The Little Teashop in Tokyo by Julie Caplin Page 0,39

of a deer, Setsuko walked swiftly around the balcony, which she explained was called an engawa, to where Haruka sat on a cushion looking out over a lush green garden. Next to her, two more cushions were lined up, ready and waiting. Fiona hid a smile at the sight; Haruka did like things done properly. She followed suit as Setsuko sank down onto one of the cushions beside her mother, although perhaps not quite as gracefully.

Haruka didn’t acknowledge them; instead she remained focused on the garden in front of her, her legs curled to one side breathing slow deep breaths. Setsuko immediately took up a similar pose. There was a stillness to the early evening and Fiona could smell the scent of pine and cedar in the quiet air. Copying her hosts, she began to take slow deep breaths, drawing in all the different elements of the beautifully planned garden. It was a landscape in miniature, she realised, studying the neatly trimmed and shaped shrubs that formed the core of the garden which was then enhanced by a series of bonsai trees in pots providing striking, elegant profiles. In the background, a pair of weeping cherries, just coming into bloom, swept their willowy branches to the floor like the limbs of ballerinas while in the foreground a gravel path wove in and out of the many burnished copper pots curving around a tiny pond, which reflected the deep green of the shrubs around and was fed by a tiny fall of water coming from a terracotta pot on its side.

You could sit here for hours, thought Fiona, absorbing the incredible detail of the garden. It was a living work of art and she realised that was the intent behind the garden. Her fingers itched for her camera to take a close up of a nearby bonsai spruce. It looked as if it had been honed by a windswept moor, leaning slightly to one side with its ancient, thick, gnarled trunk and tiny, dark green needles. She focussed on the detail of the bark and let the rich green of the needles blur slightly. A light wind rustled at the weeping cherries and the ripple of movement made her think of the corps de ballet dancing in perfect unison.

She felt Haruka’s warm hand come to rest on top of hers, a light, careful touch, her breath still deep and steady, but on her face there was an expression of utter peace.

Fiona turned back to the garden and took her own deep breaths, aware of the anchor of Haruka’s hand on hers.

She could hear the gentle flow of the fountain, water on water, could see the outward ripples of circles as though an insect had landed on the surface, the dappled shade on the path as the sun peeped through the trees. Her shoulders lifted as if a weight had been pulled away and she felt it, a magical lightness, the sensation that she could float away, yet at the same time she felt rooted and connected. This was tranquillity. It seeped into her bones, a lovely sense of peace and calm. She was aware of the scent of the trees, the touch of the breeze caressing her face, the colours and shapes of nature. When she closed her eyes briefly and then opened them, she was struck by the vividness of the greens, the delicate prettiness of the pale pink blossom and the contrast of the dark wood of the balcony. In a sudden moment of understanding she was glad she didn’t have her camera and the obligation to capture the scene. When was the last time she’d felt such ease with herself, or this floaty sense of contentment, or that all her senses had been unlocked and left to do their own thing?

‘Wabi Sabi,’ murmured Haruka. ‘It is part of Japanese culture. It is an appreciation of things that aren’t perfect or finished, and that is their attraction. It’s accepting the value of things – an old pot, an old person – and understanding that those things have wisdom, that they have seen things. They have a value in being.’ From underneath her navy tunic she pulled out a small pot and held it up. It was pretty but had been broken – at some point a large triangular piece had broken away – but it had been repaired. The repair was very obvious, outlined in a vein of gold which highlighted the defect rather than hiding it. ‘This is