And all it takes is courage.

Our everyday life resembles an overexcited fair—filled with garish messages, chaotic shouting, and compulsive activity. The stimuli we pack into every hour and minute are no longer entertainment—they are a shield protecting us from something far more dangerous, dark, and grim: from contact with ourselves and our own inner world. When everything around is shouting with aggressive and idiotic enthusiasm, it seems an act of ultimate and almost superhuman courage to stop and… do nothing for a moment. I know—it’s a difficult topic. Immersing oneself in the hot water of a Japanese furo, without music, without a book, not even a phone—is not a luxury, it is rebellion and provocation. Hot water, silence, and a narrow, deep tub—that is all it takes to experience the traditional Japanese bath furo (風呂) and… turn off the world. Because sometimes the world needs to be turned off—you know it yourself—that noise can be unbearable.

Traditional furo requires neither scented candles nor a Spotify playlist. In a Japanese bathroom, next to the hinoki cypress tub, stands a low stool and a bowl—before the body is immersed up to the neck in 42-degree water, it must be washed. Only then does the true ritual begin: without words, without foam, without a phone. And when we close our eyes—the battle begins. The mind—that restless monkey (“monkey mind”—a term known to anyone who practices mindfulness)—throws up thousands of thoughts and grabs frantically now one, now another. But there are ways to calm that little monkey of ours: breathing—five seconds in, eight out—counting, returning to the feeling of warmth on the nape of the neck, the color behind closed eyelids. And suddenly, in that apparent idleness, something changes—we feel relief, softness, acceptance. That is furo—a bath that heals not only the body but also the chaos within ourselves.

Research confirms: a hot bath lowers cortisol, regulates sleep, calms the amygdala—the center of fear. And the breath—simple, deep—synchronizes the nervous system, slows the heart, activates the parasympathetic system, and restores balance. It’s not magic—it’s neurobiology in the service of everyday life. It doesn’t take much to try a Japanese bath—a tub and hot water will suffice. And—above all—courage. To pause for a moment and… truly do nothing.

What is the furo bath?

Furo (風呂), or more politely ofuro (お風呂), is more than just a tub or a bath. It is the Japanese way of encountering warmth—not only physical, but also spiritual. In the Japanese language, the very word furo contains the character 風 (“wind”) and 呂, which no longer has a separate meaning today but appears in many ancient words related to warmth, flow, and space. In practice, it refers to a place where the body is immersed in water not to wash, but to rest, calm down, and find balance. In Buddhist texts, the word 湯船 (yubune), literally “boat of hot water,” was also used—still appearing today as a poetic or nostalgic term for a bathtub (though it sounds rather archaic).

Traditional furo is drastically different from the Western concept of bathing. Above all, it is not used for washing—that stage always happens separately, before entering the tub. In a Japanese bathroom, right next to the deep, small tub, stands a stool, a bowl, and a shower. There, one washes off the dirt of the day, and only then steps into the clean, hot water—so hot that to an unaccustomed European it may feel nearly scalding (usually 40–43°C). The furo is filled to the brim, so that the body can be immersed up to the neck in a tight, compact space that envelops like a cocoon.

The oldest furo were built from hinoki cypress—a wood with a relaxing, slightly citrus scent, known for its natural antiseptic properties and resistance to moisture. Today, tubs made of ceramic, stone, marble, or modern materials are also found. But their purpose has remained the same: to create a space in which hot water not only loosens muscles but also wraps the soul.

In Japanese tradition, furo is a ritual—almost sacred. The body is cleansed before entry, and the bath itself is simply presence—without conversation, without foam, without haste. In silence, in hot water, one may sink into oneself—as if every particle of the body melted from tension, and the mind drifted away from the world. In zen culture, this is described as the practice of presence: ima koko—“here and now.” Furo thus becomes not so much a physical place, but a state—a state of regeneration, reflection, letting go.

The history of furo

Before wooden tubs existed, before the first drops of hot water trembled on the stones of temple baths, furo had its roots in river currents and the chill of mountain waterfalls. In the oldest shintō practices, the purification of body and spirit was carried out through misogi—a ritual of ablution in cold, natural water. People stood under a stream flowing down from the mountains, allowing what was unnecessary—impurities, bad thoughts, fatigue—to be carried away by the water to the sea. Misogi was not a bath—it was a liberation, a symbolic return to purity, to the beginning.

