Fellow memory-keeper, journal writer Chelsea Park and I were talking about our love for well-used objects and what they mean to us. We decided essays and reactions would serve our readers better than just chatting among ourselves — a small experiment in sharing. At least this way, I’m not writing into the void, but finding a companion on Substack.

I appreciate and enjoy using fountain pens. There is an aesthetic in my writing, and I am inspired to do better each day.

More importantly, there is the ritual. A slower, more intentional way of processing thoughts. The way it lays down a line of ink is often described as having character. The tactile moments that appeal to our senses and different combinations of inks, nibs, and paper yield subtle differences. It’s deeply visceral.

Despite all this, I am composing this essay with a pen of little significance.

It is neither rare nor particularly beautiful. It doesn’t photograph well, and unlike luxury items, it does not social signal or demand attention. It has been in use long enough that logos, branding and a good portion of the finish have worn away.

The Capless in a World of Convenience

With the adoption of the convenient ballpoint pen, fountain pen use was in decline in the 1950s and 1960s. First, the Bic Cristal, then the Parker Jotter with its distinctive click mechanism.

Pilot launched the innovative Capless fountain pen as a novel design centred around the same convenience of a retractable ballpoint pen — a workflow that hardly anyone thinks of today — extracting the writing instrument from a pocket, a press of the knock, and a regrip of the instrument before writing.

Fountain pens at the time were slow and ritualistic, requiring two hands: beginning and ending with the deliberate act of uncapping and capping.

A push of the knock on The Capless would expose the nib behind a trap door, hence its name, which was eventually renamed to the Vanishing Point in 1973. Instead of doubling down on heritage, history and the prestige of fountain pens, the design team at Pilot mimicked the principles of the ballpoint, a disruptor of its time that was about to make the fountain pen obsolete. Think of this as the last hurrah, just like how cast-iron pans were swapped for Teflon. Similarly, fountain pens never truly went away as they’re enjoying a resurgence, or discovery for some, depending on the writer’s age.

A Pen of No Significance

The Capless was launched to coincide with the 1964 Tokyo Olympics. It’s now 62 years old (in 2026).

My own particular Vanishing Point (VP) is a current-gen design from 1998. Most pens in the lineup have an enamel lacquer finish over brass with gold or silver trimmings. However, through circumstance or timing, I ended up with a matte PVD black powder-coated version from 2013. The problem with this particular version was that early batches were nowhere near as robust as the enamel lacquer version. At the time, customers raged on Pilot about scratches and demanded fixes and refunds with choice words and a flavour of fury that now feels almost misplaced.

Just like the timeless photography adage, “the best camera is the one that’s with you,” I carried the VP everywhere.

There were times when it slid off the table top and landed awkwardly with the nib exposed and pointing down. I may be on nib unit #3, but I’ve lost count.

There were times I had forgotten that it was clipped to my pants pocket and went through the wash. The slightly toothy nib has smoothed out after a few cycles.

It was the one object that I had with me and used more than anything else in life. It was maintained and cleaned regularly and lovingly. I must have emptied several bottles of ink with it.

But enough pen lore.

As I consider each line of this essay, I can look back at how much I’ve enjoyed and appreciated this unlikely flaw. I’ve learned to embrace the unintended lessons of fleeting nature, imperfection, and objects that accompany us through our lifetime.

用の美

用の美 / Yo no bi / beauty of use.

It’s 9 am in a quiet residential area in Tokyo.

I finished a light breakfast before packing my knapsack for a day of museum excursions. I paused for a moment before deciding to leave the VP behind, swapping it for woodcased pencils.

Just the day before, a museum staff member had almost pounced on me when she had noticed that I was wielding a pen-like writing instrument and not a museum-approved pencil, causing a scene in the otherwise tranquil environment.

The itinerary for the day is the Japan Folk Crafts Museum. After having visited a long list of museums, I began showing up without prior context. I found myself more engaged when I experienced the pieces with my senses — with an open mind, uncoloured by name seals, expectations, or hype.

Inside the cavernous but dimly lit rooms, one of the staff members observed that I was sketching and not finishing anytime soon. She walked up and offered a clipboard. I was grateful for her kindness. I felt redemption in knowing that I wasn’t doing anything inherently destructive or evil in my attempt to appreciate curated and prized objects. I can’t help but smile and accept the clipboard graciously while thinking back to a passage that I encountered in The Notebook by Roland Allen.

In one gallery, they actually had a notice which said, ‘No Sketching.’ How obnoxious! I said, ‘How do you think these things got on the walls if there was no sketching?’

Hockney’s telling point is that it is not enough merely to look at a work: if an artist wants to learn from it, they need to make their own record of it, and in doing so, come to fathom it better. This is how art lives and grows.

I was drawn to the imperfect weaves in the baskets, seemingly blurry patterns in textiles, nature-inspired motifs in indigenous garments, and the subtle flourish in pottery pieces and urushi lacquer ware. There was a lot of humility, warmth, a sense of tradition and community in these collections of ordinary, handmade objects. Some had plenty of patina from use. Many were also anonymous, with only the bare minimum text on each object label. They felt calm and sincere without ego.

In particular, I was entirely absorbed by a display of books by Keisuke Serizawa and his student Kichiemon Okamura, who adapted the tradition of resist paste and stencil dyeing from kimono fabric to paper. Equal parts printing from stencils and painting from the brushwork of pigments over pages in these handmade books. There was an exuberance in these playful gradients and colour transitions that appear to be unique to this medium.

It was at the museum shop that I finally made the obvious connection. The Japan Folk Crafts Museum: the very same establishment that Soetsu Yanagi had started, and also the originator of the Mingei movement. He is also the author of The Unknown Craftsman (and more recently, The Beauty of Everyday Things), a book that I had failed to fully comprehend in my 20s, which took subsequent rereads to appreciate.

Despite being really absorbed in the objects displayed, sketching away and losing track of time, I eventually gave in to hunger from missing lunch. I quickly returned the clipboard, put on my shoes, replaced the slippers at the entrance and made my way clumsily toward the nearest restaurant.

I had never experienced a museum this way before.

The objects on display were not entirely inaccessible and sealed behind glass. Many such objects are circulating in the world at this very moment. I could leave the museum, walk into a second-hand shop and recognize the same objects in the flesh — not as mini replica souvenirs or picture postcards, but the very objects themselves, unelevated, and in circulation.

Jimbocho, the used bookstore district in Tokyo, made this possible for me. The Serizawa and Kichiemon kataezome books I had just seen in a curated context were there. Handled, worn and waiting for their next custodian.

When I got home, I was putting my notebooks and sketching supplies away. The VP rested, exactly where I had left it.

I was grateful for the day’s excursion; it felt especially bountiful. Being reacquainted with Soetsu’s perspective on beauty made me realize that there was a name to my appreciation for well-used and appreciated tools and objects.

The term mingei was coined roughly a century ago, as Soetsu Yanagi worried that traditional handicrafts might vanish. Industrialization has indeed made such objects rarer and difficult to find, and their honest and humble craftsmanship all the more precious. Despite the VP being a modern writing instrument and not entirely handcrafted, I feel as though I caught a small glimpse of this particular flavour of beauty through use, care, and appreciation.

Objects as Companions

It wasn’t long ago that we were told we would be happier spending on experiences rather than objects. I’ve always wondered about this false certainty. What about the objects that, through use and time, behave more like experiences?

I’ve spent years circling between hobbies: photography, music, craft, and journaling. I can easily get lost in objects and the myriad options rather than the activity itself. Each hobby has rabbit holes, infinitely deep when choices and combinations compound.

It feels like a rarity, and I consider myself lucky when I am able to enjoy an activity without being pulled into monstrous hauls and accumulation.

I understand that my appreciation for patina and longevity is not good for business. It stems from a fascination with products and companies that have endured for decades and centuries1.

I once heard that Fender’s greatest competitor is not other guitar makers, but it’s their own vintage instruments resurfacing decades later in the used market.

Musical instruments crafted decades ago are still being played, aging gracefully, and accumulating stories, while the music they helped create is cherished across generations. This reminder isn’t a financial one but temporal.

I rarely find my heroes fixated on objects or tools. Murakami writes about jogging, not his Mizuno runners. Hokusai never memorialized his brushes or pigments. Serizawa didn’t dwell on cutting knives or persimmon paper. So why am I dedicating so much to a humble fountain pen?

I began this piece believing that I would arrive at some kind of meaning in a particular object. Instead, I learned to notice the beauty of everyday, ordinary things, especially the ones that stay alongside us and are in constant use.

This noticing has helped me find joy in doing, simply being, and appreciating what’s already in front of me, instead of pining for more.

These objects age gracefully, often becoming a totem or symbol for shared memories, much like companions.

The VP is familiar, predictable, and it’s one of a kind. It reminds me of the moments it had witnessed, from once-in-a-lifetime events to the ordinary. This sense of beauty is personal. No one else has the experience to interpret the language in the form of patina, blemishes, and scuffs.

There is no need to convince anyone else that this object is, in fact, not only beautiful but glorious.

I no longer believe objects and experiences were ever separate. Time, care, and creative acts are doing the work.

✒︎

An Afterword from Chelsea

Though the Vanishing Point’s coating was considered faulty at the time of release, the way the pen looks now can’t ever be reproduced. It’s truly unique, layered with Wil’s life experience and more than a decade of being used consistently. The story makes me reconsider the imperfections in the appearances of what we use each day and to welcome the first signs of patina with gratitude. It is a gift we’re able to use such beautiful things in our everyday lives.

I also learn about completely new topics through Wil’s writing—I had no idea only specifically approved pencils were allowed at certain museums in Japan, or that what you see in an exhibit can then be found in vintage specialty areas in the same city. The way his museum and Jimbocho visits converge into a greater appreciation for what he already has is both satisfying and inspiring. The pen case I chose to write about is just a little over a year old, and I can only imagine what it will look like in a decade. I’m grateful we chose to share these stories in more depth because we all got to understand more of Wil’s philosophy and what makes up The Way of the Mirror.

To read Chelsea’s piece on her object, please make your way to Words in the Margins.

Words in the Margins

No. 14: Everyday Pen Carry

It has been almost nine years since my analogue memory-keeping journey began with an A6 size spring start Hobonichi techo. In that time, I’ve accumulated quite a bit of stationery and related accessories, my interests expanding to items such as notebook covers and pen cases. Though I have more than I need, I liked having different types of materials and…

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2 months ago · Chelsea Park

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Thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this, I’ll be sharing more journal-inspired essays in the weeks ahead.

Wil

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There was a time when I’d sprinkle shichimi onto soba or ramen at restaurants without a second thought.

Everything changed on the evening I discovered my first craft shichimi. My autopilot sprinkling came to a halt at a neighbourhood izakaya: tatami floors, low tables, clinking chilled beer glasses, and boisterous after-hours patrons enveloped me. An unlikely place to notice the subtlety of shichimi.

On the tables were small aluminum canisters, each a miniature study of traditional design: A limited complementary colour palette, simple hanafuda scroll-like illustrations, and an eye-catching bold kamon family crest with plenty of brush-inspired typography.

I shook a smidgen onto my palm, breathed in the aroma, and let it settle onto agedashi tofu, ochazuke, and yakitori skewers. The ginger and fruit peel hit first, followed by the warmth of the peppers, with a lingering sesame and shiso finish.

When fascinations become identity

This craft shichimi discovery was only a few years ago. Having brought back many fun and interesting containers of the understated condiment to family and friends as souvenirs, I have slowly formed an accidental association with shichimi. Over time, people around me began to believe that I was a shichimi connoisseur.

When friends and family travel to Japan, they often bring back these small cans as souvenirs. It’s becoming a bit of an exchange, a shichimi club if you will. There seems to be a growing collection, always ready to be sampled at our dinner table.

Once I noticed this, I realized the same with notebooks, stationery and more recently, woodcased pencils. Many of these are topics that I have written about right here on the Way of the Mirror. Loved ones have been saving their rare finds from long-forgotten pencil jars and drawers, waiting for our next encounter.

The Craft of Seven Flavours

Shichimi is a simple product. It’s a spice blend of 7 ingredients that has largely remained the same since its inception in the 1600s.

Its main component is coarsely ground red chilli pepper (tōgarashi), into which are added any six of the following: roasted chilli pepper, sanshō, hemp seeds, black sesame seeds, white sesame seeds, chimpi (dried tangerine peel), green shiso (perilla), purple shiso, poppy seeds, nori seaweed, rapeseeds, and ginger. Recent blend variations incorporate dried yuzu peel and powdered wasabi, as well as ‘non-traditional’ ingredients such as garlic, basil, oregano, cloves, and cumin, among others.1

There are three main producers. Like other industries in Japan, each region has its own unique preferences and nuances based on climate, culture, history or what’s naturally available.

Yagenbori やげん堀: Tokyo, established in 1625

• Credited as the originator of shichimi. Edo period herbalist roots blending bold heat from spices for health and flavour.

Shichimiya Honpo 七味家本舗: Kyoto, established in 1655

• Tea shop origins with an emphasis on aroma, nuanced fragrance, and mild heat.

Yawataya Isogoro 八幡屋礒五郎: Nagano, established in 1736

• Merchant history with access to local ingredients. Balanced with a hint of ginger, bridging spicy and aromatic flavours.

These shichimi producers are considered shinise (老舗): family-owned businesses focused on a single product measured in centuries, not decades. They are deeply engrossing to me2 as they operate by aligning their choices toward the next hundred years, how they fit into their community, and preserving knowledge through generations. Their work is quiet, meticulous, and invisible. Yet, they deserve as much, if not more, attention than the sprawling conglomerates whose decisions are dictated by short-term gains.

If one is willing to look, there are many smaller shops and regional blends, often tied to nearby temples or specialty food stores where they make shichimi in small batches based on local preferences, often blending shichimi on the spot.

And this is where the fun begins, or at least at meal times.

Different meals call for different flavours. Sure, there are general culinary rules for pairings: lighter spices for lighter dishes, zesty flavours for salads, or roasted peppers for rich, savoury foods. Meal times have become a moment for experimentation for us.

Most things in life are loud and make themselves known. Shichimi is subtle; a careful tap may disappear undetected or alter it ever so slightly. Subtlety is rare these days. It’s worth noticing while it’s still around.

Attending to our senses, with notebook in hand

Our journals often become a place for our fascinations to take root. Custodian-like notes, lovingly prepared on process, swatches, pairings, and sessions. My shichimi entries could easily be exchanged for your observations on coffee, recent reads, inks, exercise, spending, or the slow work of paying attention to your body.

Oftentimes, we forego premade templates and go deep into our own rabbit holes on how best to capture the subtleties of these habits and indulgences, rich with illustrations, notes on minute tweaks, and our prized insights that straddle between art and science.

As I flip through my journals while writing this, I noticed how shichimi is fleeting. These pages remind me that delicate flavours change quickly from the moment they land on the plate. Like all spices, it’s ephemeral as the blend gradually loses flavour over time.

It’s easy for us to live through life on autopilot. Our brains like to categorize things into neat buckets. For me, shichimi has done the opposite.

Tasting the delicate flavours of shichimi in every mouthful has reminded me to observe and experience.

Like seeing the details in lines, values, and textures while sketching, I notice things around me for what they are instead of dismissing them merely as an idea so that my brain can move on.

Try it for yourself, close your eyes, set aside preconceptions and let your senses awaken. Otherwise, it’d be a shame that so much of our lives passes by unregistered.

The Exhibit

I don’t generally do well with collections. It’s an unnecessary stressor. I believe this stems from an underlying ennui of rampant consumerism that I sometimes feel helpless about. Somehow, these small cans of culinary wonder escape all this. Maybe it’s because I don’t take shichimi too seriously and they empty rather quickly.

Notice the typography, overt choices in packaging and design, use of wagara (patterns), balance or lack of, materials used and usability. Even in this small sample, a study of shichimi in itself could be seen as a masterclass in product design.

Textured washi label with a palette bursting with nostalgic Showa vibes and complementary playful typography. Aromatic flavours subdued.

Contrarian approach with square shape but not quite sharp corners. Understated hot iron on wood. Juxtaposing dark colours with a yuzu zest.

Tasteful calligraphy with vermilion seal motif. This would have been 10/10 if it weren’t for the imitation wood texture on plastic. Plenty of heat, surprisingly granular ichimi.

Try as I may and not let this design colour my expectations, placing this beside my dish, and I already feel hints of Kyoto.

Portable shichimi container with a rare inro-inspired dual-string closure. And yessir, I EDC shichimi.

Ramen shichimi from Yawataya Isogoro: White pepper dominance, memories of mother’s char siu ramen from youth.

Yagenbori やげん堀 : The OG of shichimi with a classic and confident calligraphy slip design.

Minimalist labelling on wagara. Another confident flex by Hararyokaku 原了郭.

Ephemeral Flavours, Lasting Memories

I recently shared a quiet note about a prompt that I’ve been thinking about when I was overindulging on museums.

If there were a museum display of the items of our lives, what would they be? What would it say about us and our way of life?

Aside from the timeless heirloom bits that I often write about, I suspect some of the shichimi containers could be a part of a display when I am not around. A flashback.

We were dining at a casual Chinese restaurant, and I was closing a container of new-to-me shichimi. I was eagerly anticipating that first taste and poured some onto the palms of my hand and handled the delicate…

Not that there would ever be an exhibit on the lives of an average person such as myself. What I hope to uncover with my prompt is that maybe my children may think back to the time when I foolishly got shichimi in my eyes because I was a little too excited to try out a new blend.

Years or decades later, would my kids remember my eye-watering moment when they come across this shichimi holder?

To my readers who journal, what small fascinations in your life deserve a bit of quiet observation and attention? If someone curated your life into an exhibit, what objects or memories might surprise you?

