blood)—the tokonoma gained a more monumental and expressive character, particularly in the residences of daimyō and the warrior aristocracy. In the palaces and villas of the elite, designed among others by the masters of the Kanō school, the tokonoma took on a representational role: it was wider, often composed of multiple levels (e.g., separate spaces for the scroll, for the byōbu screen, or for flowers), and its background was adorned with richly colored paintings, often depicting landscapes, Chinese motifs, or symbols of strength and dignity. It was, in a sense, the Japanese “Baroque.”

In styles such as shoin-zukuri, developed in this era to an almost classical form, the tokonoma was an integral part of the zashiki—the formal guest room—and acquired its standard elements: a scroll (kakemono), a floral composition (chabana or ikebana), and a carefully selected vessel (usually ceramic or lacquered wood). At the same time, attention began to be paid to the quality of the toko-bashira (corner post), choosing wood with distinctive grain patterns or curves that expressed “wild beauty.”

The Tokugawa Shogunate: Edo Period (1603–1868)

During the Edo period, the tokonoma became standardized as an almost obligatory element of every formal zashiki—not only in samurai residences but also in wealthier merchant homes. Urban architecture, especially in Edo (modern-day Tokyo), Ōsaka, and Kyōto, popularized interiors with clearly defined layouts: the tokonoma as the compositional axis of the room, placed opposite the entrance or in a corner.

Aesthetic norms for the tokonoma emerged, regulating not only its size but also its proportions in relation to the other elements of the room. The scroll and floral composition became tools for expressing the host’s taste and erudition—especially during social gatherings, tea ceremonies, or New Year visits. In sukiya-zukuri architecture, inspired by the philosophy of wabi-cha, the tokonoma took on a more modest, intimate form: often very shallow, with a natural, unfinished toko-bashira (e.g., made of sugi or bamboo).

Modernity: Meiji (1868–1912) and Taishō (1912–1926)

After Japan opened to the West and underwent the sweeping reforms of the Meiji era, the tokonoma gradually began to lose its former position. With the arrival of Western furniture (chairs, tables, beds) and the adoption of European models of interior design, Japanese-style rooms became increasingly rare—and so too did tokonoma. Often, they were converted into storage spaces or used to hang portraits of the Emperor (such were the times), rather than traditional scrolls or floral compositions.

On the other hand, during the era of national modernization, the tokonoma acquired a new, symbolic function—as a sign of traditional identity and spiritual heritage. In the villas of the political or artistic elite, a washitsu with a tokonoma was often deliberately designed as a declaration of attachment to the aesthetics and ethos of pre-modern Japan.

Contemporary Times: Shōwa (1926–1989), Heisei (1989–2019), and Reiwa (2019–?)

During the Shōwa era, especially after World War II, the tokonoma became an increasingly rare element in modern residential architecture. In danchi-style apartment blocks (mass-produced in the 1950s and ’60s), there was seldom space even for a traditional washitsu, let alone a tokonoma.

However, from the 1980s onward, a certain revival can be observed: in single-family homes—especially wa-yō-setchū, which blend Western and Japanese styles—it became increasingly common to include one traditional-style room, typically with a miniature tokonoma, treated as a conscious aesthetic choice, a place for focus, tranquility, and a symbolic “return to roots.”

In the Heisei era, and especially now in Reiwa, tokonoma have once again begun to appear more frequently: in more traditional homes, in ryōkan (Japanese inns), tea houses, occasionally in artistic spaces or rooms designed in the spirit of chashitsu, and even—in modern residential construction. Contemporary tokonoma are often minimalist, frequently reinterpreted: made of glass, concrete, betsu-no-ma with LED lighting or with steel toko-bashira. Yet the idea remains unchanged—it is a space that serves not a practical function, but a symbolic one: attentiveness, seasonal rhythm, and reverence for impermanence.

The Role of the Tokonoma Alcove in Life

What does literature say?

(yohaku no bi – 余白の美 – the beauty of empty white space)

When we enter a traditional washitsu, the eye almost instantly halts at the carved-out space in the wall—the tokonoma. This pause in the material, so characteristic of Japanese spatial culture, is not a decoration; it is the embodiment of ma (間)—an interval that becomes content, although it contains no “object” in itself. Architect Arata Isozaki wrote that ma is “the body of time,” but in the alcove, that time has taken the shape of silence.

“What is essential is better said briefly—or not at all.”