With the arrival of Buddhism in Japan in the 6th century, water rituals gained a new dimension. In monasteries, the first bathing structures were established: yudō (湯堂 – “hall of hot water”) and yokudō (浴堂 – “bath hall”). Though initially reserved for monks, the idea of purification through bathing quickly spread among the lay faithful—as an act of charity (施浴, seyoku) and a form of care for the sick and the poor. A particularly famous story is that of Empress Kōmyō, who in the 8th century ordered the construction of public baths for the poorest and personally washed their backs—in the name of compassion and humility (so the legend goes).

At first, however, the Japanese furo did not resemble what we know today—steam forms dominated, similar to saunas, where the body was exposed to steam mixed with fragrant herbs. Only later did immersion in water begin. Deeper, fully immersive baths became widespread only during the Edo period (1603–1867). It was then that bathing became not only a religious or hygienic ritual, but also a social one—the birth of sentō (銭湯, more on this here: Sentō Bathhouses in Shogunate-Era Japan – Dense Steam, Quiet Conversations, the Scent of Damp Pine), public urban bathhouses, changed the rhythm of city life.

In sentō—separate for women and men—people shared not only water, but also stories, silence, and daily life. At the same time, the goemonburo (五右衛門風呂) emerged—a legendary iron tub resembling a cauldron, under which fire was burned directly. The name, according to legend, comes from the condemned thief Ishikawa Goemon, who is said to have been boiled alive in just such a pot (we write about this here: If Robin Hood Were a Japanese Ninja – Anarchist, He Would Be Called Goemon Ishikawa). Regardless of historical truth, these tubs—simple, austere, deep—became a lasting part of the landscape of rural and urban Japanese bathhouses.

With the modernization of the Meiji era (1868–1912) and the social transformations following World War II, furo moved from public bathhouses into private homes. Urban development and water infrastructure made it increasingly possible for households to have their own bathtubs—even if it was just a deep steel drum or concrete basin. In the 1960s and 70s, compact bathrooms with built-in ofuro became standard, and Japanese technology went even further.

Contemporary furo is a synthesis of tradition and innovation. In modern homes and apartments, control panels have appeared with oidaki functions—automatic heating and water circulation—as well as furo-jidō (風呂自動), or “automatic bath,” which fills to the exact chosen level and temperature at the press of a button. And yet, one can still sense the echoes of ancient misogi in this—the constant striving for purification, not only of the skin, but also of what is invisible: tension, fatigue, hurt.

Thus furo has come a long way—from the steam of temple pavilions and the murmur of mountain streams to the soft sound of a modern bathtub filling in an apartment overlooking the city. But its meaning has remained unchanged: it is a return to oneself, through water.

The Philosophy of Furo – Slowness, Simplicity, Presence

To truly understand what furo is, one must abandon Western categories of utility, efficiency, and “self-care” as goal-oriented activity. Furo is not about achieving cleanliness. It is not an action, but a state. Not a task to be completed, but a space for being. Let us try to understand this—and then we may be able, in our own homes, to try this unique form of meditation ourselves.

In Japanese thinking about daily life, which is inseparably linked with zen practice, what matters is not “what you do,” but “how consciously you do it.” Immersing oneself in hot water—seemingly banal—becomes an exercise in mindfulness (zanshin), a meditation without a mantra. The body does not need to move, the mind does not need to analyze—one simply needs to be. In silence, without words, without stimuli. Without a phone, a book, or conversation. This is the experience of ima koko—“here and now”—one of the fundamental principles of zen, which teaches that the fullness of life is available only in the present moment, not in the past or the future.

In its purest form, furo embodies the spirit of wabi-sabi—the appreciation of simplicity, imperfection, and transience. In the wooden surface of the tub, you see knots, discolorations, scratches—traces of life. In the steam rising above the water, there is nothing spectacular, but this fleeting beauty, this subtlety, this “ordinariness” becomes deeply soothing. There is something here that modern humans lack—silence and solitude, the experience of being left alone with oneself, without “distractions.”