✒︎

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It’s been a while since my last post. Feeling a little rusty writing this, but I’m grateful to be back, heart full with lots to wonder about.

Thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this, I’ll be sharing more journal-inspired essays in the weeks ahead.

Wil

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Year-end is the next best thing. For planner users, it’s a period of transition: moving from one physical book to another. Many people can’t wait to crack the spine on a new planner. Meanwhile, I hang on to the current year’s planner as long as I can. It feels lived in. There are too many notes, ideas, and memories I still refer to: countless doodles by my daughter from a year’s worth of adventures, or other vignettes that seemed insignificant at the time but have grown in meaning.

I feel a twinge of sadness knowing I’ll have to leave the 2025 planner behind sooner this year, as I start the 2026 one while embarking on a trip to see family in Japan. Despite the rhythm of this transition, I always catch myself paging through the planner one last time before archiving it on the bookshelf. In this final read-through, I note memorable moments in a larger notebook, creating a highlight reel and a personal index for my children if they should ever be curious when I am no longer around.

Taking a moment with planners and journals reminds me that even the small things are worth noticing and reliving. Life is measured in memories and connections, and writing helps me find my way through them.

Travel Journals / Slow Travel

I’ve enjoyed Kana‑chan’s Tending Gardens since I began writing here; her reflections on rural Japan may have influenced my choice to visit lesser-known cities and towns on this trip, stopping at major cities only as needed. This time, I’m planning less to leave room for serendipity. I hope to get lost sometimes.

It’s a different kind of travel, bringing a sense of magic and adventure back. My travel journal will plant seeds: little notes to remind me to be present, observe, and discover — whether it’s a local specialty or a total gamble on a rundown restaurant (like the one my partner picked in Karatsu 唐津市), which we lived to tell the tale.

I’m also drawing inspiration from unlikely places: design books referencing pour-over coffee shops, crossing paths with local artisans, discovering small exhibits and museums — letting sparks of inspiration catch fire.

Letter-Writing Kit and Station

As I packed for the trip, I noticed several library books still with me, including The Healing Power of Korean Letter Writing. Letter writing has resurfaced for me: slow, poetic, creative, revealing, and fun. I regret having let it go. It’s easy to forget that not long ago, posting letters was the only way to stay in touch with loved ones, short of calling or travelling vast distances to meet them in person.

I’ve rekindled my love for all things epistolary, updating a Traveler’s Passport notebook into a letter-writing kit: stamps, envelopes, letterhead, addresses — everything ready for tiny snippets when waiting in cafes or travelling. I’ve also updated the escritoire for both journaling and epistolary duties, curating a collection of postcards, ink stamps, and a photo printer — reducing friction to connect via snail mail should inspiration strike. It was liberating to overcome long-standing biases about how much effort it takes to write a simple letter. It makes me wonder what other tiny frictions, old assumptions, invisible habits, we carry with us that we could easily overcome.

For once, accumulating stationery has paid off. Using it — the last sheet of letterhead, wax seal, or bottles of ink — is oddly satisfying.

A Page From My Travel Journal: Poetic Food Names

I’ve been journaling in my travel journal even though some entries have nothing to do with the trip. I was preparing dinner and my partner named certain foods in Japanese: ケチャップ (kechappu) or ワンタン (wonton, 雲呑). That led me down an etymological rabbit hole: ketchup likely originated as a fermented fish sauce in China, travelled through Southeast Asia via traders, and eventually evolved into the steadfast tomato sauce we know today — the one that comes with every order of a full English breakfast or fries.

Wonton, meaning “cloud swallow,” also fascinated me. I realized most people think of the dish more than its poetic meaning, but I couldn’t stop sketching cloud-like pillows in my journal. The list of dish names continues to grow: from Phoenix Claws (鳳爪) to Buddha Jumps Over the Wall (佛跳墙). In my mind, these dish names evoke rich poetry, heroic tales, or the grace of traditional brush art (none of which survived in my sketches).

Do you keep a travel journal?

Over time, I’ve become more comfortable using a travel journal to plan and capture fleeting memories on the trip. Instead of reaching for the phone that often takes me away from the moment, the travel journal is always within reach. How about you?

Reflection on Productivity & Celebration

Browsing recent reads, I get the sense that our hustle culture motivates us to be our own productivity coach: set goals, plan, achieve, and repeat. We often move on so quickly that we rarely savour our own accomplishments. Perhaps, planning culture fuels this as well, offering satisfaction in the checkmark rather than reflection.

Taking a moment to notice our achievements — even the small ones — amplifies the moments that matter, according to researchers.1 When I worked in UX design, I was all too aware of the forces and cognitive biases working against us,the hedonic treadmill, the arrival fallacy2 and how easily we overlook the satisfaction of what we’ve just achieved. For this reason, I feel compelled to work even harder. We simply don’t celebrate enough.

Journaling lets me accomplish this. As I think about the new year, I remind myself: don’t sell yourself short like the good riddance current year crowd. Journal, reflect, and savour what you’ve done.

For me, that includes organizing my thoughts enough to carry out a vision and starting this Substack. Or, rather than simply admiring from afar, I reached out to Henokien-like product companies for opportunities to work together. That’s another reason for travelling to Japan. Now, having caught wind of this, I find myself quietly celebrating and feeling grateful more often.

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A Short Break and a Heartfelt Thank You

With an extended stay with family over the New Year, I hope to make, create, and capture experiences while living out of a suitcase. I look forward to returning with new pages, fresh perspectives, and a few postcards out to friends and family from Japan.

I am deeply grateful to everyone who found me, read, commented, or shared a quiet moment with these posts. Thank you for letting me write alongside you. I may send a few small Notes from my journey if luck and inspiration find me. These words are for you, my readers, who make this practice feel shared rather than solitary.

✒︎

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I’ve been up for too many hours for it to still be morning. Hunger pangs on the regular, but pleasantly buzzed, and I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

— Hastily scrawled entry from an old travel journal.

At the Suntory Yamazaki Distillery

My partner and I were on our way to Kyoto from Osaka, and we found openings at the Yamazaki Distillery tour. It was a morning session as the distillery was closing early for National Foundation Day.

This was a time before Jim Murray — a prominent and controversial writer of whiskies — had placed Japan on the map of connoisseurs. He had awarded a prestigious whisky of the year award to Suntory in 2015.

Since then, the Japanese whisky industry has not been the same — demand shot up, supply shortages, surge pricing, and the eventual shift to more bottles without age statements.1

There was a time when I wasn’t all that familiar with whisky. This changed when I was sipping coffee at a 3-seater coffee bar — Coffee Ten Irukaya (珈琲店海豚屋) near Inokashira Park. I first heard of this shop from an article on CNN Travel, citing a device-free and artisanal coffee experience. I should have known that the interior was inspired and modelled after Scottish whisky distilleries. The proprietor of the establishment asked if I was in the mood for some Japanese whisky, which he quickly procured. In the name of omotenashi (Japanese hospitality)2, he offered an impromptu whisky flight experience that I’ll never forget. It was in this tiny coffee bar that I realized even a few minutes spent noticing can help us anchor memories worth savouring for years — decades to come.

Back at the Yamazaki Distillery.

At the end of the tour, after the gift shop and first round of drinks, we were presented with a majestic locale known as the Whisky Library, which also served as the second tasting bar. The library is in name only, and bottles of exotic whiskies are not loaned out. However, drams of the world’s most desirable whiskies could be sampled for a reasonable fee.

The tasting area is in a solarium, complementing the sipping experience with views of the magnificent site upon which the distillery was built. I sat down to enjoy a selection of Japanese whiskies that I would never dream of having. As other guests mingled about, we met the writer of the CNN article, who alerted us to Coffee Ten Irukaya — how poetic!

Too much of a good thing can often end in disaster. I took a breather to examine and soak up the vibes of the whisky library. Seemingly endless cabinets of amber-hued whisky, neatly catalogued and labelled.

Upon returning to my partner, I noticed an elderly man sitting quietly and sipping his dram at a corner table in solitude. I took a chance and asked if I could sit with him. It may have been the whisky talking.

The Kakubin Lesson at the Whisky Library

The scene: a solarium fragrant with warm oak and faint smoke. Light catches dust motes that drift like tiny spirits siphoning off their share of the beverage. A faint heron call could be heard.

WL: Is that okay? (I point to the chair opposite him.) /「そこいいですか？」

Ojisan: Please (hand extended and palm up, an almost imperceptible nod of permission) 「どうぞ。」

Then, leaning forward with a hint of mischief.

Ojisan: What’s your favourite whisky?「好きなウイスキーは何ですか？」

I rack my brain—all-time favourite—or current? I fumble for a Nikka whisky name. My fingers drum on the whisky glass.

Ojisan: For me, Kakubin is my favourite. (Even though you didn’t ask) /「俺は、角瓶が大好き。」

He nods slowly, satisfaction radiating from him like the final panel of a manga reveal.

I excused myself, cut back to the bar, and ordered two drams of Kakubin. The bartender, in their starched uniform, poured perfect drinks with practiced hands. She asks in return:

Bartender: How is Sensei today? /「今日 先生はどんな感じですか？」

The ladies smile at my confusion as if I were the punchline to their inside joke. On the way back to Sensei, I asked my partner to join our table, as our conversation was getting lost in translation.

It turns out that Sensei had recently retired from the distillery. He may have been a distiller, trained employees, or both during his lifelong career at Suntory. He is now a staple at the whisky library and known to hang out and quietly sip his Kakubin.

Sensei lifts his glass; the corners of his mouth hint at a smile. I take a sip of my own. The scent and flavour of the whisky rises — subtle sweetness, smooth, mellow, citrus, and a hint of spice. At that moment, I realize that for Sensei, contentment is found in what’s often overlooked. I passed my glass to my partner, and she nodded in agreement.

I learn that Kakubin is Sensei’s everyday whisky. Once in a while, he’ll pour something special, maybe a Yamazaki 18. When the rare becomes routine, we no longer taste anything.

We continued our chat well into last call. That was a special day for both of us as we enjoyed some top-shelf drams. We also exchanged contact info with promises to write. I would come to revisit these moments time and time again.

Just Write

As I get older, I find myself unlearning more, decoupling actions from outcomes. Journaling is simpler this way: jotting down fleeting ideas, sketches or feelings into a pocket notebook, then building on them later.

We don’t need fancy stationery, beautiful handwriting, or decorations that the hobby is now known for. All of that can come later. For now, simply write.

Moments captured in our handwriting anchor us. Capturing vignettes of life unfolding is enough to remind us that we’ve truly lived — even in the mundane. Especially in the mundane.

Without them, memories lose their lustre and fade. Recalling the past, often imperfectly, lets us embody the experience anew. This is the reason why journaling is authentic, real, and human. When we have lived, matured and distanced ourselves from memories, we can then cast past events in a new light. It’s a reward so subtle that it often goes unnoticed, even by long-time journal writers.

Journaling as Memory Dividend

Memories, unlike possessions or achievements, have immeasurable value: they grow richer, more vivid, and more meaningful, ageing gracefully like many of the finer things in life.

Bill Perkins, in Die With Zero, calls this the “memory dividend” — the lasting returns we receive from experiences long after they occur. Every conversation, journey, or quiet moment adds to a treasury of memories that continues to provide joy, insight, and meaning throughout life.

Recalling experiences helps amplify feelings of contentment. When we remember, the sentiment compounds in ways that become exponential. Economists and financial writers have tapped into an idea already enjoyed by journal writers for a long time, and gave it a name in financial lingo.

Some of the best personal finance books aren’t really about money at all. It’s about helping folks uncover the kind of life that brings them contentment.

Memories as Reconstructions

There was a point in my journaling practice where I was particularly obsessed with accuracy.

I was sitting behind a one-way mirror, silently observing participants in a design research study. A colleague whom I respect deeply is on the team as our design researcher. We were chatting between sessions about my notebook and journal practice. She informed me that she specialized in neuroscience, kindly schooling me on how memory works without the didactic nature of university lectures. Admittedly, one of the perks of corporate life was learning from brilliant people who are generous with knowledge.

I had begun to realize the beauty of the creative nature of memories. Every time I remember without referencing the source material, the memory shifts or deviates just a bit, perhaps, with a bit more lyricism or punctum.

This fuzzy recreation has become, by far, one of the greatest joys of my journaling practice. This flavour of journaling is easy, simple, and deeply rewarding.

I suspect it’s not that different than folks who go to the gym, meditate or maintain a long-standing yoga practice. It’s enjoyable, but it’s not always fun. There are peaks and valleys, but that’s life. Those of us who choose to keep our journals may end up with snapshots of many moments from our past, sometimes with meaning, lessons or ideas on how to move forward just a little more skilfully with intention. It leaves behind traces of a life well-lived for those closest to us, with intention and on our own terms.

Another Scene: Reflecting on Sensei at Yamazaki

A small tug pulls me back to the Whisky Library, where I meet that memory again as a slightly different version of myself.

When I first toured the distillery, I was captivated by the casks, the novelty of witnessing the effects of angel’s share at work, bold age statements, and the allure of exotic bottles. When I return, with journals and photos beside me, Sensei’s lesson that was generously offered to me has compounded quietly for years.

Through fuzzy reconstructions, journaling reveals the past more clearly, letting us see and reflect on what we once missed.

The humble Kakubin—a drink often overlooked—carries wisdom. Whether it’s beginner’s mind3 (shoshin, 初心), the proverbial “comparison is the thief of joy” or a celebration of moderation and restraint, the lesson has always been there.

It turns out that memory is the invisible wealth that compounds over our lifetime. The reward is subtle at first, almost too quiet to name, but it is ours to cultivate. Now, go out and make some memories.

An Invitation

I wrote this essay partly because many friends have told me how much they’d love to sit and write in a journal. Almost every time, I hear the same challenges: not enough time, too tired, or frustration with how they write.

I’m always a little shy about sharing pages from my notebooks. The meaningful entries often lack the aesthetic to be Gram-worthy as they are personal, reflective and mostly just handwritten pages. But I want to double down on a simple message:

• Just write. Like I did while waiting for the subway above, hoping to catch the attention of another commuter instead of their device.

• It’s quick. I pulled out my pocket notebook and felt the texture of the page through my pencil as I jotted a few lines.

• Leave the rest to time. There’s no outcome, no expectation. Maybe the next time I see this note, I’ll be drawn to the allure of devices or continue to be engaged by the world in front of me.

My invitation is simple: keep a notebook and a writing instrument with you. Jot down one thing today. It might feel a bit silly, but it’s fun. You’ll notice, observe, think, and engage your senses with the world around you. Don’t have a notebook? Fold a sheet of paper and keep it in your pocket. No pencil? I’ll happily mail you some of my favourites if you’re in Canada (until I run out).

If you try this, take note of what you write and how it feels when you revisit it. You might be surprised how a few lines — mundane, ordinary, fleeting — can reveal so much later on. If you do give it a try, I’d love for us to share how it went — even a few lines can become a small revelation or joy.

✒︎

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Wil

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It was just an old desk delivered by a kind gentleman from an online marketplace. The moment I ran my hand over its worn surface and saw dust motes suspended in the light, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time: akin to the elation of returning home after a long trip. I never thought a simple, second-hand escritoire could be something I missed so dearly. It was the perfect, yet obsolete, piece of furniture which saved my fragmented journaling practice.

Where We Once Sat Alone

Sociologists worry that we are losing our third place—cafes, barbershops, independent bookstores—the informal shared spaces where we reap the boundless benefits of community.1 While reflecting on lost rituals that make up an unhurried and considered life, I fear we’ve lost another vital space that makes us truly human.

A simple desk, an unconnected desk, a desk without screens or devices. These are the desks that I grew up with. They resemble the same desks once used by some of my favourite authors from an age before the web and connectivity. A once mighty flat surface, not unlike the promise of an empty canvas, offers a private haven for reading, learning, making, and letting idle thoughts and imagination run wild.

As more devices become smarter and connected, they are quickly overtaking our households. The disappearance of the simple desk, once the norm in most homes, means we have one less space where we are truly alone without the buzz, echo, and chatter of the world. All this, in the name of innovation, convenience, and progress.

When are we truly alone? Perhaps only in bathing, bedtime, or solitary moments of gardening, cooking, writing, or walking. For many, even these solitary activities are accompanied by podcasts, videos, and scrolling.

When we lose our simple desks or choose to bring a device along, one of the few remaining places where we have true mental solitude may be lost. We have less and less time to be with our thoughts, for internal dialogue, creativity, incubation, and emotional processing.

Like Thoreau at Walden Pond, seeking the deliberate life in a cabin removed from society’s hum, or Pascal, who warned that all of humanity’s problems stem from our inability to sit quietly in a room alone, these small, unconnected spaces are where new ideas are born and take shape. We risk losing our personal commons altogether, the space of one’s own mind, safe, neutral, contemplative, free from audience and judgement.

For my kids, a desk is where devices go, where we look outwards. I can see them squirm with ennui when there are no devices nearby. They rarely have opportunities to be alone without the chatter of screens, to look inward and appreciate the moments where idle thoughts take flight.

Family Photos, as Contraband — with love from HR

I was having a one-on-one with my friend and colleague. This was a time when I was working in corporate, a publicly traded company.

With a wistful sadness on his face, he told me that HR had approached him that morning. I’ve worked with him for ten years — one of the kindest people I know. I find it endearing and heartbreaking that he often brings challenges that only he would encounter. In other words, I think he gets bullied. He tells me:

He looked down, dumbfounded, and for the first time since I’ve known him, distraught. His framed family photo was a totem. It gave him strength. I believe he did his best work when he was able to steal glances at it.

I later found the memo from HR, confirming the ban on all personal and family photos.

Our lives outside of work became contraband at the office.

The rest of the meeting was fuzzy. I felt something break inside me as I tried to support a friend whose very reason for working so fiercely had been stripped away. I suspect he wasn’t the only one affected.