—Sen no Rikyū, Nanporoku

The Japanese notion of yohaku no bi (余白の美)—the beauty of a left-behind margin (white space)—rests on the belief that what is absent creates balance for what is present. Philosopher and art historian Yanagi Sōetsu saw in the emptiness of the alcove an “intentional silence,” without which it is impossible to hear the subtle nuances—of the world and of one’s own thoughts. This interior silence was sometimes even a meditative practice: monk Takuan Sōhō advised his zen students to gaze at the empty wall of the alcove in order to “air out the mind’s eye”—just as one cleanses a brush before dipping it in ink.

What does science say?

Contemporary neuroaesthetic research confirms what Japanese thinkers intuitively sensed. Küller’s team (2009) showed that low visual complexity in living spaces reduces cortisol levels and regulates breathing rhythm. Studies by Masuda and Nisbett (2001) on cognitive differences between East and West demonstrate that holistic cultures (including Japan) respond more strongly to figure–ground relationships. The tokonoma benefits from this mechanism: it marks a single focal point, freeing the rest of the visual field from unnecessary burden. Fixing the gaze on a central but simple stimulus—a rolled scroll or a branch—triggers a process of cognitive rest (attentional rest): a pause in the activity of the prefrontal cortex, which neurophysiologist Marco Iacoboni (2019) links to a sense of clarity and calm.

Writer Tanizaki Jun’ichirō, in In’ei Raisan (In Praise of Shadows), noted that “the Japanese falls in love with shadow, for in shadow it is easier to hear oneself.” The tokonoma is precisely a composition of solitude—a technique for subtracting excess from space in order to preserve room for inner dialogue. In practice, this means a minimum of color (natural wood, raw Bizen ceramics, chalky scroll paper), a maximum of diffused light—and conscious limitation of acoustic stimuli.

Environmental psychologist Kazuhiro Nakamura (2017) measured heart rate variability in residents of micro-apartments in Tōkyō. Among participants who spent a few minutes each day gazing at a simple tokonoma composition, vegetative tension levels were found to be up to 16% lower than in the control group, which lacked any form of “organized emptiness.” No scented candles, no mantras—only the pause.

“Ma” Speaks More

In this way, the alcove becomes less a museum of beautiful objects and more the smallest lecture hall of attentiveness aesthetics. Emptiness becomes an educational tool: it daily reminds the inhabitants that light changes the color of the scroll paper, and that a single flower may wilt before we find time to notice its beauty. That which is negative and incomplete paradoxically has a more positive effect than a surplus of stimuli. To borrow the words of Nishida Kitarō, “things exist only in the light of relationships”; in the tokonoma, that relationship is the contrast between presence and absence.

This is why contemporary interior designer Shigemori Masaaki suggests that when planning a small apartment, one should “reserve at least one place that will remain empty.” The tokonoma, even a symbolic one with a single modest scroll, is now more a psychological practice than a decoration. It serves no purpose—and therein lies its greatest power.

Can You Create a Tokonoma at Home—Here in Poland?

The tokonoma alcove is not a piece of furniture or decoration. It is a symbolic space—a zone of focus and observation, exempt from the rule of utility. In traditional Japanese homes, the tokonoma is a small alcove in the zashiki (guest room), where carefully chosen elements are placed: a scroll, a plant, and an object. Their changeability resonates with the rhythm of the seasons, and their presence serves as an invitation to pause and contemplate. This same idea can be brought into a modern apartment—adapted to local materials, lighting conditions, and one’s own way of life.

Dimensions and Proportions

A traditional tokonoma is not large—it often occupies a space roughly the size of one tatami mat (about 90 x 180 cm) and has a depth ranging from 30 to 60 cm. However, proportions are more important than size. The key principle is asymmetry and unbalanced harmony—the scroll should hang slightly off-center, the plant placed lower, the object positioned in the opposite corner.

Follow the rule of three elements:
▫ Scroll (kakemono) – the vertical element, the “guiding thought.”
▫ Plant (hana) – the living, changeable element.
▫ Object (mono) – the enduring, “silent” element.

Materials and Textures

A tokonoma doesn’t require many materials—quite the opposite. A certain rawness is essential.

▫ Wood: In Japan, hinoki (Japanese cypress) or sugi (Japanese cedar/cryptomeria) are traditionally used. In European conditions, good alternatives include pine, oak, or ash. Even untreated plywood can serve—after all, the point is to induce a particular state of mind, not to impress guests.

▫ The back wall can be smooth and matte—clay, paper, or simply painted in a warm, natural tone: beige, grey-green, or muted blue.

▫ The floor may imitate a tatami mat: a thin seagrass rug, a linen runner, a bamboo plank, or a textile mat in a neutral color.

Gloss, plastic, and excess patterns are to be avoided. A tokonoma is a place where materials should look like what they are—without pretending.