The water of furo washes away anger, irritation, stress, fatigue, tension from the body—but also, on a deeper level, purifies one of the need for control, action, domination. When the body softens under the influence of heat, so too does the mind. You become more attuned to your breath, to the beating of your own heart, to the murmur of the water, to the echo of your own thoughts. There is only you and warmth. Here, you don’t have to be anyone other than yourself.

When compared with the European approach to bathing, the difference is not only cultural but ontological. In Western countries, a bath is often treated as a luxury, a moment of relaxation—but one marked by activity: candles, scents, music, a book, a face mask. It’s an experience which—though pleasant—often becomes yet another form of consumption. Furo, on the other hand, demands no additions. Its luxury lies precisely in its asceticism. It is austerity that does not exhaust, but heals.

One could say that furo is not the opposite of a shower—it is the opposite of haste. It is an expression of the Japanese art of living, in which everyday activities—like brewing tea, arranging flowers, or bathing—are occasions for contemplation and for cultivating ima koko—the here and now.

How to Practice Furo at Home

a detailed step-by-step guide 😉

Introducing the furo ritual into your own home does not require a trip to Japan or an expensive bathroom renovation. What is needed is rather sensitivity, intention, and a bit of preparation. It is not a luxury, but a choice—a choice to pause for a moment and return to yourself in the simplest form possible: hot water, a quiet space, and mindfulness.

Preparing the Space – Let’s Begin with the Atmosphere

Although a traditional furo is a deep wooden tub made of hinoki cypress, this is not a requirement. Most European bathtubs—even shallow ones—can serve the purpose just fine, provided they are filled to the brim and kept at the proper temperature. The ideal range is 40–42°C—hot enough to warm the body to the bone, but not to scald. The water should reach at least the chest, so the body can be largely submerged.

Next to the tub, you’ll need a space for a low stool or chair—preferably wooden or plastic, easy to clean—and a bowl or handheld shower. This is where the cleansing ritual takes place before entering the tub. The bathroom floor should be dry and clean. In Japan, the bathroom is often a “wet zone”—the entire room serves as a bathing area—but in a European setting, a small space beside the tub and a bath mat will suffice. Of course, for mindfulness, none of this is truly necessary—but we’re making a recipe for a Japanese furo, after all.

Let us also pay attention to lighting—rather than the harsh light of ceiling lamps, better to use candles or soft side lighting. If possible, incorporate natural scents: a few drops of hinoki or yuzu oil, a pine branch, sandalwood incense. The scent of pine is deeply “Japanese.”

The Cleansing Ritual – The Beginning of the Bath

Before entering the tub, the body must be thoroughly cleansed. This is not just a matter of hygiene—it is an expression of respect: for oneself, for the water, for the ritual itself. This is usually done while seated on the low stool, with the body rinsed with warm water. A gentle, natural soap is used to carefully wash the feet, armpits, back, and hair. This gesture can be performed with the hand or a soft cloth—slowly, without haste, without distraction. It is not preparation for the bath—it is the bath before the bath. Only after thorough rinsing does one proceed to the tub.

Entering the Water – Immersion in Silence

Enter the tub slowly, without splashing. The body is immersed to the shoulders in a seated position, with knees bent. One does not lie down or use any devices. Phone, book, music—all of these are left outside the space of the ritual. It is meant to be silence—external and internal. In Japan, it is common not to speak a single word during furo—silence is an integral part of the experience. Closed eyes, calm breath, warmth on the skin, the beating of the heart. The time spent in the water—10, 15, sometimes 20 minutes—is not meant for indulgence, but for warming and calming—both body and mind.

No additional activities are performed here. Soap or shampoo have no place in the water—furo is a space of rest, not of cleansing. The water remains clean because the body has already been washed beforehand. This is the key difference—it is not a bath “for effect,” but a practice of presence.

Furo – A Meditation

Water wraps around like air—it is silent, soft, omnipresent. The body disappears, becomes merely a line of warmth suspended in darkness. Half-closed eyelids. Silence. Absence of stimuli. And it is precisely then, paradoxically, that everything begins to happen.