I still can’t fathom how a simple posed shot of a family huddled together among fall leaves could trigger a company-wide ban.

It started small at first, then quietly snowballed. The desk, at the office at least, used to be a place full of life, personality, and humanity. I used to look forward to visiting colleagues’ spaces, examining trinkets to learn about who they are. This was a day when we lost agency at our desks, a place where we spend most of our waking lives. Something distinctly human was barred at the entrance of the office towers. Our desks remained, but the motivation to sit at them was gone.

As an epilogue, he discovered a small loophole despite the clampdown on personalization. By swapping out a few image files on his laptop, he was able to steal glances at his family instead of the company logo between application swaps. A minor, nearly invisible act of deviance — a small rebellion against the iron fist of HR.

I learned a new word that day — it’s the reverse of schadenfreude. It’s a very nuanced flavour of envy that must have led someone to report his family photo to HR.

A Desk of One’s Own

It was a safe space. It was a creative space.

My childhood desk. I was fortunate enough to have my own desk growing up. Countless hours of joy and elation. Even on lazy afternoons, all I needed was a pencil and some paper. Anything was possible.

Over the years, I had accumulated some treasured stationery that I was not using. They were scattered or hidden away in cabinets and other dark corners. Majestic-looking watercolour pans, cedar incense woodcased pencils, whimsical washi tape, and hand-carved linoleum stamps were calling for my attention as if alive in a Studio Ghibli scene. I sat in front of the screen. I realized my computer desk served one purpose too many. There was much more computer than desk. Something was off.

I disliked the idea of throwing money at problems, but failing at KonMari taught me that journal writing, as both a hobby and passion, warrants the agency to solve this one with a purchase. Keys clacked when I pulled up local marketplaces as I feverishly searched for deals on used writing desks. To my surprise, many owners of these desks were practically giving them away.

The next day, a gentleman was kind enough to deliver his well-used escritoire. I found a small corner in our basement and went around the house collecting all my art supplies and stationery. There was going to be a new home for all of my writing and journaling adventures, and it felt cathartic.

In no time at all, the escritoire became the space that I once had as a child. It was such a fitting outcome. The gentleman reclaimed a bit of space and got some money back for furniture that no longer served. I gave the escritoire new life, and my unused stationery found its place. Once again, a desk of one’s own.

A Gallery of the Thrifted Escritoire:

Over time, this thrifted escritoire became more than just a desk. Each drawer, shelf, and compartment gathered memories and curiosities, little artifacts that shaped my journaling practice. Here’s a glimpse:

Upper Shelf: a small exhibit area of keepsakes, collected overtime, rich with memories. Diecast 747 airliners from trips long ago. A two-faced (smiling and raging) daruma rests on top of a small fountain pen collection.

Fountain Pen Inks: When a bottle is almost empty, I pause and give it a small nod of thanks for holding my thoughts so faithfully.

Drawers and Secret Compartments: These architectural, capital-like flourishes are hidden compartments. They remind me of a time when wax seals were used as a form of privacy. They are perfect for stashing away treasured writing instruments and notebooks.

Drawers: stamps, inkpads, washi tape, art materials, wax seals, and a secret stash of exotic woodcased pencils. Keen eye readers may notice a Kakeibo (家計簿) to help me stay accountable. Not pictured are the messier drawers: cleaning and maintenance supplies, sharpeners, stickers, and stamp carving knives.

Together in one spot, they’re easy to see and even easier to use daily.

Having lived with this escritoire for some time, I’ve come to really appreciate it — even depend on it. At first, it felt too indulgent, and the little KonMari in my head agreed. But this unwanted, thrifted escritoire turned out to be luxurious in a way few things are: few seem able to cough up the affordance for a personal, untethered space anymore. It proved its worth and rescued my scattered journaling practice. Over time, it became sacrosanct.

The Razor’s Edge of Remembering

Getting older comes with a lot of surprises. For me, I am seeing the world with two timelines as one simultaneously: memory and present.

Oftentimes, I find my views teetering on a razor’s edge between obsolete irrelevance and quiet insight. It’s easy to be dismissive of old worldviews — in this case, something as mundane as a desk. Younger folks might call me old-school (which I don’t mind; it’s fair and true), but to me, it’s a form of remembering. I knew a world before the web, what it felt like to sit alone at a desk, unobserved and unshared. I want to embrace this private space as part of my contemporary life, without shame for holding such a perspective.

My thrifted escritoire could be your easel, your paint corner, or the path you take on lunchtime walks. They are all one and the same — disconnected sanctuaries for solitude. A relic of the past, yet entirely familiar to me. Aside from sleep, where we spend a third of our lives, I’ve spent more time by choice at a desk than anywhere else. It is a reliquary of my deepest and most sincere thoughts, full of humility, vulnerability, aspirations, and dreams.

As every innovation promises convenience, novelty, and speed, I find myself more hurried and distracted than ever. The web, devices, and generative AI all tug at attention, leaving little room for uninterrupted thought. At this old escritoire, the stakes are clear to me: the ability to sit quietly, to entertain idle thoughts, to incubate ideas, to wrestle with questions with no immediate answers. I don’t pretend to have answers about whether life is better for all this progress, but I do know that losing these sanctuaries would be a loss not just for me, but for anyone hoping to think deeply, understand themselves better, or to cultivate a mind capable of patience, reflection, and wonder.

An Invitation

I often see honest inquiries on r/journaling from inquisitive minds who put themselves out on the web with equally weighted optimism and hesitance, prodding “am I doing this right” or “why is journaling so hard?” In many of the images embedded in these posts, I see keyboards and mice peeking through alongside journal entries.

For a long time, I didn’t know why journaling came easily to me. It feels natural, intrinsic, and on many days, the pen is moving about on the notebook on its own. This essay might offer a small clue, simply by seeing how journaling has evolved over my short lifetime.

When trying a new hobby with a screen nearby, my first inclination is to share results and ask for feedback. Compared with a time when all I could do was (pardon the corporate lexicon) show up every day, over time, I’ve refined my own sense of what I appreciate about my own journals. Our palette will refine over time, and before I know it, it’s all happening on its own.

In our journal practice, we’ve made countless decisions and self-curated our own aesthetics, contents, style, and format to eventually arrive at something we call our own. There may come a time when, as we write each day, or re-read past entries, we may find ourselves asking some honest but difficult questions:

• Who am I writing for?

• Which part of this am I enjoying most?

• If anything, what will all of these notebooks amount to when I am gone?

And now, from our desks, we can ask, share, and get new ideas in mere moments. I am not prescribing a single approach, only offering the invitation I discovered through the escritoire: a place to meet your passion and yourself on your own terms and with curiosity.

I’ve been apologetic for romanticizing how things used to be. Instead, my love for this thrifted escritoire is an unapologetic way to court writers and artists, offering a space that nurtures craft. There are treasures to be found. I wish you luck in discovering “a desk of one’s own”.

✒︎

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Wil

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Once a daily necessity, now a vessel of heritage. From the Kitaboshi factory floor to my writing desk, an ode to the humble woodcased pencil.

When we arrived at Yotsugi Station (四ツ木駅), I smiled at the sight of Captain Tsubasa murals wrapped around the platforms—bright colours and kōkasen (効果線)1 effect lines bursting with nostalgia. It reminded me that I was on a small pilgrimage to my own childhood as we walked towards the Kitaboshi Pencil Company.

As we approached, the scale of the building was disorienting. The real-life factory is deceptively compact, tucked tightly into a mixed neighbourhood, nothing like the larger structure I’d imagined from online photos. I almost had to pinch myself that it was, in fact, a destination that we were moments away from. A lot of happenstance needed to occur: discovering Kitaboshi, travelling in Tokyo, learning about the factory tours and my family caring enough about my indulgence. Standing there felt a bit otherworldly: a koi pond, parking lot with kei trucks loaded with pencils, a mini shrine dedicated to the pencil gods, and the Showa retro vibes are all fitting, delightful surprises that feel right at home with the Kitaboshi ethos.

During the tour2, I witnessed dedicated workers shaping cedar slats and filling them with graphite, many of them doing so for most of their working lives. There is a clockwork cadence as the factory machines elicit a steady rhythm. The workers were modest, focused, and I suspect, quietly proud of their craft. I wanted to let them know that their work mattered to me. Their pencils, and now visiting the factory itself, has brought our family closer through learning, creativity and the simple joy of uninhibited sketches.

Our guide informed us that it wasn’t long ago when school children used to go through cases of 12 pencils every school year. And now, elementary students might use up one to two pencils only.3 At the end of the tour, there was a workshop where we learned that in an attempt to minimize waste, they found a method to repurpose the byproducts of manufacturing by turning wood shavings into a mouldable clay. For the rest of the workshop, the participants collaborated to mould small figurines and tiny stationery.

I left the factory with a bittersweet feeling. Should my daughters ever want to return one day, maybe with their own kids, I fear I can’t be certain that it’ll still be here. I’d hate for one of the few remaining family-owned pencil makers to disappear. Maybe we all hold onto a memory, a place, a tool — something we hope will still be there when the next generation comes looking for it.

And yet, while walking back to Yotsugi Station, I was reminded of the quiet sense of resolve by the workers, as steady as the rhythm of the machinery. There was a persistence, a feeling that making pencils — humble, fragrant, cedar-bodied pencils — still mattered.

I didn’t arrive at the Kitaboshi factory by accident. The visit was the culmination of a smaller rediscovery that began months earlier—one that started, quite unexpectedly, at my own desk.

Rediscovering the Humble Woodcased Pencil

As I watched my children drawing and shaping their own flavour of letterforms, I was reminded of the quiet joy of other writing instruments that accompany us through life. The humble woodcased pencil, it turns out, has a lineage far richer than I ever imagined.

Henry David Thoreau, one of my favourite essayists, once helped revolutionize pencil-making in North America. A few years before Walden, he was shaping cedar and graphite at his family’s shop in Concord, earning the pedigree in craft before becoming a philosopher of simplicity. He carried them on his walks, jotting field notes and later expanding them in ink.4

Decades later, another pencil would earn its own mythology: the Blackwing 602, the “Half the pressure, twice the speed” pencil favoured by writers like John Steinbeck, who mythically began each morning by sharpening a few before sitting down to work. Its modern revival by California Cedar carries both devotion and debate: the new versions, made with Japanese graphite, are prized by some and dismissed by purists as fashion accessories rather than tools.5

That throughline of craftsmanship and culture, carried through generations of writers, makers, and everyday hands, was enough to draw me back into the vast, forgotten world of the woodcased pencil.

Discovering the Hidden Poetry

When I held one in my hand again after what must have been decades, I wasn’t prepared for the rush of nostalgia from my own childhood: the scent of incense cedar, the curl of pencil shavings, the mysterious graphite mixture in the core that defines each pencil’s writing characteristics. If you were like me and haven’t written with one in a while, stop reading, find a quality pencil and take a moment to reacquaint yourself with one again. For me, it’s both a tactile satisfaction and a form of time travel, straight back to school desks and art class, doodling in the margins.

Writing with a woodcased pencil is satisfying in a way that’s not easy to convey. It’s probably easier to grasp for those who already enjoy fountain pens, stationery and writing: there is the pleasant feedback, sound reverberating through the barrel, and the line variations based on angle and pressure.

For all that’s already wonderful about Japanese pencils, there’s one small, unexpected detail that I find delightful.

Foiled imprinted designations in timeless typography.

Initially, I thought these were marketing taglines, just written in a very nuanced, almost comically earnest way.

• Tombow: “Highest Quality” / “FOR Hi-Precision DRAFTING”

• Kitaboshi: “Super Drawing” / “FOR RETOUCHING & SPECIAL DRAWING”

• Colleen: “Precise Drawing” / “SPECIAL RETOUCHING & OFFICE USE PENCIL”

• Mitsubishi: “SMOOTH WRITING PENCIL FOR Office Use”

However, these markings are remnants of an old regulatory system—a slight tangent, if you will, into the history of Japanese woodcased pencils.

Origins of Designation in Japanese Woodcased Pencils

Companies like Mitsubishi and Tombow modelled their products after the well-established German giants: Staedtler and Faber-Castell.6 Clean hexagonal barrels, similar graphite hardness scale (H, F, HB, B families), and perhaps even the green enamel paint and understated typography could be an homage to the European school of design and precision.

The Rise of Japanese Standards

Through the 1950s and 60s, Japanese pencils entered their golden age, a period when they began to be truly loved, especially with the rise of premium lines like Mitsubishi’s UNI and Tombow’s MONO. What once served classrooms and offices soon earned a place in artists’ studios around the world.7

As of writing, our business landscape feels almost frothy with constant headlines about generative AI and its impact. Imagine a similar sense of urgency and chaos for the light manufacturing sector in 1950s Japan.8 Over 125 pencil manufacturers were jockeying for positions in an overcrowded market.

Trade associations had to step in to impose standards and price control regimes—to ensure consistent quality and to uphold a fair marketplace between name brands and suspect quality knock-offs.

Manufacturers had to meet the requirements of physical attributes, lead characteristics, and even performance measures to remain competitive. Interestingly, markings and clear labelling also became standardized to don the badge of quality and honour, the JIS mark 〄.9

The JIS Mark 〄 — From a Symbol for Quality to Collectibility

For more than half a century, the Pencil JIS standard quietly upheld the quality of Japanese pencils. By the 1990s, the quality of Japanese pencils was excellent, and the standards had outlived their purpose. What began as an effort to weed out knock-offs and match European precision eventually evolved into a culture of craftsmanship sustained by pride. In 1998, the Pencil JIS designation was dissolved as part of nationwide deregulation. Factories continue to ship quality products built on those exacting standards, but the JIS mark has since been dropped.10

In the past two decades, Tombow has shifted much of its pencil production from Japan to Vietnam. Diehard Tombow advocates, concerned about the quality of their beloved MONO line, began stockpiling the Japanese-made originals. “Made in Japan” new-old stock now commands extraordinary prices, with MONO100 pencils bearing the JIS mark 〄 listed for more than ten times their original retail value.11 Once a quiet and tiny emblem of quality, the JIS mark has transformed into a badge of collectibility and desirability among enthusiasts.

Markings and Meanings

Imagine my confusion before learning about JIS. With just a few choice words, a pencil’s purpose is boldly and elegantly declared in timeless typography, right on the body of the barrel. Sometimes they hint at self-proclaimed excellence; other times they suggest the kind of writing each pencil was purposefully made for—in tones that range from earnest to absurd, and sometimes, contradiction. It’s this peculiar mix of deadpan sincerity and unintentional humour that makes them so utterly charming.

Over time, these old designations shed their regulatory purpose and became part of the design language itself. What began as functional labelling has become part of the visual identity of Japanese woodcased pencils: the contrast of serif and sans-serif type, the deliberate hierarchy, and a certain precision of layout over each facet. I suspect many enthusiasts now expect these cues as much as the unique blend of graphite and clay itself.

An Exhibit of Charming Designations

No, this isn’t a flex to showcase a fancy pencil collection of prestige or rarity. It’s an exhibit of the pencils that happen to live on my desk, a mix of both modern and vintage one-offs from childhood between myself and family that have survived. Think of each inscription as a haiku of purpose and intent.

Colleen G Core No.5550
“The Highest Quality” / “For Draftmen, Designers, Copy-Writers.”

Draftsmen in the age before Illustrator or CAD. Reminiscent of times with ink-stained fingers, tracing paper, and overflowing ashtrays.

Colleen 9900
“Precise Drawing” / “SPECIAL RETOUCHING & OFFICE USE PENCIL”

It wasn’t long ago when pencils were needed to adjust shadows, highlights, and halftones on film and to clean up lines before reproduction or printing. This pencil embodied an age when precision and accuracy were done by hand.

Mitsubishi 9850
“SMOOTH WRITING PENCIL FOR Office Use”

An often-recommended model on the r/pencil sub. Many claim that it’s a handsome substitute for more premium pencils. Perhaps “Regular Pressure, Regular Speed” was already taken.

Kitaboshi 9606
“General use” / “ACADEMIC WRITING”

The only pencil that I can safely swap with my kids without fear of consequences: from checked-off grocery lists straight into the palms of my children for homework like a family baton. Some may notice and find it suspect that the 9850 and 9606 are oddly similar. The keen-eyed observer may notice that the 9606 has both gold and silver foil, a true rarity.

Mitsubishi 9800VB (COVID Edition)

“Matured” / “抗ウイルス VB配合鉛筆” — Antiviral VB-blended pencil / “水色の軸部分を持ってご使用ください” — Please use it by holding the light blue shaft part.

The pandemic-era rebirth of a classic. The same venerable 9800, now treated with “Virus Block” coating, its instructions politely reminding users where to hold it, as if the wrong grip might spread calamity. It’s the most literal evolution of the Japanese designation tradition: the pencil that once promised “General Writing” now promises “Safe writing.”

Tombow 2558
“Highest Quality” / “SINCE 1913” / “FOR GENERAL WRITING”

A model of humility. It claims nothing beyond competence. A fine pencil for grocery lists, notes to my family left on dining tables. Not quite Henokien12 but surely on its way.

Tombow MONO100
“highest quality” / “FOR hi-precision DRAFTING”

One of several pencils favoured by the renowned Hayao Miyazaki, who drafts many of his key frames of his films by hand. I question why I have this on my desk. I should carve my own “for imposter syndrome use” designation.

Mitsubishi “Français” Series (1980s–1990s)
“Je veux te donner un coup de poing.” / “Je t’aime.” / “Je veux t’embrasser.”
(“I want to punch you.” / “I love you.” / “I want to kiss you.”)

This is an outlier that I feel compelled to include. Perhaps, the designers at Mitsubishi were in a mini obsession with the French language design aesthetic from the 80s. These pencils were printed with floral patterns and a confusing blend of affection and aggression.