Light and Color Palette

A tokonoma does not require separate lighting, but it should ideally be located where the light subtly shifts throughout the day. An alcove that’s too dark loses clarity—too bright, and it becomes just another shelf.

Natural light in the morning or just before sunset is ideal. Avoid direct LED spotlights aimed at the objects—diffused or low lighting is preferable.

The color scheme should be subdued and nature-inspired—the grey of rain, the green of moss, the tone of raw wood, muted whites.

Adapting a Tokonoma in a Polish Home

Even if you don’t have a traditional washitsu, you can create your own tokonoma in one of the following places:

▫ A niche shelf in the living room—remove the books from one level, leaving only a scroll and a tea bowl.
▫ A section of wall in the bedroom—hang a small kakemono, and place an object below on a low pedestal.
▫ A shelf at eye level in the hallway—instead of a key hook, let the sign of the season welcome you.

The most important thing is to designate a space that serves no purpose—other than mindfulness.

Seasonality and the Rhythm of Nature

A tokonoma lives in the rhythm of the year. Its contents change with the agricultural calendar and the natural cycle of life. Here are a few examples (highly subjective, completely non-binding—everyone will, in truth, have their own way) of how to compose it throughout the seasons:

▫ Spring: a scroll with a haiku about rebirth, a plum branch (ume), a ceramic jug.
▫ Summer: the calligraphy “ichigo ichie,” a bamboo leaf, a bowl with cool water.
▫ Autumn: a poem by Bashō, a susuki grass stem, a stone reminiscent of a solitary mountain.
▫ Winter: the character jaku (寂 – peace in solitude), a pine branch, a red clay tea bowl.

Changing even one element can completely transform the mood of the alcove.

The Art of Selection: What to Place in the Tokonoma?

Scroll (kakemono)

Calligraphy is the soul of the tokonoma. Choose characters with meaning—these can be classic idioms like ichigo ichie (一期一会), single kanji like mu (無 – emptiness), haiku excerpts, sutra fragments, poems by Bashō, Issa, or Santōka.

Plant

The plant doesn’t have to be a full ikebana. A branch, a blade of grass, an unfurled leaf will suffice. Their selection should reflect the moment and place—ideally gathered locally and not evergreen. Observing their change reminds us of impermanence.

Object

Here lies the most room for personal story. It can be anything meaningful to you. In Japan, one often sees: suiseki—a stone resembling a landscape, a ceramic tea bowl, a hand-carved figurine, an old bamboo spoon, a shell. It doesn’t need to be “pretty”—but it must be authentic.

In one tokonoma seen in a rural home on the outskirts of Kurashiki, beneath a scroll with the calligraphy kokyō (故郷 – homeland), stood a single rusted item: gardening shears once used to trim sakura branches. No flowers, no plant—just a tool and a memory.

A reminder that tokonoma does not require decoration—it requires truth.
Just one element is enough, if it holds a memory, a gesture, a story, a season. The rest will be completed by emptiness.

A Manifesto of Silence

Make no mistake—the silence of the tokonoma is not escapism; it is a conscious spatial technique that reclaims a piece of your own attention—even if only for three breaths between an email and the next scroll.

The tokonoma reminds us that harmony does not arise from fitting all elements together, but from the brave act of leaving something unfilled. This “frame for nothing”—as Tanizaki wrote—sharpens the contours of the day: it slows the rhythm of thoughts, soothes the eye, and steadies the overstimulated nervous system. In an era that measures time in milliseconds, the tokonoma proposes a thirty-second ritual (a tiny eternity). It’s enough to rest your gaze on the scroll, the shadow under the wooden beam, the slow wilting of a leaf—and allow silence to become a sentence in a dialogue with yourself.

It’s no wonder that designers and minimalist artists return to this alcove as a model: it shows that order is not a matter of symmetry, but of the decision to leave something unfinished. The tokonoma doesn’t ask us to abandon modernity; it merely asks us to frame it—so that noise doesn’t spill beyond the boundaries, and each moment can become ichigo ichie—an unrepeatable encounter.

So if the home today needs a new function, let it be the practice of mindfulness woven into architecture: a small niche in which each day we change a branch, switch a scroll, lift our gaze for a minute. In a world that generates petabytes of action, demanding our attention now, instantly—the tokonoma remains the most modest, and at the same time the most powerful, manifesto: a small pause is all it takes to once again hear all the sounds… of silence.

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"Strong Japanese Women"

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    未開    ソビエライ

 An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)

Personal motto:

"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)

  Mike Soray

   (aka Michał Sobieraj)

未開    ソビエライ

 An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)

Personal motto:

"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)

Mike Soray

(aka Michał Sobieraj)

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