Anyone who has tried mindfulness practice knows: the mind—like a restless little monkey (monkey mind)—begins to leap from branch to branch. Thoughts appear out of nowhere: “I still need to…,” “What if…,” “Shouldn’t I….” In Japanese zen tradition, there is sometimes talk of iba no saru, the monkey in the arena—a mind that fights, strays, screams, jumps about restlessly in the dark. In furo, when the body quiets, the mind may at first cry out all the louder for attention.

But it is precisely here that true practice begins. One does not fight a thought. One does not reject it. Instead—one notices it. Without anger. Without shame. Gently, yet firmly: “Oh, my mind has just begun to struggle. Oh, it’s chasing something that isn’t there again.” And like a child who has strayed from the path—it is gently led back by the hand. Tenderly, but firmly. And consistently—again and again, again and again.

We live in a world of relentless stimulation—the mind is unaccustomed to complete silence. It must be gradually, step by step, taught how to be still.

The return of the mind to calm occurs through the breath. Mindfulness returns to the inhale… and the exhale. The most basic technique is to inhale for, say, five seconds, and exhale for eight. You may count—counting is also a helpful tool, a kind of rope for the wandering mind to hold on to. You can also return to the warmth of the water embracing your skin. To sound—perhaps the murmur of your own blood in your ears. To the point where the back of your neck touches the water’s surface. These are the anchors of meditation (just like the famous Tibetan singing bowls—they serve exactly the same purpose)—subtle, yet reliable.

Sometimes, tension may arise in the jaw. In the fingers. Around the eyes. That too can be noticed: “Tension.” And let go. No judgment—it is neither bad nor good. It simply is. And when we notice it—we release it. The warmth of the water helps—it is already relaxing the body, you only need not interfere.

At other times, sadness may come. Anger. A memory—unwanted, intrusive. And again—one does not flee. One does not analyze. One simply says inwardly: “Ah, that memory has returned. It will likely pass again soon.” And we return to the breath. Like a wave that has traveled too far—it returns to shore.

It is not about reaching some special state. Not about euphoria or emptiness. Rather, it is about acceptance of what is. About being in this one, singular moment—not before it, not after it. Only here, only now.

In furo there is no goal. No outcome. There is the practice of presence. And presence—when allowed to bloom—becomes a reward in itself.

Warmth dissolves tension. Silence dissolves noise. Mindfulness dissolves chaos.

And it is precisely in this stillness, in this apparent emptiness, that something most important happens: the return to oneself. And to the only time that can ever be truly lived—the present moment.

The End of the Bath – Exit and Stillness

When you feel you’ve had enough—step out of the water slowly. Stand on a towel or mat. Fill a bowl with clean, warm water and pour it over your body—from shoulders downward. This is agari-yu—the final gesture, a symbolic closing. It is not about rinsing—it is about honoring what has just taken place.

Gently dry yourself, wrap yourself in a soft towel. Do not return immediately to your phone, to conversations, to duties. Give yourself a few more minutes of silence—sit down, perhaps drink a warm tea. The body needs a moment to emerge from the heat. The mind too. Sometimes, one must offer such a gift to oneself. It allows us to look at our own lives with a bit more perspective. And that is often more helpful than checking off another item from the to-do list.

The Japanese Furo Bath – What Does Science Say?

A hot bath in the Japanese style—furo—is not merely relaxation. It is a precisely designed biological ritual that affects every level of our functioning: muscles, nerves, brain, emotions, and sleep. In a world where the sympathetic nervous system (the “fight or flight” mode) remains in a state of near-constant activation, the furo practice acts like a soft, warm hand switching off the alarm.

The Effect of Heat: The Body in a State of Relaxation

When the body is immersed in water at 40–42°C, the parasympathetic nervous system is activated—responsible for rest, digestion, and regeneration. Cortisol levels—the stress hormone—decrease. At the same time, serotonin levels rise—the neurotransmitter responsible for well-being and emotional balance. MRI studies have shown that heat calms the activity of the amygdala, the brain structure responsible for fear and defensive responses.