Pencil Haiku

My daughter came by my desk and wondered why I had different pencils scattered everywhere. She has offered to help illustrate for this Substack for a long time, and I am happy to share that her time has finally come. Here is our little art piece where we designed our own pencils in the same vein as the exhibit, following the same structure of the traditional designations, as if each were a kind of pencil poetry.

The themes behind them came from something I’ve noticed while watching my children at play or deep in art: that effortless abundance of creative energy. I remember feeling it once too: the restless, overflowing impulse to make things simply for the joy of it. It’s uninhibited and autotelic, without concerns for outcomes, products to sell, or posts to garner likes.

Somewhere along the way, that impulse grew quieter, more restrained. Some days, it disappears altogether. I can’t help but wonder if it was worn down—dulled by years of abrasion at the office and the slow erosion of creative confidence. Maybe some of us are lucky enough to carve out small refuges, protecting those rare moments of genuine creation from the routines of everyday life.

With that in mind, we began sketching our own aspirational, fictitious pencils.

• “CURIOSITY CORE PENCIL FOR Daily Discovery Use”

• “Unbounded Graphite FOR SPECIAL DRAWING”

• “Highest Quality FOR SPIRITED YOUNG DREAMERS”

• “Forever Graphite 家録用” (For Family Chronicle Use)”

Kitaboshi, Mitsubishi, Tombow, or any other pencil makers, for that matter, if you are reading this and if it resonates, consider bringing one of these pencils to life.

Return to the Writing Desk

My daughter recalls our time together at the Kitaboshi pencil factory as we sketched out more pencils together. She names them, I letter them, and we laugh at how serious and absurd they sound. Maybe that’s what ‘special drawing’ truly means on these pencils.

By dreaming up the ideal pencil haiku, I feel a little bit closer to that uninhibited energy to create and make things up with complete disregard for outcomes. I don’t know how else to describe it other than the concept of tenshin (天真), that innocent sincerity I’ve long misplaced. My daughter still has it, drawing without hesitation, without purpose, simply because it feels right.

✒︎

An Invitation to Write

If you haven’t written with a woodcased pencil in a while, make it a small exercise this week. Use any pencil you have nearby—or better yet, something in the B range with some feedback. Dull it, sharpen it, hold it high, then low. Grip tightly, then loosely. Listen to the sound of graphite against your favourite paper. Notice the subtle nuances compared to other writing instruments.

Pencils are remarkably simple. Both the cedar and the graphite are literally consumed through use—each word, each line, wearing the instrument down. I believe the purpose of the pencil shrine at Kitaboshi is to pay respects to the sacrifices of the pencil. Yet compared to pens that cost hundreds or even thousands, the pencil remains the most utilitarian of all. It’s robust, self-renewing, and honest about its impermanence.

Maybe that’s what makes it such an ideal companion for pocket carry. Especially the shorties, those half-used stubs with patina from use and carry. Perhaps that’s why Henry David Thoreau was often seen with pencils of his own design, ready for field notes as he walked through Concord, Massachusetts. His method of observing the world and holding onto small vignettes as inspiration before they disappeared was its own kind of writing. I wonder how many of us still keep a pencil within reach, one that bears the markings of use, the cedar scent, the quiet companionship of graphite on paper.

And if you’re a subscriber who’d like to try some of the pencils mentioned here, I’d be happy to mail a few your way or trade. I’m always gushing about the playful ones, like the Mitsubishi Kohitsu Shosha (硬筆書写) calligraphy pencils, with their brush-like softness that still surprises me every time I write.

(While my supply lasts, and assuming reasonable mailing costs to your region.)

Maybe that’s what writing and drawing are all about, a slow wearing down of tools until what remains on the page feels unmistakably ours.

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Wil

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With my phone in hand, finger on the shutter button, I thought to myself, What am I doing exactly?

For one, there is the act of capturing and freezing moments in time. It’s easy to believe that I am making and preserving memories. But to fully understand and explore this question, it comes down to what I do (or don’t do) with these photos after the shutter press.

Since I started using my phone as a camera, I’ve made the mistake of shooting from the hip. Figuratively speaking, where I shot first and asked later, except that later never happened until recently, when I dusted off the remnants of a once-wonderful hobby full of promise that has fallen by the wayside. 

The Album on the Shelf

Like many others, photography has been a part of my life since I was born. I was lucky that my parents documented my coming into this world and most of my youth in neat photo albums - with period-correct stock photo covers, flowing hair, busy shirts and bell bottoms in full glory. These albums have otherwise stood the test of time, and I feel like they’ll always be there.

My parents were kind enough not to feel too precious about cameras, and the risks of exposing the film roll had I loaded it incorrectly with my clumsy kiddie hands. I am thankful that they took the time and were patient enough to teach and explain to me how everything worked.

The shots that I took were obviously poorly composed and technically unsound. But when I look at them now, they are endearing precisely because of the very flaws and easygoing nature of these blurry snapshots.

From Liberation to Exhaustion

Since the advent of digital photography, I walked a similar path that many enthusiasts might have traversed. Unbounded by frame count and with the freedom to shoot without a care felt liberating. Better sensors, cheaper storage, more forgiving software: the trifecta that ended photography’s gatekeeping. Suddenly, the tools of professionals slipped into the hands of the rest of us. Hobbyists could achieve stunning shots.

During the peak of digital photography, it was not unusual to see a smattering of compact point-and-shoot cameras alongside pro gear at popular tourist attractions or walks around town. Even my mom (a late majority in tech) had a neat little pocket-sized camera for snapshots in daily life.

For a brief time, with the persuasion of friends and club meets, I found myself in studios, product launches and other events. Then came paid gigs, where I learned that working as a photographer is very different from personal artistic pursuits. This may have been an ideal moment to pause and ask myself what it was precisely that I was hoping to accomplish.

You don’t have to lug cameras into studios or take on client gigs to know the feeling. For some, it’s posting to platforms, hoping others see the same beauty they do. I lost the plot when I stopped making photos for myself.

The Household Archivist

My brother and I were debating about a childhood recall. It may have been about the arrangement of furniture in our childhood home or the nuance in a particular wallpaper pattern, but be assured that it was inconsequential. Still, it mattered enough for us to want to settle by digging up the family photo albums. Over the years, I rarely referred to these old tomes. Now that I am reacquainted with them again, I’ve been referring to them more frequently, juxtaposing my fuzzy memory against a more objective version of the past. When you have experienced enough, it does indeed feel like a different lifetime.

When my children were born, I had not realized that I had automatically signed up for various implied roles that came along with being a parent. The household became a small enterprise where finance, operation, and lifestyle required new and dedicated skills. It was when I was flipping through the old family photo albums that I realized how much I had dropped the ball at being the household photographer or archivist — albeit a lower ranking role on the list of other more crucial roles, but one that is of necessity. One that I assumed I’d excel at.

In Praise of the Mundane Snapshot

At this point in the hobby, I was not exactly burnt out, but I had lost the plot. I gladly exchanged the camera bag for the diaper bag. Being sleep deprived meant I wasn’t looking back or processing the few shots that I did take. I couldn’t distinguish the difference between the simple snapshot and the photos as art or paid work. I was conflating capital “P” Photography with casual snapshots that my father took for the purpose of making and preserving memories.

A Ritual in 36 Frames

I hold my breath, elbow braced against my ribcage, body settling into a stance I’ve never consciously practiced but always return to. Time slows as I wait for the decisive moment to reveal itself. When it does, I press the shutter, the mirror and blades snapping open and closed, a small burst of torque transferring back into my hands. Vision returns in the viewfinder, and I exhale.

On days like this, photography feels less like pressing a button and more like a ritual. Like other rituals, it’s hard to explain to anyone who hasn’t felt it. Audiophiles lower the needle to savour the crackle before the first note. Writers relish the feedback of a nib across the fibres of a page, each line shaped by imperfection and personality. These are satisfying tactile experiences that screens and algorithms can only imitate but never replace faithfully. Although rarer now, I’m thankful these rituals still exist.

On the better days, this process of composing a shot through the viewfinder feels dreamlike and meditative. Very much like the vignettes by Donata Wenders in the film Perfect Days that signal the passing of each day, a metaphor for sleep, dreams, where our experiences of the day and our interpretation are jumbled and mixed beautifully.

Excerpt from Perfect Days (2023), directed by Wim Wenders. Cinematography by Donata Wenders. Used under fair use for commentary and criticism.

The click of the shutter is only the beginning. Getting to the end of the film roll, rewinding, and swapping it out with a fresh roll from the shop. Days or sometimes weeks may have elapsed before prints are in hand. Being surprised or disappointed by the prints is a part of the ritual. Oftentimes, the anticipated shots are blurry, ill-composed, or even cut off, whereas the suspected throwaways become the highlights.

Warm tones, natural grain, buttery softness, and gentle vignette at the corners — each flaw and imperfection baked into film, dictated by the choice of stock and the chemistry of its developer.

Timeless Rituals

It’s clearer to me how photography in my life has evolved, and there is a lot more I didn’t ask for, and far less of the magic. I miss the spontaneity, leaving the “look” to circumstances and spending more time shooting and flipping through albums.

The 10, 24 or 36 print cap used to be a restraint and the Achilles heel of film. For years, I treated prints as temporary, always at the risk of vanishing, while I trusted digital to endure and live on forever. But the opposite may be true. My parents’ albums, with their worn covers and faded portraits, are still sitting in their living room. Meanwhile, my own photos are scattered across devices, memory cards, and the cloud, too scattered to enjoy.

I don’t want to keep treating the shutter button with abandon. I want to reclaim the role of the household archivist, to capture not just images but context, to preserve imperfect, mundane snapshots so that someday my kids, or my future self, can flip through them and know how our lives were truly lived. The photos that matter most aren’t always the ones worth sharing. They’re the ones worth keeping, because they hold memory and texture, showing us how life was truly lived.

Journaling has taught me that memory needs a home. Words find it in notebooks. Photos deserve the same.

✒︎

Journal Considerations:

If the essay resonated, here are some considerations to take into your journal.

Awareness

There are myriad reasons why we journal. At least within my practice, there is a lot of joy in looking back at past journals to recall long-forgotten memories and arriving at new and novel interpretations. 

Since drafting this essay, I’ve stopped beating myself up over the missed photo opportunities.  I went back to look at past journals, and lo and behold, the entries near significant life events all have photos neatly tucked alongside. Not all is lost.

There is no writing prompt this week, but more of a question to the journaling community: how do you integrate photos into your practice? 

Hypothesis:

Could the use of visuals (sketches or photos) complement our journal practice?

Assessment and Insights

I must have tried every photo printing option out there. When there is no camera around, I would either sketch out the scene to the best of my ability or take potato pics. I used to shoot with a Micro Four Thirds body and processed with VSCO. I was able to get a beautiful film look with minimal processing.

Recently, I have been trying out a Fujifilm X-series camera for the in-cam film sim, skipping processing altogether and leaving it to chance. I am printing on the Canon Selphy. Unlike Instax, prints are more affordable. Prints have an adhesive backing, and they are thinner so as not to bulk up the journal. I do lose out on the authentic film look or natural toy camera softness. When I am in Japan, there are lots of photo printing kiosks where I batch print once or twice a week. 

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Wil

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It was at this small shop that I first encountered another fountain pen user in the wild. Considering that fountain pens, a 19th-century invention, never fully recovered their place in the daily life of the masses after the rise of the more convenient and less messy ballpoint—it was genuinely unlikely that anyone would go out of their way to pick out, ink up, maintain, and regularly put an archaic writing instrument to use. It would have been like hearing the clack of a manual typewriter at a neighbourhood coffee shop or receiving a handwritten letter in the post from a friend, a spark from dying embers long ago.

I was in a meeting in the private boardroom of our President, our fountain pen enthusiast and protagonist. These were the early days when I had just started at the company. One of the first observations I made was that our President had an old-school charm. He was quick to smile and preferred the ways of tradition and rituals.

Throughout the meeting, his fountain pen of choice would always be in his hand, whether he held it mindfully as he listened intently or if he was silently making suggestions with broad strokes in the airy margins of a copy deck. If he was wandering the hallways of the office, I was certain that his pen was tucked away neatly in his shirt pocket.

His pen of choice was a Parker Duofold in the Centennial size. It was in a Maroon Marble finish with gold trimmings, probably from the Mk I run that started in 1987. Even though the pen would have been at most 12-15 years young, seeing a modern Duofold in the wild is a rarity when the fountain pen industry was near its nadir around this time.

Over the course of my time at this small agency, I had gone through the motions of many enthusiasts of any hobby: participating in shows, living vicariously through others' forum posts, and exploring products and accessories both broad and deep. Meanwhile, our President was not only content but also faithful to his one and only Duofold. Rocking it daily with elation, as if it's a new pen day1 every day.

Throughout my tenure at this small agency, the President and I rarely talked about pens. There was almost a silent acknowledgement of each other's presence as a fountain pen user. Maybe I didn’t ask, fearing I’d spoil the magic of it all. At long last, in a prolonged meeting after hours between the two of us, we finished revising a script, and it felt like the right moment to inquire about his Duofold.

1989 Parker Duofold International in Red Marble. Photo by ProtoPens.

Upon the mention of his beloved pen, he quietly handed it to me2. Unlike other fountain pen enthusiasts, where the exchange of context, stories, and inks is par for the course, he showed hardly any interest in the pen that I was using. If my memory serves me, it may have been a period-correct OMAS Paragon, no slouch in the pen flex department, but I digress.

I quietly examined the iconic Duofold, uncapped it for a closer examination of the two-tone arrow point decoration on the nib. Whether it's accidental or by design, the auditory experience of capping and uncapping the Duofold is quite pleasing. I considered asking if I could try writing with it, but thought better of it. With another satisfying sound, I capped it and promptly returned the Duofold as carefully as I could.

Near the end of my time at the agency, I had one other fountain pen encounter with our President. In another round of copy edits in his boardroom, I was surprised to see that instead of the deep, rich maroon swirls of the Duofold, he was writing with an oversized black torpedo-shaped fountain pen with a broad or even double-broad nib. Fearing the worst, I asked him about his Duofold. With a poignant expression, he told me he had worn down the threads from use to the point that the cap would work its way loose and uncapped itself in his shirt pocket. After finally having had enough with ink-stained shirts and fingers, he drove out to a Montblanc boutique one afternoon and picked out a 149 without box or papers and wore it in his shirt pocket.

“Wash Your Bowls”

A few years later, I discovered one of my favourite essays Wash Your Bowls3 by Norman Fischer. He recalls a famous Zen story where a monk, eager for profound instruction, is told simply to wash his bowls. That is the teaching. The wisdom lies in the ordinary act itself, carried out with full attention.

Fischer explains that Zen practice is about taking the most ordinary object and making it magnificent simply by caring for it with full attention.

Once I understood the insight, I began to see it everywhere. In my almost-mythical recollection of the President and his single pen of choice, he embodies the heart of Wash Your Bowls.

He wasn’t choosing from a collection of pens each morning, swatching inks, nor deliberating on the next purchase the way the rest of us were. Just one pen, one ink, and the simple act of writing. Through devotion, his Duofold became the monk’s bowl, ordinary yet made sacred by use, worn down until the threads gave out.

It feels like a Zen koan4: that a refusal of excess, a quiet austerity, can open instead onto contentment, sufficiency, even abundance.

An Epilogue on my Pen Collection

What the President of the small agency had shown me, without ever intending to, was a perfectly Zen way to live with a hobby. At the very start of my pen journey, the teaching was right there, in its glorious simplicity, and I had missed it. Instead, I let attachment creep in. I kept grasping at more pens, and inks. Like a hungry ghost, I searched for satisfaction in variety, never noticing the lesson of enough already at hand.

Since this realization, I have sold off most of the collection along with the pen chests. I mistakenly believed my goal was to be like the President: one pen, one ink. But in chasing that ideal when minimalism briefly took hold of me, I overcorrected, and I had to walk myself back from its ledge. In time, through reflection and journaling, I found a more balanced way to enjoy the hobby.

On my desk now sits a small Toyooka pen chest that holds eight pens. I doubt I'll ever feel the need to fill it, and I may even pare it down further. Whatever remains, I imagine one day passing them along to my children as heirlooms — humble and well-worn tools that quietly carry, in their own way, the lesson of enough.

✒︎

Writing Exercise:

If the essay resonated, here’s an exercise to take into your journal.

Awareness

As my allegory suggests, it took a long time to arrive at a Zen-like approach in these deep rabbit-hole-like hobbies. Fountain pens had exploded in choice, variety, and accessories that rewarded store-worthy collections. It took reflection, self-examination, and a few Marie Kondo sessions to begin seeing through the illusion that I needed more to be an enthusiast.

Hypothesis:

Journaling, practicing intention, and learning from those further along in their journey can help shape a philosophy of enough. By reducing the noise of consumerism, we soften cognitive dissonance and cultivate calm in a hobby that often rewards overconsumption. In my case, I arrived at balance by choosing tools that earn their place through use, patina, and meaning.

Envisioning our definition of enough can guide us toward a quiet, Zen-like contentment.

Method

With your journal and writing instrument at the ready:

1. Envision the Ideal Outcome: Imagine yourself ten years from now: what does enough look like in this hobby (or in another area of life where a collection may be unwieldy)?

2. Name What Matters: List three practices, experiences, or tools that bring the most contentment and meaning for you.

3. Gratitude Anchor: Write a few sentences reminding yourself of how lucky you are to have what you need already.

4. Envisage Release: This is optional. Imagine what might shift if you set down or passed along what no longer serves you, to better appreciate what remains.

