Some experiences begin long before the day itself arrives.

A few weeks before our workshop, my neighbour and I booked ourselves into a kokedama class. Every now and then, one of us would mention it over coffee or while simply chatting.

"Only another week to go."

It wasn't a holiday. It was a morning we had intentionally set aside for ourselves.

Looking back, I think the anticipation became part of the experience itself.

When the morning finally arrived, we wandered through the studio before the workshop began, taking our time to look at everything around us.

Plants cascaded gently from shelves.
Glass terrariums caught the morning light.

Finished kokedamas hung quietly from the ceiling or rested on simple timber displays,
each one completely different from the next.

Some felt soft and delicate.
Others tumbled playfully with trailing vines.
There was a quiet beauty in their individuality.

 
Choosing our plants turned out to be much harder than either of us expected. There were simply too many beautiful possibilities.

We found ourselves discussing which plants we were drawn to, imagining how they might look hanging in a window or resting quietly on a shelf at home.

Every plant seemed to have its own personality.

Without even realising it, we'd already slipped into a creative state of mind.

The workshop hadn't begun... but the creating already had.

Translated simply as "moss ball," a kokedama is much more than a way of displaying a plant. Instead of placing it inside a pot, the roots are carefully wrapped in soil, moss and natural fibres before being bound gently with twine. The result is something that feels both sculptural and alive—a living artwork that continues to grow and change over time.

I loved the simplicity of that idea.
Natural materials.
Thoughtful hands.
Quiet intention.
Nothing unnecessary.

It felt wonderfully aligned with the kind of beauty I've always been drawn to.

Before we touched the soil, our teacher introduced us to another Japanese philosophy.

Wabi-Sabi 

Finding beauty in imperfection.
Appreciating the marks left by time, nature and the human hand.

At first, it simply sounded like a lovely philosophy. I didn't realise how often those two words would quietly return throughout the morning.

 
As we began wrapping the soil with coconut fibre and carefully winding the twine around each plant, we all became just a little unsure of ourselves.

Was the shape round enough?
Was the twine too loose?
Did it look anything like the beautiful examples we'd admired only moments before?

Then, from somewhere across the workspace, someone would smile and softly say,

"Wabi-Sabi."

A quiet smile found its way across my face.
Those words carried a quiet warmth with them.
Some time later, they drifted across the room again.

"Wabi-Sabi."

This time I caught myself quietly whispering them as I looked at my own kokedama.

Almost without noticing, those two simple words had softened the way I spoke to myself.

Instead of searching for flaws, I found myself appreciating what my own hands were creating.

There was a quiet sense of peace in that..

'Wabi-Sabi'

Those two simple words became
a gentle permission to stop judging ourselves.

No one was trying to create perfection anymore.

We were simply creating.

Although everyone worked quietly on their own kokedamas, I felt a lovely sense of connection throughout the room. Six strangers, each making something entirely unique, each quietly reminding one another that imperfections were not mistakes but part of the beauty itself.

Every now and then my neighbour would glance across at me with a slightly uncertain smile, wondering whether she had wrapped the twine correctly.

Together we'd adjust a strand here, straighten a leaf there, and quietly reassure one another that it didn't need to be perfect.

It already carried something of ourselves.

Perhaps that was Wabi-Sabi quietly finding its way into the room.

There was something unexpectedly calming about working with natural materials.

The coolness of the moss.
The texture of the coconut fibre.
The slow rhythm of winding twine around each ball.

For a while, nothing else seemed to exist beyond what was in our hands.

It wasn't just a workshop...
      It became a mindful pause...

A reminder of how rarely we allow ourselves to slow down enough to create without expectation.

When we finally placed our finished kokedamas beside one another, I smiled.
They weren't perfectly round.
The twine crossed over differently on each one.
The plants leaned in their own quiet directions.
None of them looked exactly alike.
And somehow, that made them even more beautiful.
Each one carried its own quiet character.

Before we knew it, the morning had quietly slipped away, and we were already talking excitedly about the next workshop we'd do together — perhaps one creating with succulents.

I smiled.
Not because we'd made beautiful kokedamas.
But because we'd made time.
Time to create.
Time to learn.
Time to laugh.
Time to share.
Time simply to be.

Coming home, I realised I wasn't simply bringing home two plants.
I was bringing home the feeling of the morning itself.
The excitement of choosing something beautiful.
The conversations shared with my neighbour.

The quiet laughter that drifted through the room each time someone whispered,

"Wabi-Sabi."

Now my kokedamas sit quietly on a bed of small pebbles in a simple, shallow dish at home.

As I placed them there, I realised something...

Unlike so many things we create, these little kokedamas would continue changing long after I had finished making them...

New leaves would appear.
Others would fade.
They would stretch towards the light.
Grow through the seasons.

... becoming something slightly different with time.

Perhaps that's the quiet lesson plants offer us.

Nothing living is ever truly finished.
Everything continues becoming.
Growing.
Changing.
Responding to light.
Responding to time.
Perhaps that is why creating with nature feels so different.
It reminds us that beauty isn't found in completion.
It's found in continual becoming.

Perhaps we, too, are Wabi-Sabi.
Not perfect.
Never meant to be.
Simply growing.
Changing.
Becoming.

 
Looking back, I realise the most meaningful thing I brought home that morning wasn't either of my kokedamas... It was a way of seeing...

Wabi-Sabi quietly found its place beside me that morning.
It has remained there ever since...

Long after the moss has grown,
the twine has softened,
and the memory has become part of who we are.

Wrapped in moss. Held in time.