‘I saw her take two leaves from the plant and place them in front of the tokonoma, on a perfectly ironed white cloth where a small number of other plants were already arranged. Then she went to the cupboard and fetched a dark-coloured, rustic bowl. Sitting in the Japanese style on the tatami-covered floor, she placed a kenzan in it and poured water from a small watering can. With great calm, she then took a branch and began to observe it carefully, her hands moving slowly and lovingly. When it came time to cut the branch to adjust its length or remove leaves, she did so without hesitation.

So as not to disturb her, I sat just behind her and watched her carefully handling these simple and modest materials. In the end, she had once again created an ikebana that captured the essence of things and was full of charm, and a deep sigh of admiration rose from within me.

[…]

One day I exclaimed, “I wish I could arrange flowers as well as you do in your compositions!” and she replied simply, “I too would like to be able to make my Ikebana a little better!” This statement struck me because, until then, I had thought that my grandmother, having reached the pinnacle of the Way, always felt satisfied with her compositions. I understood, however, that this response did not stem from false modesty and did not contain any judgement about her own abilities. It was a sincere expression of the feeling of something unfinished that only she, in her heart, could know.

[…] With these simple words, my grandmother had unwittingly revealed to me the full depth and beauty [of the Way].’¹Mei Keiko Ando, Ikebana, Zen Art, Chap. X, ’My Grandmother and Her Ikebanas’, 2017 (French transl. from the Italian), pub. Centro di Cultura Giapponese [Eng. transl. from the French, pp. 140–1]

This feeling of something unfinished or a dissatisfaction, which is a sting of a sort, is very typical of Japanese masters in their arts. But I think this feeling is very far from the frustration and deep dissatisfaction that many people experience in our time. In our dōjōs, in our practices, we are sometimes confronted with the difficulty of putting into perspective Ways that require perseverance and continuity, while we increasingly seek quick satisfaction. The very notion of effort is no longer very fashionable, or if there is effort, there must be results, a return on that effort. The problem is that the search for a result, for a predetermined goal, conditions the action and therefore the result.

I observe two trends that seem quite widespread: one where we see everything as bleak, with no future and no hope, which is a depressive state. The other where we try to focus on what brings us satisfaction and pleasure. It is quite obvious that depressive states or suicidal thoughts are not very liveable conditions for humans, but I would like to question the other stance here: the search for a state of satisfaction. And, of course, to question the position of budo and what it can lead us to understand. I am not seeking to oppose two positions, but to explore a question. Are we more fulfilled because we are satisfied? Or rather, what kind of satisfaction are we talking about?

The pursuit of satisfaction has gained momentum in recent years; some people keep gratitude journals where they write down the positive things that have happened in their day. Others change jobs or cities to be in an environment more in line with their visions and values. Last, well-being and fulfilment are constant concerns for many people. Some point to the paradox of a humanity that has never known such a high level of material well-being and yet continues to feel uncomfortable in its own skin. We are surrounded by material comforts, and yet we are still dissatisfied. Are we like spoilt children?

What is more, we know that satisfying all our desires would not even give us real, deep satisfaction. In the end, we are a bit like what Johnny Hallyday sang in the song L’Envie: ‘I was given too much, long before desire. I forgot my dreams and my thanks. All those things that had value. That make us want to live and desire.’

Long ago, ancient tales warned us against forgetting, against the dissolution of the Self that comes with the fulfilment of all desires. Like those tales where we enter an inn and never come out, caught up in a life of pleasure and immediate satisfaction that sometimes even leads us to death. Does this mean that we must follow an austere moral code or a life of labour? Do those who have less than us not aspire to this comfort? Should we stay in a job that does not suit us, that bores us? Or stay close to toxic people? A priori, no, of course not; so should we follow our dreams?

Dissatisfaction, a powerful driving force

Our actions have unconscious motivations that we justify after the fact, but what triggers us to act is indefinable. We enjoy playing the piano, flower arranging, cooking or martial arts, but why, all things considered, we do not know. Practising these arts gives us both deep satisfaction and dissatisfaction. That is why we keep coming back to them again and again.

In Japanese culture, there is an interesting concept that cultivates this slight dissatisfaction as a driving force. For example, in Seitai, parents are advised not to feed their babies 100%. Tsuda Itsuo talks about “the spoon less”. If parents are attentive and focused, they can stop feeding the baby just before they are “too full”. Just one spoonful less. Of course, if the baby cries, it means they are still hungry and need to be fed, but when the pace of eating slows down, if you pay close attention, you can tell when one less spoonful will not make any difference. This slight dissatisfaction stimulates the baby’s appetite instead of “filling them to the brim” and making them feel completely full and content. It also keeps the baby’s sensitivity alive, as they know, to the nearest bite, what they need and what they do not, without being confused by other messages such as feelings, propriety, finishing their plate, pleasing their mother, etc. The same is true of the hot bath in Seitai, where you get out of the bath a few seconds before complete relaxation, just before you become like a boiled vegetable, so that the body has benefited from the relaxation and getting out gives it a “boost”, a surge of energy.

Karate master Shimabukuro Yukinobu refers to hara hachibu, a principle from the Okinawa Islands, which consists of stopping eating when you have reached 80% fullness²interview by Léo Tamaki, Yashima #11 [in French], March 2021 [hara hachi-bu: 腹 八分]. I think it is a bit like the same idea.

In fact, it is dissatisfaction that drives a child to walk, talk, jump, run, etc. If they were only seeking a feeling of bliss, they would remain at the same stage: pampered by their parents! Of course, this is in no way to justify abuse, but rather to point out that, here too, the best is sometimes the enemy of the good. It is not by adding more that we feed better. It all depends on our perspective. Tsuda Itsuo remarked: ‘I have been fortunate enough to know some aspects of the Japanese tradition. My experience may still be superficial, but it offers a striking contrast to modern thinking. The point here is not material satisfaction, but the deepening of our sensitivity.’³Tsuda Itsuo, The Non-Doing, Chap. VII, 2023, Yume Editions (Paris), p. 72

When used properly, the sting of dissatisfaction drives us to continuity and perseverance. Speaking of his practice of Aikidō, Tsuda sensei wrote:

‘For me, learning to sit down and stand up is already huge. I continue to discover new facets of both. I am far from satisfied with what I do. This dissatisfaction always propels me forward, towards complete satisfaction.’⁴Tsuda Itsuo, The Path of Less, Chap. XVIII, 2018, Yume Editions (Paris), p. 174