Assessment and Insights

In the margins of a commonplace notebook, the same one where I copied passages from “Wash Your Bowls”, I once jotted down a line from Vivienne Westwood: “Buy less, choose well, make it last.”5

This advice, from a designer rooted in punk rebellion, yet deeply aware of fashion’s toll on the planet, has its own tension. Fashion is the second most polluting industry on earth6, and yet Westwood’s advice is sound: we do need clothes, and when we choose carefully, we can live more lightly.

It strikes me that her maxim and the President’s quiet lesson point to the same truth. Whether in a bowl, a jacket, or a single well-used pen, the invitation is the same: to see that enough is already at hand.

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Wil

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I was juggling the responsibilities of a high-school student and flipping burgers at a neighbourhood fast-food restaurant. One evening at the corner Jumbo Video store, I pulled a little-known comedy from the rows of new release VHS from the shelf, a film that would quietly spark my love of planners and notebooks.

Taking Care of Business (1990), or Filofax, follows a free-spirited con man (James Belushi) who assumes the life of an advertising executive (Charles Grodin) after stumbling across his lost Filofax planner. The result is a string of lighthearted mix-ups typical of the comedies of its era. Reviews were lukewarm, as the genre was crowded with bigger and more endearing hits at the time. Curiously, it was the first produced screenplay by a fresh-out-of-college J.J. Abrams, long before he became a household name.

The film, like every other budget comedy of the period, would have faded and been long forgotten except that it didn't. The Filofax planner and its uncanny ability to store a treasure trove of information of the utmost importance opened up a Pandora's box of possibilities. The ringed planner and the promise it holds took on mystical proportions, not only for me but for many others as well.

Mere days later, on our lunch breaks, I convinced a co-worker to cash our pay cheques and we picked out a Daytimer and inserts at a nearby Grand & Toy. The phenomenon had caught on, groups of teens in fast food uniforms would walk around the mall with overstuffed Daytimers, mistaking ourselves as mini-executives, accompanied by an aura of confidence and self-importance that only comes from peak planning: our schedules are recorded, essential phone numbers and birthdays decorated, with bills and bus tickets secretly tucked away in pockets for emergencies.

This is part 2 of an ongoing series on techo kaigi, where I share stories and dive into the details of how I am using some of the wonderful notebooks and stationery pairings that have made their way onto my writing desk. In this essay, I'll be focusing on an everyday carry planner/notebook. If you are new here, check out part 1 for an overview of techo kaigi and my journal universe.

The Return of the Rings

Last year, I attended a group journaling event at a local stationery shop. I had bonded with a fellow journal writer over the same quirky desire: to free up certain pages from completed inserts and carry them with us (more on this below). That small exchange planted a seed, the idea of bringing a small ring planner or simply "rings" back into my life, not unlike the Daytimer I used in my youth.

Exploring System Techo through Japanese Magazines

I first stumbled across the term system techo (システム手帳) in a library copy of System Techo Style (システム手帳 STYLE), a Japanese magazine dedicated entirely to the format. At the time, my Traveler's Notebook was already dialled in as wallet, calendar, and journal, but going through past issues brought me straight back to the peak planner days of my youth. There was a dizzying array of ringed planners, each with its own trade-offs between portability and writing comfort.

A common question in the community is “which notebook size is best for a particular use?” Traveler's Notebooks have two (Passport and Regular), Hobonichi has three (Weeks, A6, A5). System techos, however, have six standard sizes, and I wouldn't wish the resulting analysis paralysis on even my arch-nemesis; my eyes glazed over just trying to figure out which one to choose.1

I could empathize with the folks who rage quit when a particular size simply doesn't work. On the other hand, each planner invites some envisioning or tinkering until it settles into a system that simply works. There is a sense of accomplishment when our tools disappear into the background and we are using them uninhibitedly, almost as an extension of ourselves.

The Stationery

KNOX Mini6 System Notebook in JAPAN BLUE

システム手帳 ミニサイズ ジャパンブルー

Size: Mini6, Inserts: 80mm x 126mm, Rings: 15mm, Interior pockets: 3, Pen Storage: Loop, Closure: Band and Loop

I took a chance and found this KNOX system techo on Mercari Japan.

At the time of order, I was not all that familiar with the nuances or what to look for in a system techo other than its size. Thankfully, the planner arrived in pristine condition and everything worked out.

The ring diameter is 15mm, which sits near the middle of the spectrum in Japanese system techos (8, 11, 13, 15, 19 and 25mm). This is another instance of the same usability and portability trade-off. The smaller the rings, the narrower the spine for improved carry comfort, but at a cost of not being able to hold as many pages. Depending on the inserts used, expect to max out at 100 pages in a 15mm diameter ring before page flips become more difficult.

Different manufacturers have different philosophies on this. PLOTTER has adopted a minimalist approach, prioritizing portability by imploring its customers to carry just the essentials. They have opted for a narrow 11mm diameter ring across most, if not all, of their notebook sizes. This is the opposite of Filofax, where rings are in the 19, 23, 25, 30 and even 38mm range. We are in the spine thickness territory of dictionaries, textbooks or phone books of small cities.

Other considerations for a system techo are pen and accessory storage and the cover's fastening closure. In the model that I picked, there is a robust pen loop with a large enough diameter to hold a Pilot Vanishing Point securely and comfortably. The simple band and loop closure also helps with keeping the pen snug. When writing, the loop can be folded down and out of the way. After using this for some time, I have come to love and expect a secure and robust pen storage for at least one pen with any pocket notebook.2

A sidebar on “JAPAN BLUE” and colour naming in Japan

Fountain pen friends familiar with Japanese inks may already be alerted to this: in Japan, colours are not just descriptive but named, codified, and given poetic associations drawn from nature, seasons, flowers, and even emotions. This tradition dates back to the Heian court (794–1185), where layered kimono colours symbolized seasonal changes and refined taste.

Aizome (藍染め), Japanese indigo dyeing, transforms natural indigo leaves into deep, shifting blues through repeated dipping, a centuries-old craft admired for beauty, durability, and subtlety. Once common in samurai garments and work clothes, it lives on today in artisanal fashion, boro patchwork, and sustainable textiles.

The folks at KNOX seem especially proud of their Japan Blue lineup. There is plenty of context on their craft and process for those interested.

PLOTTER inserts

PLOTTER seems to be the most accessible planner insert in North America. Knowing that Design Phil is the parent company behind Midori, Traveler's, PLOTTER and KNOX, I was confident that I would have no problems with the quality of the paper while also being fountain pen friendly.

Pilot Vanishing Point - Matte Black [M]

Since the release of this particular model of the Vanishing Point (VP) in 2013, it has been a daily pocket carry. There are plenty of battle scars from daily use, cycles in the washer, and nib replacements. The matte finish has been polished to a smooth surface, and each blemish carries its own stories, memories, and milestones: from moments of celebration of signing documents at the hospital when our children were born, to serving as a quiet fidget companion through fraught one-on-one conversations in my past life in the corporate world.

At the time of its release, there was a bit of drama about the lack of durability of this matte black finish. All of the other VPs at the time had the same glossy and robust lacquer over brass, which held up very well over time. Folks on forums were complaining to Pilot about how easily the matte black finish would scratch and chip, demanding a refund.

More than a decade later, I'd like to believe this design "flaw" is a hidden feature to accentuate the beauty and fleeting nature of our well-worn and much-loved tools. If there was ever a design principle to help combat over-consumption culture, it would be this: wabi-sabi, well-worn, patina aesthetic, where products improve with age over time. I genuinely wish more products were designed with longevity in mind.

For the non-fountain pen nerds, the claim to fame of the aptly named Vanishing Point (Capless in the rest of the world) is that, unlike its peers, the click mechanism offers the convenience of quick deployment and retraction of the nib, much like the ballpoint pens or mechanical pencils. Other fountain pens are generally "slower", requiring intentionality and two hands to rotate or pull the cap off the body of the pen before a writing session. Because of this particular design principle, the VP is often touted and recommended as the fountain pen for everyday carry to go alongside pocket notebooks.

How I am using it:

As I mentioned before, the KNOX system techo replaced a Traveler's Notebook. It is with me almost all the time and serves as a wallet, calendar, light Bullet Journal (BuJo), pocket notebook, and a mini museum. Let's explore each use case in detail.

As a Wallet: identification, fiat, and bank cards are found in the inside pockets. Frequently used passes and cards are punched and sit in the opening pages for ease of access.

As a Calendar: I carry about 2-3 months out. Time and date-sensitive appointments go on the left, and notes are on the right.

As a Bullet Journal: a ringed system really shines for BuJo. I was never a fan of indexes and page numbers. I enjoy carrying only the handful of pages that I need to refer to when I am out:

• Daily log for busier days

• Weekly tasklist

• Monthly Expense Tracker

• Collections: Projects, Distractions, Procrastination, Highlights from book 1: current obsessions, principles, reflections.

Just like the Traveler's Notebook, there is a camp for in-cover writing, while some prefer to take the notebook (or pages in this case) out before writing so that the spine doesn’t get in the way or the pages lay flat.

As a tiny museum of past entries/artwork: With a 6-hole punch, a sharp knife, and an optional rounded-corner punch, just about any paper, ticket, maps, or pamphlet can be transformed into a page for the system techo without the need for glue or washi. It had been a long time since I last used a binder, and it took me a while to fully appreciate the flexibility and utility of this.

In my daily writing ritual, I sometimes refer back to old entries. In many of these sessions, I often surprise myself when I relive the full impact of reacquainting myself with forgotten milestones, memories, obsessions, or even simple doodles. Given the flexibility of the rings system, just about anything flat could be punched and folded to fit into the system techo. It becomes a mini-curated gallery of key moments from past journals that is always in my pocket, serving as a source of inspiration or meaning. Pages that were once locked in past notebooks can be freed, making an occasional appearance again or archived when it's time to rotate them out.

What's working well:

In a way, the switch from a Traveler's Notebook to a system techo began as a hypothesis. Does the benefit of flexibility to curate pages outweigh some of the disadvantages of more bulk and complexity in an everyday carry planner/notebook? In my use case, it's a resounding "yes" on all accounts.

Since using a system techo from the beginning of the year, the flexibility of rings enhances the benefits of a pocket planner/notebook.

Even before the switch, I loved carrying a planner every day. The system techo deepens the joy I find in simple tools that bring quiet contentment:

• Lightening the mind for clarity: Over the course of any day, we have up to 6,200 thoughts3. Cognitive offloading to a notebook helps me clear mental clutter and make space for focus. When I review the daily log at the end of the day, most items end up being noise, but occasionally, an item worth unpacking sits there in waiting. I'd hate to forget that one hard-earned spark of inspiration, insight, or idea simply because I moved on and forgot to jot it down. Since I started daily logging, a pocket notebook/pen has been indispensable.

• Creating order: In a world where we may have much less control than we'd like to believe, envisioning and planning bring a gentle structure to make the day flow more smoothly. This may be one of the reasons why BuJo and analogue planning continue to thrive in a world of devices and apps. It's one of the few opportunities where we can look towards the future with a bit of hope, optimism, and curiosity.

• Aesthetic and craft satisfaction: the tactile and visual qualities of planners appeal to our innate love for beauty and art. Taking the time to transform mundane lists in a way that speaks to us visually is an opportunity for a creative ritual. Realizing that I was no longer bound by an entire book of an insert and I could create one-off accordion fold-outs or watercolour-friendly stock to fit inside a system techo was a moment of creative liberation. I am always on the lookout for novel ways to craft and DIY interesting inserts.

• Strategy as play: as a gamer dabbling in both boardgames and digital, I believe one of the greatest joys of gaming comes from devising a path to victory based on conditions dictated by the board and other players, executing this plan, and making adjustments along the way to realize a vision. In a way, the use of planners and specific BuJo collections has a lot of crossovers with being strategic in life: mapping out time and energy as resources, min/maxing priorities before making a decision and executing. Crossing off tasks and goals means arriving at the destination that we mindfully envisioned for ourselves, bringing a satisfying closure in our own game of life.

• A ritual of mindful moments: every time I open up the system techo, is an opportunity to feel grounded, and this small repeated act brings order and mindfulness to inhabit the moment.

• Leaving a trace: When I look back at past planners, there are a lot of inconsequential and mundane tasks that are probably meaningless: Laundry day, groceries, health appointments. However, buried in the mundane are clues and context that may contribute to meaning later for others. I often ponder if my kids will ever flip through an old Hobonichi Weeks and piece together the context of what my partners and I were doing in preparation to welcoming them into our lives (more ultrasound appointments with washi-taped thermal printouts).

• A touchstone of memory: words, photos and small keepsakes from past journals that make their way back into the system techo acts like a powerful comfort object. They act as a gentle reminder of challenges met, moments cherished, giving quiet strength at times of need.

Our Well-Worn Tools as Talismans

In a recent issue of システム手帳 STYLE, a longtime Filofax user shared how, on a business trip to Milan, he discovered a bible-sized Il Bisonte planner. Twenty years later, he still treasures that same well-worn system techo. Through the magazine's endearing pull quotes and photos, I could almost feel the quiet contentment radiating from his companion of decades.

The industry will consistently churn, pushing new formats and promising greater beauty or fulfillment. Trends will rise and fade, each demanding more attention than the last. But I want to resist — steadying myself in the middle way, free from distraction, loyal to the companions I've already chosen.

Like the Il Bisonte planner, my own system techo and pen are more than tools. Page by page, mark by mark, they will age and navigate life with me, guiding me like a talisman: not of luck, but of companionship and time.

Leave a comment

The Way of the Mirror is a passion project that brings together journal writers. I value transparency and journaling nerdism, from the tools I use to the steps in my writing process.4 If this reflection sparked a moment of inspiration or introspection, consider supporting this work by subscribing. It truly means more than you know. Thank you for reading.

Wil

Subscribe now

Journal Exercise Prompt:

There is no writing exercise this week. I was surprised by how verbose I was about system techos and pocket notebooks. I do want to leave a short prompt for my readers:

If you could easily curate entries from past journals and have them with you, what entries or moments would you want to carry and why?

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Celebrate that task list, make it one for the ages.

It was always my intention to share more about how I am using the wonderful notebooks, stationery and tools that have graced my writing desk. Anyone familiar with The Way of the Mirror may recognize that this is not about the covetousness this hobby might seem to thrive on. It's much more about renewing our appreciation for the things already present in our lives, sharing ideas, and helping spread the sense of contentment through improved practices.

A techo kaigi (手帳会議) is a "meeting" one has with their notebooks and planners. It reminds me of a retrospective in my previous life as a product designer, where teams reflect on what went well, what didn't, and what can be improved in future sprints. It's a way to bring a little zest back into familiar rituals.

There may be quite a bit of stationery nerdism here. Fear not, I've peppered fascinating stationery lore and anecdotes that muggles could also enjoy.

My journal universe consists of 4 notebooks

1. The Journal is the center of the universe. Everything starts and ends here. Even the concept behind The Way of the Mirror, the playful logo with hidden meaning, and my obsession with reflection center around this very notebook and practice. Template-based, daily morning and evening sessions. Optional long form content, doodles, ephemera. 👉 I'll be focusing on this notebook in this post.

2. System techo (システム手帳): Daily carry wallet and rings pocket notebook: bujo-style (bullet journal) calendar, logs, expenses, trackers, collections and physical ephemera.

3. Traveler's Notebook: Notebook for experiences, day-trips, weekend adventures, travel, and monthly highlights.

4. Work Planner: A catch-all notebook/planner for work and Way of the Mirror.

The Journal: Hobonichi A5 and Lamy 2000

I begin the day at my writing desk, where my most essential journal, pen and stamps await. These pages ground me, clear away the fog, and help me move through the day with clarity, gratitude, and purpose—much like the steadying effects of meditation or breathwork.

The Stationery:

Hobonichi (ほぼ日) A5 Notebook

This notebook comes from a small personal stash of pre-2019 Tomoe River Paper (TRP), produced on Tomegawa's famed Machine #7. Supposedly, it highlights the desirable qualities in fountain pen inks such as saturation, shade, sheen, and shimmer, without feathering or bleed-through. In 2021, Tomoegawa sold off its paper-making business, and the original stock is no longer in production. Notebook makers with old stock are often sought after.

Whether it’s 'endgame mentality,' 'gear chasing,' or the optimization-obsessed tendencies in many hobbyist cultures, we end up diminishing our ability to appreciate non-hyped possessions for what they are. Scarcity aside, I am enjoying what remains of the A5 notebooks just as much as I enjoy paper from other fountain pen-friendly brands.2

Rolls-Royce of Chalk: A Hagoromo Tangent

This reminds me of an endearing story of a Henokien-style, family-owned business that has been passed down for generations but was unable to find a willing successor. Hagoromo Bungu (羽衣文具), the maker of the Hagoromo Fulltouch, famously known as the "Rolls-Royce of chalk," announced in 2015 that it would cease production. Mathematicians and professors around the world went into full Doomsday mode to stockpile it.

Soon after, South Korean cram-school teacher Shin Hyung Seok (신형석) purchased the original recipe, machinery, brand rights, and began producing indistinguishably smooth chalk by 2016. Academia and NASA engineers could breathe easy once again. Perhaps I may not be so alone in feeling particular about the tools that we use.

LAMY 2000

The LAMY 2000 is a study in quiet simplicity, where form follows function, a characteristic often found in the Bauhaus design of its era. Stealthy hooded nib, understated clean lines, subtle textured surfaces over contrasting materials, and an almost camouflaged but fully functional ink window. Unlike most fountain pens with a screw cap, the LAMY 2000 features a friction-fit capping mechanism, offering a satisfying tactile snap to bookend each writing session.

This is my second LAMY 2000. The first one was sold off at a local pen meet after a rather merciless Marie Kondo-style session of "tidying" up. At the time, I adopted a minimalist mindset where a collection of any sort felt overindulgent and wasteful. What I didn't account for was nostalgia, and how a possession could spark joy at different moments throughout our lives. Years later, I missed it dearly and felt compelled to bring it back.

