Crowded trains and kimono
After leaving behind my clothes in Kyoto, where I had lived for many years, Tokyo I arrived at was a place where every scene my eyes met, was dazzling.
Among all of this, what surprised me the most was the scramble crossing, where so many people walked in various directions, crossing each other diagonally.
For someone like me, who had lived for many years in the grid-like streets of Kyoto, it was a vivid and striking sight.
Marutakeebisuni Oshioike Anesanrokkaku Takonishiki Shiayabuttaka Matsumangojo (丸竹夷二 押御池 姉三六角 蛸錦 四綾仏高 松万五条)
As quite commonly known in Japan, as the street names of kyoto can be complicated, they can often be sung as a nursery-rhyme-like melody, to make it easier to remember the directions. Even I, who have a poor sense of direction, could figure out the way to my destination just by humming the tune, which helped me navigate east, west, north, and south.
In contrast, Tokyo is full of diagonally running streets, and there are so many people walking closely together. When walking in traditional attire, I often found that people would bump into the wide knot of my obi (帯), which protruded more than my back, frequently causing the shape to be ruined.
Moreover, the experience of crowded trains can be quite challenging. When I tie my obi in an otaiko musubi (お太鼓結び / Taiko-like knot), there’s a high chance it will get damaged, so I often found myself wondering if I could somehow rotate it to the front like a backpack.
As a result of these experiences, although I used to wear the otaiko musubi for nearly every outing, I gradually began opting for the hanhaba musubi (半幅結び), which sits more snug against the back.
By the way, my favourite obi knot that doesn’t get ruined in crowded trains is the ‘Yanoji (矢の字)’ musubi. It has a high degree of contact with the back and, despite being a traditional style passed down through generations, its asymmetrical design suits a sophisticated, mature look.
The patterns on a kimono convey one’s feelings towards the other person
The way colours were coordinated changed significantly in Tokyo, alongside the style of obi knots.
While Kyoto is a city of courtly culture, Tokyo embodies the culture of the townspeople. The number of colours is reduced, and coordination relies on patterns and textures. This approach to attire was my own way of adapting, even if just a little, to a new frontier.
Believing that ‘something will change,’ I came to Tokyo. Needless to say, my life didn’t suddenly start improving as if by magic. However, the biggest change was that I, who had always struggled with talking to people, no longer found conversations difficult. This was largely thanks to kimono, which proved to be an excellent communication tool.
I began to receive more comments such as, “What a lovely pattern! What kind of flower is that?” as people took an interest in my kimono. These conversations often transcended age and gender, always blossoming into lively exchanges.
It was then that I realised kimono is not just clothing but also a means of conveying a message.
In a way, it’s like ‘wearing a love letter that conceals the feelings words cannot convey.’ Thinking of wearing a kimono as a way of ‘giving a gift’ to others transformed my previously passive approach to communication into something more active, and I began to genuinely enjoy conversations themselves.
For example, when meeting someone for the first time, I often chose patterns like ‘ichimatsu (市松)’ — a design symbolising continuity and connection — hoping for a meaningful bond to be formed.
Ichimatsu is a checkered pattern of alternating squares in two colours, a design still commonly seen today. Another example is the ‘karakusa (唐草)’ pattern, known from furoshiki (風呂敷) wrapping cloths. With its endlessly extending stems and vines, karakusa symbolises vitality and is considered an auspicious motif representing longevity and prosperity.
Wearing these patterns on kimono or obi, and sometimes on the unseen ‘nagajuban (長襦袢, undergarment worn under a kimono)’ beneath, imbued them with hidden meaning. By doing so, I felt as though I was cherishing and weaving together each encounter with care.
The source of rich and life-changing connections lies in…
When I first began my journey in Tokyo, I was fortunate to receive the following words from a tea master I had the honour of meeting:
“Ga Ho Jin (我逢人)”
This Zen (禅) phrase translates to ‘I encounter people’ and expresses the profound significance of meeting others in life.
It is said that there are three important aspects of any encounter: ‘who’ you meet, ‘where’ you meet them, and ‘how’ you present yourself when you meet.
“Treasure these principles as you navigate through life,” the master advised me.
Those words struck a chord within me.
At the time, I was wandering aimlessly on a journey of self-discovery, unable to see its destination. Taking a bold step, I left behind the convenience of modern clothing in Kyoto and embarked on a kimono-centred life in Tokyo. In my eagerness to carve out a new future for myself, had I been chasing connections without truly understanding their depth or purpose?
A kimono is not merely clothing; it is an ensemble woven with meaning, including the motifs and patterns that carry their own messages. How you present yourself, the thought you put into your appearance, and the care you take for each once-in-a-lifetime encounter—all these efforts embody a heartfelt intention. And it is this intention that fosters meaningful connections, ones that can ultimately transform your life.
I believe that kimonos are imbued with timeless wishes and prayers, passed down through the ages. They are a reflection of humanity’s collective hopes and aspirations.
This article is translated from https://intojapanwaraku.com/fashion-kimono/240337/