Body temperature rises slightly, which dilates blood vessels and improves circulation. Oxygenated muscle cells relax, tension decreases. The activity of pain receptors also diminishes—research confirms that regular bathing can bring relief from chronic pain and even fibromyalgia.

Furo and Sleep: Circadian Rhythm and Neurohormones

An evening bath in hot water contributes to improved sleep quality—and this is not just folklore. When the body begins to slowly cool down after exiting the furo, a physiological mechanism of falling asleep is activated. Internal temperature drops, which stimulates the release of melatonin—the sleep hormone. Studies published in Sleep Medicine Reviews show that bathing about 90 minutes before bedtime shortens the time to fall asleep by an average of 10 minutes and improves the quality of deep sleep (N3 phase).

Furo, Breathing, and the State of Presence

Immersion in hot water slows the breath and the heartbeat. It acts as a natural anchor for the practice of mindfulness. According to research by Jon Kabat-Zinn, creator of MBSR (Mindfulness-Based Stress Reduction), practicing mindfulness leads to a reduction in activity in the dorsolateral prefrontal cortex—a region responsible for “rumination” and worry. Instead, areas of the brain associated with the sense of “here and now” are activated—including the insular cortex and the mammillary bodies. Warm water enhances this effect—it provides a physical anchor in the present moment, becoming a vehicle for embodied meditation.

Breathing techniques used in furo—e.g., five-second inhalations and eight-second exhalations—synchronize the autonomic nervous system and lower blood pressure. In Japanese tradition, it is said that “the breath is the bridge between the body and the mind.” Water strengthens that bridge.

Furo as a Rite of Passage – Psychological Transformation

In neuropsychology, everyday rituals are of great importance in maintaining psychological balance. The furo bath—usually taken in the evening—acts as a symbolic moment of transition: from action mode to regeneration mode. It is a ritual that tells the body and soul: “now you may let go, breathe, be.” In Japanese culture, it has been associated for centuries with the idea of hara—the center of being, the quiet core in the lower abdomen. Immersion in warm water supports contact with this point: stable and grounded.

Furo, Neuroplasticity, and Chronic Stress

Regular practice of furo, especially when combined with mindful breathing and meditative presence, can lead to long-term changes in the brain. Studies in the field of neuroplasticity show that systematic relaxation practices increase the volume of the hippocampus—the structure responsible for memory and learning—while simultaneously reducing activity in the amygdala, the center of fear and panic. In a state of chronic stress (CSS – chronic stress syndrome), the balance of the HPA axis (hypothalamus–pituitary–adrenal) is disrupted, which leads to the body being kept in a constant state of “alarm.” Furo, through deep relaxation, acts as a regulator of this axis, returning the nervous system to its baseline parasympathetic state.

Warmth and Light – Their Effect on the Hormonal System

Not only the heat of the water, but also the ambient lighting—dimmed, warm tones or candlelight—affects melatonin production and calms the sympathetic nervous system. Research in chronobiology confirms that evening lighting plays a crucial role in regulating the circadian rhythm. In Japan, many people combine their bath with soft light—not only for atmosphere, but as a natural way to prepare for sleep.

Learning to “Sit in the Water”?

Not everything that matters requires movement. Sometimes the greatest challenge is not action, but stopping. Sitting in hot water, in stillness, in silence—is an act of courage that contemporary culture too rarely appreciates. Furo does not teach how to “achieve”—it teaches how to be. It does not offer success, but inner release. In a world full of noise and stimuli, the Japanese bath becomes an almost countercultural gesture—a small act of revolution against haste, overload, and clamor.

Perhaps that is precisely why this simple ritual has survived for centuries. Furo is not just a way to rest—it is a metaphor for another way of living. One in which not everything has to be productive, in which presence becomes the value, not the result. Furo is a rejection of the idea that silence is emptiness, that stillness is a waste of time. It is a body immersed in water, saying: “this is enough.”

Perhaps tonight is a good time to try it? You don’t need a cypress tub. A regular Western bathroom, warm water, and dim light will do. The body and the breath. One can sit, fall silent, and allow everything else to drift away for a moment. Furo does not require spectacle—it only needs a person brave enough not to run away from themselves. In a world that constantly says “act,” it whispers: “just sit and be.”

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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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