The current LAMY 2000 is fitted with a broad nib. On a calliper reading, the actual width of the nib is a garden hose variety at 1.1mm. It writes beautifully with just about every ink, no matter how finicky or misbehaving it may be.

How I am using it

I spent years writing in free form and long form as I felt disconnected from daily gratitude templates. Other prompts were hit or miss, depending on the gap in life stage between the author's context and my own. It wasn't until I encountered Leticia Britos Cavagnaro's work that a more streamlined template finally clicked with me. It transformed my practice. Her design-centred and accessible approach to reflection appealed to my sense of curiosity. It helped me feel grounded in the often nebulous space of journaling for meaning.

Similar to the template from Experiments in Reflection, I write a few sentences on each of the following:

• Gratitude: Both big picture and little things that make life worth living. The key is pausing just long enough to uncover and embody the appreciation, rather than rehashing the same script.

• Intention: One thing I want to dedicate my time to for the day, whether it's an outcome or approach.

• First Step: An action to help me achieve my intention.

I've since made the following additions:

• Distraction: I sometimes use this space to set aside fleeting interests and curiosities, returning to them later. The novelty is often faded by the time I sit down to revisit them.

• Card Pull: Interpreting a single tarot card helps me reframe the context for the day ahead or highlight potential blind spots.

Depending on what's lined up for the day or how I am feeling, I may continue with a long form entry, doodles, sketches, and attach whatever ephemera I have collected before closing the notebook.

In the evenings, I wind down with another brief session at the writing desk. These quiet moments of contemplation are savoured. Continuing with the template suggested in Experiments in Reflection, entries are pithy: often with questions percolating or a short line capturing the general mood I am in. They frequently serve as a starting point in the next day's entries.

What's working well:

This notebook is the gravitational center of my journal practice. Ideas worth revisiting earn a dot sticker or a sweep with Mildliner. Pages that are more fleeting or trivial, such as grocery lists, may be torn out and placed in the system techo.

I am pleased with this blend of a structured template and the flexibility for long form or artful content. It solves a few problems that I was encountering:

• Missed days (which is absolutely okay) when I wasn't sure what I wanted to dedicate the entry to.

• On busier days, a short entry is better than none. The template lets me capture something quickly, yet each note remains a joy to revisit, anchoring me to the headspace and details of the moment for years to come.

• Every month or so, when I create a highlight entry in a Traveler's Notebook, it makes scanning for highlights (or lowlights) much easier.

I feel utterly free to capture whatever I want, however I want. Even the watercolour pages have their charm, crinkles and all. Since the amount I write varies, a plain blank notebook feels liberating. I am content with this format and don't foresee changes anytime soon.

DIY: Creation over consumption

Like every industry, stationers are happiest when we spend. Since recognizing this unsustainable truth, I've opted to create my own small, hard-earned works of art and accessories through DIY, crafting, design, drawing, painting, and carving. I have a confession—and this is by no means a humble brag:

Even when stamps, washi tape, or other ready-made tools play a role, it's the act of shaping them into something deeply personal that makes these pages truly endearing.

Leave a comment

The Way of the Mirror is a passion project that brings together journal writers. I value transparency and journaling nerdism, from the tools I use to the steps in my writing process3. If this reflection sparked a moment of inspiration or introspection, consider supporting this work by subscribing. It truly means more than you know. Thank you for reading.

Wil

Subscribe now

Writing Exercise:

In every post, I include context, references, and a writing exercise. I am doing this to help address one of the top pain points of journal writing: "What should I write about?"4

Awareness

In Experiments in Reflection, Leticia Britos Cavagnaro describes daily writing as a kind of pensieve, a basin where one can pour out thoughts and return to examine them later. The metaphor, borrowed from Harry Potter (first noted by Jenny Moon), perfectly captures the role of a journal: "one simply siphons the excess thoughts from one's mind, pours them into the basin, and examines them at one's leisure."5

Her take on short prompts and pensieve templates opened my eyes to a new way of approaching journaling. For years, I struggled with prompts that felt distant, while long-form explorations of themes felt nebulous. Experiments in Reflection helped me create personalized jumping-off points based on my own context and curiosities, one step at a time.

Hypothesis

Suppose we design our own daily journaling template around themes that genuinely spark our curiosity. In that case, we are more likely to sustain the practice. Our entries may yield meaning, clearer insights, and greater contentment.

Method

With your journal and writing instrument at the ready:

1. Begin by browsing this broad list of popular journaling themes:

   1. Self & Growth: gratitude, intentions, goals, future self, regrets, insecurities, challenges, wins, lessons

   2. Well-being and Mind: health, well-being, mood, distractions, mindfulness, sleep

   3. Connections and Events: relationships, appreciating others, events

   4. Creativity and Expression: creativity, dreams, lists, projects, ideas, tarot card(s) drawn

2. From this list, highlight the ones you know you enjoy writing about consistently.

3. Cross out any that do not resonate with you or the ones you write about but rarely learn from.

4. Look again: are there themes you've never tried but feel curious to explore? Add your own.

5. Re-order your chosen themes into a daily flow that feels natural to you. Depending on the number of themes, you may wish to split them between morning and evening sessions, aligning with how you structure your day.

6. Write your next entry using this personalized structure. You've now created your own template or pensieve: one that reflects your voice in this moment in time.

Assessment & Insights

This exercise isn't something you need to repeat daily. It's a one-time experiment that helps you shape the container for your ongoing practice.

From here, a simple cycle can unfold: the daily structured entry with or without long form; the act of re-reading to cull and compare; and the synthesis of insights or hypotheses. By intentionally revisiting the same themes over time, we may notice subtle, hard-earned nuggets of understanding that are otherwise lost in the busyness of day-to-day life.

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During this quiet moment of contemplation, I was intrigued by the minimalist packaging, with its earthy colour palette and poetic names that hint at the flavour. I broke the magic of the moment when I casually looked up the company behind the simple dessert. Little did I know that I was about to dive headfirst into a rabbit hole rich in history and tradition of some of the world's longest-running family-owned businesses.

A quincentenary confectionery maker, fit for emperors

Toraya (株式会社虎屋) was founded in the 16th century in Kyoto, Japan2. They are famous for being a purveyor of confectionery goods to the Japanese Imperial Court. It's hard not to be drawn into its rich history, from museum-worthy design books, sepia-tinted photos, and a timeline of the company's highlights over the last 500 years. Curiously, they have a company ethos that prioritizes the quality of their products over growth and expansion3. This idea feels both inspiring and refreshing to me.

Discovering the centuries: The Henokiens and a charming 1,300‑year‑old inn

As I prepared another serving, I learned that Toraya belonged to an international association known as the Henokiens Association (L'Association des Hénokiens). Established in 1981, the French organization has a core philosophy of valuing family businesses as a viable alternative to multinational corporations. Its membership consists of 56 family-owned companies that have been in existence for 200 years or more, with at least one family member still actively involved in management.

The oldest member of the Henokiens is Hōshi Ryokan (法師旅館), a darling of a traditional Japanese inn founded in 718 AD. It has been managed by the "same" family for 46 generations4.

Hōshi is over 1,300 years old (1.3 millennia).

When Hōshi opened its doors to its first customers, Japanese feudalism wouldn't exist for another 300-400 years. There are no clocks, compasses, paper money, corrective eyeglasses, nor official samurai as a class structure.

Elsewhere in the world, the Vikings have yet to begin their raids. No Roman Empire, Renaissance, nor any Shakespeare plays for reading or viewing enjoyment. Hōshi, among many other Henokien members, have survived world wars, revolutions, natural disasters, and upheavals for centuries.

As a former salaried employee, my experience and context in businesses lean near the top-middle of the chart. I can't help but marvel at the perpetual balancing act between building a legacy based on tradition and innovating just enough to remain relevant and viable.

I've shared my disdain for the unsavoury tactics in behavioural economics that are often used by contemporary businesses to encourage (nudge, engineer, coerce?) us to buy more. I am drowning in the constant drone of the hype machine, urged to sidegrade into redundancy and storage, without a care for materials and waste. I miss the days when abundance came from having less. The irony is that these Henokien giants, along with their longevity, timelessness, and tradition, feel surprisingly invigorating to me.

Roaring waves and spray,
recede without a whisper —
silent depths endure.

Finding solace in a timeless design philosophy

Upon returning home, I was scanning through various completed Traveler's Notebook inserts. I was flipping through pages filled with ephemera of Henokien product packaging, questionable haiku, and other novel reminders of my fascination with these timeless legacies. As I was about to archive the notebooks, I realized that I didn't want my fascination to cease. An inkling tells me that there is more to this thread.

In my haphazard attempt, I decided to surround myself with as many Henokien products as I could find to tease out themes or insights. If none could be found, I would supplement with Henokiens-in-spirit5 objects: products that exude the same principles as Henokiens but without the stringent family-owned stewardship or 200+ years of operation.

I curated 15 possessions: 5 from Henokien members, 6 from Henokien-like companies, and 4 from younger firms (100+ years young) that share a similar spirit.

Gallery: Selected items from the Henokien-in-spirit experiment

• INDEN‑YA (印傳屋) (1582): Deerskin leather wallet with urushi lacquer, repurposed as an A7 pocket notebook cover.6

• Yagenbori (やげん堀) (1620): Shichimi togarashi (seven‑flavour chili pepper seasoning).

• Brooks England (1866): B17 Special bicycle saddle.

• Pilot Corporation (1918): Vanishing Point fountain pen.

Like other products made from natural materials, many of these items have been with me for a long time and they have aged majestically and improve with use. I wish more products incorporated longevity and gradual improvement over time as a design principle.

I ran the experiment as a diary study. I used these products regularly over a two-week period and noted my experience. I finished with a content analysis and culled for themes, ultimately arriving at a set of insights that are both novel and familiar. Most of the products exemplified:

• Innovation (at the time)

• A high degree of usefulness

• An aesthetic quality that complemented its usefulness

• Intuitiveness and easily understandable

• A restrained or neutral quality

• A sense of honesty without extraneous flairs to exaggerate or over-promise

• Longevity in materials and timeless aesthetics. In some cases, the product improved with age.

• Thoroughly considered where nothing is left to chance

• Eco-friendly: minimizing both physical and visual pollution

• Minimalism: unburdened with non-essentials

Folks familiar with product design may recognize some of these as the 10 Principles of Good Design by Dieter Rams. His principles, often described as a philosophy, are evident not only in his iconic work at Braun and Vitsœ, but also in Jony Ive's designs at Apple and Naoto Fukasawa's at MUJI7.

In Gary Hustwit’s documentary Rams, I learned that the impetus for these principles came from Rams’s own self-doubt: his questioning of whether his life’s work had contributed to the very problems he criticizes: consumerism, overproduction, and waste. The principles became his answer: a framework for design that is restrained, useful, and enduring.

The time of thoughtless design for thoughtless consumption is over. We must, with increasing soberness, and hopefully with growing alertness and rationalism, take notice.

A framework for choosing well

Not everyone plays a role in product design or influences how something is used. But as consumers, we need our flavour of these guiding principles to elevate our buying decisions from thoughtless to considered. I don't believe we should accept Rams' work verbatim. It's a great starting point for us to curate our own.

This seemingly small connection between Henokiens and the principles of Dieter Rams feels hard‑earned. I am grateful that I trusted my instincts before archiving the Traveler's notebook which led to this rewarding insight: a framework for thinking more clearly about what to bring into my life, and which objects are most likely to offer lasting contentment.

Leave a comment

The Way of the Mirror is a passion project that brings together journal writers. I value transparency and journaling nerdism, from the tools I use to the steps in my writing process8. If this reflection sparked a moment of inspiration or introspection, consider supporting this work by subscribing. It truly means more than you know. Thank you for reading.

Wil

Subscribe now

Writing Exercise:

In every post, I include context, references, and a writing exercise. I am doing this to help solve one of the top painpoints of journal writing and that is, "what should I write about?"9

Awareness

In my previous life as a User Experience Designer, what contributed to the success of my products depended on my ability to design in an elusive state of selflessness. With no ego, I had to set aside my personal whims and desires to focus solely on the people who used the products.

This calls for a mix of psychological insight and design sensibilities: empathy, attentiveness to subtle emotions, curiosity about people, a willingness to learn from mistakes, and patience. To help me make sense of behaviours that deviate from what’s expected, I often referenced cognitive bias codex as an indispensable tool, famed in the many design practices.

Having been in the industry for most of my life, I can't help but live in perpetual self-questioning of my own biases in the decisions that I make. The cognitive bias in focus this week is the endowment effect, which states:

This cognitive bias causes people to ascribe more value to things merely because they own them.

If you've ever wondered why used items sometimes costs more than a new one, you’ve witnessed the endowment effect in action on Facebook Marketplace.

Hypothesis

What is really interesting to me is that the effect could be more potent the longer an item is owned, not simply because of time alone, but there could be other interrelated psychological factors at play from long-term ownership:

• Psychological ownership: possessions becoming an extension of ourselves. A well-loved journal, fountain pen, a favourite mug, or a musical instrument might feel like a part of our identity.

• Memory encoding: a fancy name for sentimental value: long-held items get tied to personal memories, routines and milestones. The emotional weight heightens the perceived value.

• Mere exposure effect: we prefer the familiar.

• Sunk cost fallacy: if we invested time, effort, and money on something, we are compelled to maintain and even overvalue it, even if it no longer serves us.

With all of the biases out of the way, here is this week's hypothesis:

The endowment effect is often labelled irrational and something we should resist. What if we flipped the script and considered it to be a source of meaning instead?

Method

With your journal and writing instrument at the ready:

1. Gather: Make a list of possessions that have been with you for a long time. They should be in regular rotation and not just stored away.

2. Age: Note when you came into possession of each item and how long it has accompanied you.

3. Anchor: Write down key memories or life events you experienced with each item.

4. Distill: From your list, highlight a few items that hold the most profound meaning for you.

5. Themes: Look for patterns. Perhaps they were inherited, purchased while travelling, made of natural and timeless materials, or are irreplaceable.

6. Synthesize & Envision: Expand your notes into an extended reflection. What do these possessions reveal about your values, and how might they shape your choices moving forward?

Optional Steps

• Resonance: Reflect on or capture how you feel about each object now compared to when it was new.

• Counterpoint: With these themes in mind, consider the concept of novelty and trendy. How do you now feel about the allure of something coveted that is "new" without a personal history? Or items with planned obsolescence built-in?

Assessment and Insights

Dieter Rams often summarized his principles with the pithy philosophy "Less, but Better" (Weniger, aber besser). It serves as a call to action for designers to make bold, subtractive choices in pursuit of clarity and function.

In my own explorations—through Henokiens, experiments, rediscovered design principles, and journaling—I've arrived at a similar philosophy: not as a designer shaping products, but as a way of life. Conscious and considered, it is about treading lightly through this world of abundance and mediocrity. “Less, but Better” is now on the cover page of my techo (手帳), steeping quietly and gathering strength as a personal principle until the next iteration.

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The theme for this week is music and its role throughout our lives. I realize that many people may not even know what a cassette tape is: an obsolete physical medium for sharing music. It has been a delightful part of my personal history, with its own distinctive culture and art encased in its plastic castle1. Suppose you are born after the year 2000. This week's reflection may satisfy a sense of curiosity about what music culture used to be like, or I should apologize in advance for my indulgent hyperbole about a bygone medium. But I digress, I am turning half a century old this year, and folks have been critical of me being long-winded. I sincerely hope you enjoy this look back at the various roles music plays in our lives and whether it can complement your journal writing practice.

On most days, I feel a small jolt of excitement as I uncap my fountain pen each morning. Depending on my mood, I'll decide whether music will complement the session. When I consciously invite music into the ritual, it is not for the purpose of background ambiance; instead, it becomes an integral part of the reflection and writing experience.

I glide my finger along the spines of albums, considering each one before pulling it from the shelf. At other times, I might know exactly what I'm in the mood for and reach for it. The outcome is the same; I let the album take me to unexpected places and shape the writing experience.

The excitement of a new album release by your favourite artists

This morning, I received a rather welcoming notification from one of my favourite bands about the release of their latest album. Hammock is a musical duo that creates primarily instrumental music, blending elements of ambient, orchestral, electronic, and shoegaze genres. The pair has been at this since 2005, perfecting their lush soundscape. I find it challenging to describe their sound. As a fan and supporter, here is my comment on their Bandcamp page:

From the soundscapes of Nevertheless

I feel small, alive, and infinite, as if I'm lying beneath a vast sky of stars, each one a story being born or fading. Then I remember, I am not just watching. I am one of them, and someday, I too will return to the quiet light.

Actual listening is encouraged.

At times, I feel like I belong to a secret club where my favourite artists create music just for me, to accompany those pensive moments of quiet contemplation.

Music as timestamps to our personal histories

Great music transcends the present, with the uncanny ability to transport us through time, evoking nostalgia and a deep longing for moments that are gone forever. Like old journals and photo albums, distinctive sonic signatures anchor us to specific points in the past, calling us back to when the same album felt new and was in heavy rotation. But there is a fleeting fragility to this. When a song is overplayed, it dulls its allure and loosens its grip on that particular moment in history. This is why it is essential for our favourite artists to continue to create, or for us to seek out new music that resonates, so we can create fresh timestamps and new anchors for our future selves to return to.

As Hammock continues to craft beautiful and ethereal soundscapes, their discography is a perfect companion to solitary, pensive journal writing sessions. These 14 albums serve as a precise timestamp of the past 20 years of my personal history. Each album is like a well-preserved time capsule, bringing distant, wistful memories back into focus.2

A personal soundtrack enriched by the limitations of physical media

As we age, our musical preferences evolve. Some songs have longevity, and they age with us gracefully. At other times, albums, artists, or even entire genres lose the magic they once held. Perhaps they captured only a fleeting version of who we were, unable to follow us into the present moment. If music reflects who we are in each chapter of our lives, it's worth pausing to note what a personal soundtrack would reveal about us.

Music of today often feels clinical, omnipresent, and boundless in its digital, bit-perfect, streaming format. It would be impossible for me to consider a soundtrack of my life without thinking of the subtle nuances of the limitations inherent in the physical media of my youth.

When I visit thrift shops, I'm delighted to find that the music section is always well-stocked. As I glide my finger along the spines methodically from row to row, I feel elated when a long-forgotten album comes into focus, much like the Hammock discography time capsule experience described earlier.

Upon getting home, I wipe down the cases and carefully load the media into the player. Pressing "down" on large physical buttons, eliciting a long-forgotten tactile memory. Despite these small preparations, I am rarely fully prepared for the rush of nostalgia that comes with the imperfections and limitations of each medium: the crushed trebles, meagre dynamic range, and the warble effect from wow and flutter of cassette tapes3, or the pops, distortions, and so-called "warmth" of records.

I am not romanticizing an inferior sound. Experiencing albums in their original context and period-correct medium, such as records or cassettes, does not sound any better in a technical sense. It is usually flawed, full of skips and hiss, takes up quite a bit of space and requires cleaning. Yet it feels tactile and charming, and because it mirrors the way many of us first experienced these albums, it deeply enriches the nostalgic experience.

The transient beauty of physical formats is a reminder that nothing lasts forever

Cassettes and records degrade over time with each play, carrying an ephemeral quality that modern digital music lack. Just like the fleeting moments of the cherry blossom season, it serves as a subtle reminder of the transient nature of beauty, precisely because of its impermanence. At any moment, my favorite cassette tape could be "eaten" by the tape deck, or the grooves of a record worn down by countless plays against the turntable stylus.

In my journaling practice, I've often found myself trying, but without success, to capture those spontaneous, luminous moments in life. No matter how hard I try, I know full well the magic of the moment can't truly be preserved or relived. In fact, I often feel like I am detracting from the experience when I catch myself reaching for a camera when I should immerse myself fully into the present moment. Over time, I've come to realize that flawed recollections or rough sketches may elicit nostalgia just as well as pixel-perfect photos or videos.

Drawing inspiration from an intriguing feature called "Humanize"

I was working on a midi percussion track when I was dabbling in music recording. There was a curious little label "Humanize" in the audio workstation software that I was wrestling with. Essentially, this feature introduces "imperfections" by nudging out the timing and variability in dynamics of notes played, like how all humans would with live instruments.

Great music isn't perfect rhythm and pitch. It's often a flawed expression with tension, humanity, and artifacts from imperfect recordings. When every note is perfectly quantized and every velocity identical, the result feels sterile. I find perfect music to be uninteresting. It's missing the subtle cues we seek in expression. I believe we are wired to pick up on tiny variations in timing, dynamics, and tone, the same signals we read in speech, facial expressions, and body language. These are the same imperfections that make music feel genuine, authentic, and alive.4

Leave a comment

The Way of the Mirror is a passion project that brings together journal writers. I value transparency and journaling nerdism, from the tools I use to the steps in my writing process5. If this reflection sparked a moment of inspiration or introspection, consider supporting this work by subscribing. It truly means more than you know. Thank you for reading.

Wil

Subscribe now

Writing Exercise:

In every post, I include context, references, and a writing exercise. I am doing this to help solve one of the top painpoints of journal writing and that is, "what should I write about?"6

Awareness

As a long-time fan of Murakami Haruki 村上春樹, I am fascinated by the integral role music plays in his work. It's an essential part of his writing process, made famous in interviews about music's ability to create rhythm and atmosphere without being too distracting7. Furthermore, his books are known for being chock-full of musical references. They don't simply serve as background muzak. They serve as a tone and mood-setting device, while also providing clues about the character's emotional state. With so many musical references in his work, down to the exact performance or recording, fans have lovingly curated playlists8 to accompany each of his works. Novel soundtracks, if you will.

Hypothesis:

Music anchors our memories, like bookends to essential chapters of our lives.

What would a personal soundtrack reveal about us?

Method

With your journal and writing instrument at the ready:

1. Your Soundtrack: Write a list of the most important songs (or albums) in your life so far. Aim for a list of 10-15.

2. Chapters in Time: For each entry on your list, recall a memory and give it a title for the chapter.

3. Selection for Deep Dive: Review the list. Is there one song or album that seems to tug at you more strongly?

4. Unlock the Time Capsule: Play that song or album and write a long-form journal entry by fully inhabiting that memory.

   1. Recall and describe every detail, including your emotions, physical environment, and thoughts.

   2. How does it feel to revisit that moment? Note any surprises or novel observations.

Optional Steps

1. Reframing the Chapter: With the context of who you are today, how might you interpret these memories differently than your younger self?

2. Silence and Space9: After finishing, sit for a moment in silence.

   1. Notice what lingers after the music ends. Jot down any observations or feelings that arise from this moment of silence.

3. What You've Outgrown: Refer back to your list from step 2.

   1. Are there artists, albums or genres that you've outgrown? Note why, what's missing or what you have grown into instead.

   2. Close by thanking those songs before letting them go.

Assessment and Insights

I edited out my journal entry for this exercise at the final moment before publishing. I fear that it may be too self-indulgent while being irrelevant to my readers. This recall evoked a bittersweet sense of heartache from my time growing up in Hong Kong. I was able to connect the dots and rekindle my love for some long-forgotten music and films, which had an undercurrent of anemoia through snippets of second-hand experiences from subsequent recollection. I will be reminiscing about these rediscoveries for weeks to come: from Wong Kar Wai's Chungking Express 重慶森林 to music by Anzen Chitai 安全地帯.

A Final Rediscovery

When I was young, music as an experience used to be the main event. Once I drop the stylus, I would direct all of my attention to the music and let it dictate the destination until the locked groove at the end of Side B.

More recently, on quieter evenings when the kids are in bed, I often attempt to replicate the same ritual. I feel like I belong to yet another secret club, where I appreciate the craft of my favourite musicians by listening to an album from start to finish. No multitasking, just listening.

"Are cities really bursting and overflowing with stuff?" My daughter asked.

I responded with an even, steady, and confident answer. "No, it's AI-generated. It symbolizes the amount of things many of us are buying without thinking too much about it".

Later in the documentary, my daughter asked, "Are beaches really covered by clothing?" I gave a terse "Yes," unsettled by what I was seeing and no longer as steadfast as before.

“Buy Now: The Shopping Conspiracy” — from documentary to personal challenge

At the end of 2024, we sat down as a family (little ones included) and intentionally chose to watch Buy Now: The Shopping Conspiracy instead of our usual lineup of family-friendly movies. Even after more than half a year and much deliberate reflection, I still find myself returning to these thoughts. As an aspiring but unsuccessful minimalist, I've written extensively in my journal about my struggles with holding myself accountable in a resource-limited world, one that is both motivated and somewhat reliant on over-consumerism. And I still feel I have much more work to do.

Since the release of the documentary, a great deal has already been said in reviews, and I don't believe I have much else to add. What I can share is the profound impact that the film had on my 7 and 9-year-old kids at the time, who were just beginning to think more critically about the complexities and the cycle of consumerism. After the film, I was glad the kids were able to tease out a few core themes when we chatted at dinner time:

• Where does stuff (resources) come from, and where do they go when we are done with them? Why should they care about this?

• They began to question the idea of limits in a seemingly limitless world that many want us to believe. This was particularly interesting to me, as I suspect that even adult consumers rarely consider the full life cycle of products from cradle to grave, especially when we are caught in a consuming cycle.

• The girls also questioned the amount of stuff already in their lives. They arrived at a similar insight to that of famed minimalists such as Fumio Sasaki1, that every item in their possession is also a chore or a task on a to-do list.

I was mindful and didn't want to impose too many of my own ideals about consumerism and wanting to be more accountable in their young minds. By the end of our discussions over several meals, I was surprised to see the same bittersweet tension in them as they experienced the push and pull between the thrill of buying something and the guilt of contributing to climate change.

By the end of this Buy Now! documentary experience, the girls arrived at the following insight through discussion. They are certain that they want to be accountable by minimizing their own contribution to the problem of insatiable desire for more and the growing problem of waste. At the risk of sounding like I am virtue signalling on their behalf, they naturally arrived at their own plans, which I am also quite proud of:

• Their clothes will continue to be hand-me-downs from friends and family. We are thankful for the community that we are a part of.

• For their upcoming birthdays, they created GoFundMe campaigns, allowing friends the option to celebrate in a way that is meaningful to them through lessons and courses based on their passions, rather than material gifts.

• If there is anything that they covet, it would have to come from one of two annual events: birthdays or holidays.

Unlike many New Year's resolutions, our newfound enthusiasm for reducing consumerism did not fizzle out, and it had a lasting impact.

To be or to have: Reflecting on my own consumerist journey

In my own writing practice, I reflected back to my youth and how my relationship with things in my life has evolved. When I was young, the narrative around aspirations was still largely about who I wanted to be. There were clear "roles" in my ambitions: I'd like to be (occupation) so that I could solve (these particular) problems. Whether it was a musician, a film director, or an architect, there was an ingrained desire to create something for others.

Anecdotally, my aspirations have shifted from roles and services toward ownership and acquisitions. I wonder whether this reflects the evolution of our society over the past few decades, driven by increasingly sophisticated marketing tools, or if it's simply the natural progression that comes with ageing.

As I look back on my journals, I recall a time when I reached peak consumerism, and I was writing more about the things I coveted rather than the roles I wanted to fulfill. A simple thought experiment or journal prompt to explore is this: If I could travel back in time and meet my younger self, the one envisioning their aspirational future, would I feel proud or disappointed with who I am today?

Inspired to do better with my own consumptive habits

Over time, my primary leisure activity, journaling, has evolved into a more consumptive nature. Like many hobbies, a large part of journal writing for some may have less to do with writing itself, but rather with "spreads" - aesthetically beautiful pages filled with purchased supplies, stationery, and accessories. Creating and curating these pages can be an expensive endeavour: from luxurious fountain pens with exotic nibs, limited-edition inks on beautiful notebooks accompanied by designer stickers, washi tape, and a growing list of other accessories.

"LE" everything

"Limited edition" or "LE" used to be a moniker of restrained and dignified small production rooted in craft and artisanal values. Scarcity was inherent in the process because that was all the craftsman or artist could produce. It used to mean rare opportunities to support artists for self-published and numbered prints or zines, a true limited run for rare or unique materials, or commemoration tied to milestones.

In the world of journaling and stationery (and most likely many niche or specialized hobbies), it feels as though there are more LEs than regular production items. It has become one of the many tactics used by companies to encourage us to buy more of the same items we already own. The formerly rare LE is now a regular event with expected cadence, where consumers' agency to buy has largely been eroded and shifted to brand's whim of what to release next.

The global stationery products market size was valued at USD 158.39 billion in 2024. The market is projected to grow from USD 165.87 billion in 2025 to USD 238.46 billion by 2032, exhibiting a CAGR of 5.32%2. Here are some other market approximations for reference.

The Normalization of Collections

There is a general consensus in the r/fountainpens Subreddit (and adjacent hobbies) that having an extensive collection of fountain pens, notebooks, and inks is considered okay, normal, and often celebrated. Occasionally, lone, brave Redditors may chime in with a sobering post about being in the hobby for a long time and having only one or two pens and a single bottle of ink, serving as a gentle reminder that we can enjoy this great hobby without excessive consumption. Posts such as these are few and far between, but they're very welcoming, and I adore them. It's a signal that informs me that I am not alone in my quest to enjoy this hobby while being accountable.

Journaling and what matters most: Making memories

Instead of being cooped up at the writing desk in the basement, I am writing and editing this entry outside in the sun while camping with family. There is a lot of irony. The pen in my hand is a "limited edition" Sailor, and the notebook is also a "limited edition" from the Traveler's Company.

As a result of my reflections, the pull to live a more gentle path and decumulate feels stronger than ever. I instinctively feel in my bones that what truly matters is the mundane act of putting pen to paper and being fortunate enough to be surrounded by loved ones, allowing me to create beautiful memories to write about.

The Way of the Mirror is a passion project that brings together journal writers. I value transparency and journaling nerdism, from the tools I use to the steps in my writing process3. If this reflection sparked a moment of inspiration or introspection, consider supporting this work by subscribing. It truly means more than you know. Thank you for reading.

Wil

Leave a comment

Writing Exercise:

In every post, I include context, references, and a writing exercise. I am doing this to help solve one of the top painpoints of journal writing and that is, "what should I write about?"4

Awareness

Journaling about stationery over-consumerism could be the answer to stationery over-consumerism. For as long as I've journaled, the act of writing has been my reprieve from the sense of ennui and disappointment caused by the hedonic treadmill.

Journaling resets the balance in my relationship with stationery by prioritizing the act of writing as the ultimate goal and diminishing the emphasis on stuff.

By better understanding my thoughts and emotions regarding rabbit holes and the typical buying cycle, I am more aware of when my attention is being hijacked by desire and craving. Many others have arrived at similar insights, using tools such as a Wishlist Parking Lot or a 30-Day Vault to delay impulse purchases and wait for them to subside. In my own practice, these exercises not only successfully delayed purchases but mitigated some entirely, thereby saving time, money, and improving mental well-being.

Hypothesis

Journaling is a powerful ally that helps us become aware, understand, interrupt, and eventually reduce our desire or actual consumption.

Method:

Pick any of the following exercises based on your style of reflection and writing. What's important is a sense of curiosity to learn more about ourselves, gather insights, and achieve ideal outcomes. It should never feel too much like a chore.

1. Awareness: Triggers in your daily writing practice

I begin each day with a brief writing exercise that expresses gratitude and sets my intention for the day. If I ever find myself distracted by the allure of coveted items, I make a note of it by adding an optional third section labelled Distractions. Once it's captured, I move on with the rest of the day knowing that I can unpack it later should I wish to do so.

2. Understand: Distraction Long-Form

Later in the day or in my evening writing ritual, if the item remains a distraction, I long-form journal about it with the following prompts:

• Name the distraction

• Triggers: How did I first encounter this? Why now?

• Themes: stress, boredom, collection, aesthetic allure

• Promises: Why do I want this? What is the ideal outcome with this item?

• Gaps: What I want to satisfy, what hole do I want to fill?

• Social Context: What, if anything, am I hoping to signal outwardly (whether it is an identity or status)?

• Marketing Tactics: What, if any, are the concepts from behavioural economics at play? Do I feel like I have true agency in this purchase decision?

• Counterbalance: Can I accomplish the same goals or arrive at the same outcome without acting on this impulse to buy? Can existing items be repurposed? Can it be thrifted, borrowed, or DIY?

• Envisioning: I follow this item from cradle to grave, noticing how it enters and leaves my life. After unboxing, do I use, carry, or display it? Does it demand care, get used up, replaced, or become an heirloom? Will I replace it when something newer or better comes along?

3. Interrupt: Distraction Log

In a Bullet Journal style list, carry over highlights from your long-form insights with the following.

• A bullet or status checkbox: should you decide to track your distractions:

  • ☐ Outstanding as a distraction and coveted

  • ☑ Purchased

  • ☒ Mitigated, resisted, bullets dodged, or repurposed something. Personalize this label as it's always worth celebrating not buying something.

• Essential Information: Date, item, and cost

• Insights: Carry over any insights from long-form. Themes work well here

• Notes: to expand on status and/or outcome

• Unlock Date (optional): Should you consider this distraction log as a 30-day vault for coveted items to cool off

4: Covet Zero: The Bought and Un-bought Reflections

At the end of the month, reflect, clean up, and carry over any remaining items in the Distraction Log. I am reluctant to provide too many instructions here, as reflection can be deeply personal. Folks could really nerd out on a BuJo-style "Money Saved" running total, while others can be sentimental and reflect deeply on heirloom-worthy items with their own anniversary dates and journal entries for years to come.

What's most important is to take the time needed to reflect and learn. This exercise is powerful because it allows hidden themes and insights to emerge. Some thought-starters on reflections:

• Look back at past Distraction Logs (it doesn't have to be the most recent month) and consider common themes in items bought, un-bought, and money saved. Make a note on any insights or surprises.

  • For items bought:

    • Did the experience live up to your anticipation? Why or why not? Are you able to stop the cycle of future purchases, or do you anticipate having to buy a similar item again?

    • If the item truly brought you contentment, take a moment to express gratitude, as our planet is finite in its resources. Hypothesize on the qualities that make the item special to learn more about yourself.

    • Do you anticipate the item to have longevity? Consider adding a reminder or an anniversary to your calendar.

• I've also created an Appreciation Log for the items that are timeless and bring true contentment. This serves as a reminder that I am already living a life of abundance and I am grateful for them.

Assessment and Insights

I am reluctant to share my own personal insights from my writing practice.

I have a hypothesis about an experiential gap between knowledge and a deep, embodied knowing that can only be complete by wrestling with ideas through lived experiences.

I suspect that my own insights are only meaningful to me because of the results of my reflection, and they would be meaningless to others. We each have to put in our own effort to arrive at this sacred space where one can see through hype, marketing tactics, dark patterns and reach covet zero. I savour moments when I feel a deep sense of gratitude and appreciation for the things that have already made their way into our lives.

As a result of my attempt at covet zero, I get the sense that I know myself much better than before. I value time-honoured, handmade crafts by artisans made from quality materials that I could maintain myself. They often develop a beautiful patina and improve over time with use, and I suspect that they will become heirlooms with their own stories for generations to come. When I approach purchase consideration from this perspective, many of the distractions drop off quickly. I often laugh at myself when looking back at old Distractions Logs, realizing I've wanted things that are wince-inducing and downright silly.

Discovering the delightful Daruma Doll

On this particular trip, I was in a phase where I was nerding out on some out-of-favour principles, such as tradition and the wabi-sabi (侘び寂び) aesthetic, against the backdrop of tech and innovation, which have been the key driving forces since the advent of the web for the majority of my lifetime.

While soaking up the weekend bustling vibes at the city’s hotspots in Tenjin (天神) and Daimyō (大名), a bank of various-sized Daruma dolls (達磨) caught my eye, pun intended. I was fascinated by these traditional paper-mache dolls at the time for their novelty as a display item while also being rich in symbolism and functional for their intended purpose: to keep us motivated in achieving our goals.

Here's what I love about Daruma dolls:

• They are simply delightful. There is a mix of contemporary design, pleasing shapes and traditional brushwork. Being handmade and hand-painted, it's oozing with artisan vibes, as each one is unique with its imperfections.

• The doll is based on Bodhidharma, a legendary Buddhist monk with a monster resume - from playing a role in Shaolin Kung Fu (少林功夫) to introducing the Chan/Zen (禅/禪) branch of Buddhism in China and Japan. The popular mindfulness and meditation practice in North America that we know today may have looked very different, or it may not have existed at all if Bodhidharma had not played such a crucial role in its critical path.

• It serves a well-meaning purpose. At the time of purchase, the doll's eyes are blank. It's up to the recipient to reflect on a goal that they'd like to overcome and paint one of the eyes (supposedly the left one). I was told that many people set goals related to academic success, overcoming health conditions, successfully completing projects at work, or achieving a particular milestone for business owners.

• The one-eyed Daruma doll can then be proudly displayed, serving as a reminder for the goal-setter that they have additional work to do.

• Upon success, the right eye is also painted in, symbolizing closure and true insight gained from "seeing things as they actually are," an essential and popular concept from the Zen tradition.

• Many believe that the Daruma doll is a talisman of "good luck." I am particularly drawn to the "perseverance, and hard work is required" symbolism that is also intrinsically built into the doll's weighted bottom and roly-poly shape. The self-righting nature symbolizes perseverance and the ability to overcome adversity. Daruma dolls are often accompanied by the phrase "Nanakorobi Yaoki" (七転び八起き), which translates to "seven times down, eight times up."

With a shared understanding of the Daruma doll, onward with the story

We ended up picking out a small but respectable-sized Daruma doll in a traditional flat vermilion red colour. As I was strapping on my seatbelt on our return flight home, I recall that it was at this exact moment that I decided on a goal for the Daruma doll. Suppose the fragile doll survives under all that weight in the cargo hold of the plane; the goal I want to set with the Daruma doll is a successful marriage with my partner. She was sitting next to me, hand-in-hand, without a clue that I'd be proposing to her.

Inspiration strikes: A Daruma linoleum stamp

As we prepared for our wedding1, we ended up creating a handful of invitations ourselves. I was intentional about the design as I foreshadowed the presence of our Daruma doll as a part of the ceremony by including a hand-carved stamp of our doll.

Just like its intended use case, the eyes of the stamp have been left blank. I included instructions for the recipients of the invitation to set a goal should they wish to do so. The invitation with the Daruma stamp would serve double duty, informing the recipient of the event while also serving as a reminder of their goal.

Our Daruma doll graced our ceremony and marked the start of a lifelong wow

On the day of, the Daruma doll was resting quietly with its blank eyes staring out at our guests. After the official papers were signed, my partner and I proceeded to paint the doll's eye together. We did so silently, almost telepathically, as we shared a goal to honour each other until the end of time.

It was after dotting the eye, when I mindfully placed the Daruma doll back on the table, that I realized my partners's family and friends were laughing at us, "Oh you silly foreigner, it's meant for work and exams—not for marriage." Just mere moments ago, the doll was a lightweight paper-mache object. It has transformed into symbolizing a lifelong goal that we’d work toward for the rest of our lives, remembering, "Death do us part." This may have been the first time that I envisioned how our marriage would end. However, this is where words fail me, as I come face-to-face with my limited ability as a journal writer. The vision is crystal clear in my mind, from the hue of the colours to the scent of an experience that has yet to happen as we are still decades away (I hope). By the end of this piece, I promise to bring this Daruma story to a close. But first, a short diversion.

Our teenage Daruma-san today

The doll now sits majestically on our piano by the stairs (we've since referred to him as Daruma-san2). Each day, he has ample opportunities to single-eye wink at me. Each time, I could almost hear his deep, resonating voice clearly in my head as I winked back at him. "I hear you, and I got you".

The stamp, on the other hand, was forgotten for several years. It only made its way back into our lives when I was decluttering our basement. Since then, it has become a ritual whenever I start a new notebook.

Without fail, I title each notebook cover with an ensō (円相), a circle drawn with a brush. I often follow up with kanji characters that hold meaning for me at the moment. The daruma stamp graces his presence on the bottom corner of the page, frequently skewed to suggest his playfulness in its self-righting nature as I mindfully reflect on goals less lofty than a successful marriage (I've learned my lesson baba, ばば.) I complete this small ritual to fill in his left eye and thank him with a gassho gesture 🙏.

As I near the end of this messy, decade-traversing entry on how I stumbled into the second half of my life with a single-eyed daruma constantly reminding me of my lifelong commitment, I reflect on just how much more work is ahead of me. I've learned that being with someone for a lifetime means many things, and it's not always easy. I've come to learn that adaptability and flexibility, alongside one's partner, are not only underrated but essential. The person whom I painted Daruma-san's left eye with scarcely resembles the same person by my side of today. She has grown, changed, and accomplished a great deal. More importantly, her dreams, outlook and goals have also evolved, as have mine.

My partner has not thought much of Daruma-san in quite some time. I pointed in the general direction of our doll and asked her, "Are we good?" She casually nods, and my mind is instantly transported—as if a Makoto Shinkai soundtrack swells while the camera tilts up toward a vast blue sky.

Envisioning the last day of our marriage

It's around the year 2065.

My breathing is slow, and it's with effort as I lie peacefully in a hospital bed. The walls of the room are painted in a unique hue reminiscent of the flat, dark teal of one of my favourite fountain pen inks3. My partner sits in her chair and produces a weathered but time-honoured Daruma-san from half a century ago with battle scars to show. Somehow, in this vision, our children are nowhere to be seen, not having to own up to these scars when Daruma-san was an abandoned childhood plaything. Just like our wedding day, she places the brush in my hand and guides our hands together to complete the painting of its right eye.

Soon after this, she'll be on a return trip to the temple in Japan with Daruma-san in her carry-on luggage wrapped in furushiki (風呂敷), traditional Japanese wrapping cloths. Daruma-san appears jovial, having completed what we set out to do. He's content in knowing that he's on his return trip to the temple and will be gladly engulfed by flames and turned into ashes.

Leave a comment

The Way of the Mirror is a passion project to bring journal writers together. I value transparency and journaling nerdism, from the tools I use to the steps in my writing process4. If this reflection sparked a moment of inspiration or introspection, consider supporting this work by subscribing. It truly means more than you know. Thank you for reading.

Wil

Subscribe now

Journal Exercise

In every post, I include context, references, and a writing exercise. I am doing this to help solve one of the top painpoints of journal writing and that is, "what should I write about?"5

Awareness

It was after reading a passage from Erich Fromm's "To Have or To Be?" that I realized I may have been living with a profound psychological and spiritual phenomenon. He posits:

One can also experience the future as if it were the here and now. This occurs when a future state is so fully anticipated in one's own experience that it is only the future "objectively," i.e., in external fact, but not in the subjective experience. This is the nature of genuine utopian thinking (in contrast to utopian daydreaming); it is the basis of genuine faith, which does not need the external realization "in the future" in order to make the experience of it real.

My interpretation is that one could experience a deeply envisioned future as if it were already present, not merely as a fantasy or hope, but as a lived inner reality.

I first caught wind of this phenomenon when I heard my daughter speaking about her future in absolutes. As an aspiring manga artist, she leaves a trail of ever-improving panels, sketches, and character sheets littered around the house. I often see her with a well-worn pencil in hand, huddling over a sketchpad.

She's unwavering. Her thinking, decisions, actions, and speech are completely resolved in this vision of hers. I have come to believe that, subjectively, within my daughter's consciousness, she is already living the reality she anticipates, not by delusion but by deep conviction or inner transformation.

Hypothesis

In both of these examples (envisioning the last day of our marriage and my daughter's conviction in being a manga artist), what links these visions is not the result of blind optimism, nor is it wishful thinking. It is a more passive happenstance over the long term. I suspect this may be the key ingredient that separates the lived inner reality from the utopian daydreaming that Fromm explained. This is the hypothesis that I was exploring:

Can we live in a reality based on a vision that we anticipate with a deep conviction that actually transforms us?

Method

With your journal and writing instrument at the ready:

1. Consider your future. Do you have certain beliefs about scenarios or events that you have a deep conviction for? Some of these may be so ingrained in your thought process that you may need to really dig in to uncover them. Confining with loved ones or family members may help with revealing blind spots.

2. Make a list of your personal, deeply envisioned future as a lived inner reality.

3. From your list, select one that resonates with you at this moment.

4. Scrutinize and challenge this vision. Ask yourself:

   1. How did this vision come to be?

   2. Is it intrinsic or influenced by someone else?

   3. Now that you are acutely aware of this, do you want to continue or give this up?

   4. For long-running or deeply rooted visions, are there alternatives and better options to consider?

   5. How does this vision make you feel? Unpleasant, ennui or liberation?

5. Reflect and Write: Take your time writing as much or as little as you'd like about this experience.

Assessment and Insights

When I first encountered Fromm's quote, I was reluctant to explore further as it felt somewhat out of left field. I am glad that I overcame my bias of believing that it was too far on the spiritual side without any science behind his sentiment. However, once I started writing, the list was almost writing itself. I had some deep-seated ideas and assumptions about being a parent, giving up predictable salaried employment to start something on my own, and committing to painting in the right eye of Daruma-san, among others.

I was taken aback by my own insights. A gift-shop novelty souvenir served as a symbol to ground the most important relationship in my lifetime. Each time I see a Daruma, I am reminded of our vows, but only better. It transformed my lifelong commitment to something playful and sentimental. Perhaps I might even find Daruma-san more symbolic than the ring on my hand, as the figure has taken on a personality and narrative of its own.

I am now more aware of the weight and importance that we assign and offload to objects in our lives. I get the sense that my partner appreciates Daruma-san as my conviction has strengthened our marriage and sense of togetherness. Despite not having an instruction manual, Daruma-san is serving and fulfilling its intended purpose triumphantly. I could almost hear him cheering me on, "諦めない!"6

It was late August and early September in 1993. Everywhere I looked, people around me seemed to be floating from a heightened sense of being. The very same nervous and excited energy that was par for the course at the beginning of a new school year. Long hugs, words formed but unheard on inquiries about “How was your summer?” across busy hallways with muzak made up of the top hits from Duran Duran, Nirvana, and U2—the milieu of my high school. To everyone else, I appeared to be trudging along in a trance. But on the inside, I sat with my arms hugging my knees at the bottom of a deep, dark well, trying to make sense of my first heartbreak.

It has been more than three decades since the events described above. None of the words were actually penned into my “diary”1. Fortunately, I have kept these journals through multiple moves and many narrow escapes from the shredder, fireplace, and landfill. During this gut-wrenching and volatile period of my teenage years, what I had actually written, scrawled, or sometimes carved into my journal was my attempt to answer questions of "why?" to no one in particular.

"It pains me" has been my default, knee-jerk reaction when reading these entries. It is far too easy for the present me to dismiss all of these complex feelings from the past with a broad stroke, believing that I was inexperienced in life and unskilful at managing my emotions. However, the teenage me still has a lot of living left to do. Besides, how many of us in our adult years can claim we can safely navigate the complexities of relationships while skilfully extracting learnings, insights and other essential life lessons for our next attempt?

Contemporary research by Tasha Eurich2 suggests that I should have been asking myself the question of "what" in nature instead of "why" in my journal. This would have allowed me to stop this helpless and downward spiral of victimizing myself with questions of "Why me?" On the other hand, asking "what" type questions such as "What can I learn from this?" or "What can I do better" fosters a growth mindset. Ideally, setting myself up for a more ideal outcome next time around.

Holding this 30-plus-year-old personal relic of a notebook in my hand, I find myself leaning more towards the other side of science, where research3 suggests that adolescent brains are capable of much more volatile emotions. I believe my young and developing brain may not be capable of such amazing feats as rationalizing myself out of heartbreak and calmly navigating such volatile and emotional turmoil when I clearly lacked the experience, maturity, tools, and patina.

Upon further reflection, I am absolutely thankful that these wince-worthy pages served as a punching bag, or a release valve if you will, to allow me to safely unload excess emotions, frustration, and confusion. I cannot imagine the regret, mistakes, or collateral damage I would have caused if I had not discovered my habit of sitting in quiet solitude to work out my emotions with pen and paper.

My teenage self was quite verbose. Funnily enough, peppered in the entries were snippets where I clearly broke the fourth wall of journal writing. I frequently asked my future self and, hopefully, wiser self (my present self 30 years later) questions and commentary. It's as if mundane scribbles on paper can effortlessly ride the waves of time like a budget and malfunctioning time machine that only goes in one direction but not the other. Here's my teenage self asking me some of life's toughest questions when I still feel I have not experienced life enough to provide any sort of comfort to ease the pain. Oh, how I wish I was able to respond to ease the pain in some way, as I can feel faint echoes and hints of heartbreak through time.

I quickly snap back from my journal-induced reverie when a scream of "I am home!" echoes through the abode as my daughter triumphantly returns from a particularly nonchalant day at school. She will be turning 10 soon; if she is lucky, she still has a few years before experiencing her first heartbreak. I'd like to believe that as a result of connecting with my younger self through past journals, I am more empathetic toward the complexities of life as a teen.

When the day comes when my daughter returns home with a darker, sadness-tinged announcement of arriving home, and if she is willing and able to share with me her challenges in life, I'd be more than honoured to point back to these very pages with all of the gut-wrenching questions and scribbles. It may reveal to her that most of us have been there and experienced the same pain regardless of how much time has elapsed. And hope upon all hope, she can navigate her first heartbreak more skilfully and wisely than I ever did.

Leave a comment

The Way of the Mirror is a passion project that brings together journal writers. I value transparency and journaling nerdism, from the tools I use to the steps in my writing process4. If this reflection sparked a moment of inspiration or introspection, consider supporting this work by subscribing. It truly means more than you know. Thank you for reading.

Wil

Subscribe now

Journal Exercise

In every post, I include context, references, and a writing exercise for paid subscribers5.

Awareness

It was after learning about the design principle of the knowledge-management app Logseq that a slowburn hypothesis about journal writing was brought back to life. The app is centred around a core principle:

The relationship between pieces of information is more important than the information itself.

It challenges users to find value in novel ways to make new connections between pieces of information (known as a block). I see a resemblance and equate Logseq's blocks with past events or memories and the process of reflection at different times as a method for making new connections.

The mistake I was making, and possibly a common pitfall for other journal writers, is that we often assign too much importance to a particular memory or event. Imagine playback after playback of the memory, followed by feelings or an immediate reaction. This creates a sense of identity that we latch onto, ultimately confining us into the same patterns.

Hypothesis

Journal writing is a powerful tool for me to break free from predictable thought patterns, or limiting identities that I've assigned to myself. The hypothesis I'd love to continue exploring is that the relationships and connections between past events are more important than the events themselves.

• We create space between an original experience and our interpretation of it (let those notebooks age majestically.)

• We re-author our stories for growth and insight by challenging and breaking down old automatic loops tied to our identity. This means recognizing and saying “No” to thoughts like, “Because this happened, this is who I am, and this is how I must behave or react.”

• We grow and gain insight by reinterpreting past events through new contexts, values, perspectives, or goals by making novel connections with fresh experiences.

Method

You will need your journal and a writing instrument. Optional: sticky notes if list-making is your superpower. Past journals or photo albums may also be helpful. With your tools at the ready:

1. Leaf through past journal entries, photo albums, or think back to past events.

2. Make a list of 3-5 events that you believe played an essential role in "defining" you. Alternatively, choose events that feel significant or serve as inflection points in your ongoing narrative. Here are some thought-starters:

   1. Experiences that occur in cycles, such as relationships (in my case, I focused on my first heartbreak.)

   2. Reaching particular goals, major milestones, or life stages.

   3. Taking an unexpected detour.

3. From your list, select one event that resonates with you at this moment.

4. Take a deep breath, exhale and bring yourself back to that moment. It's important to remember that you are undertaking this not as your past self but as your current, wiser, and more experienced self.

5. Reflect and Write: Take your time writing as much or as little as you'd like about this experience.

Assessment and Insights

Did you find it easy or challenging to revisit past events?

Did you learn anything new or gain a different perspective when revisiting past memories by stepping outside your usual thought patterns?

The vast space, time, and experience between my latest reinterpretation and the original experience gave me a newfound appreciation for how vulnerable and ill-prepared I was in relationships. It was this appreciation that made it easy for me to empathize deeply with my younger self. The next time I catch myself wanting to be dismissive and wince when I re-read past journals, I will challenge myself to dig deeper and empathize instead.

I've come to realize that in my early adulthood, my understanding of my role in relationships was, at best, shallow, flawed, and self-centered. Armed with my current perspective, it is easy to see how this came to be. Growing up with Disney movies, rom-coms, and 80s love songs, I held onto some outdated ideas about relationships without knowing any better. Having these clear benchmarks to suggest growth gives me hope. And when I turn instead and look forward, I feel more confident and prepared, knowing there is still much work and learning ahead.