Cup Half Full
Nicola Shannon (Stony Brook University)
I hate dropping cups. A sudden fumble and frantic air-grabbing is followed by a menacing crack or
crash as solid hits solid.

My teeth unclenched in relief that my white cup had not shattered on the kitchen floor.

“At least you’re not using one of those pretty ones.” My friend gestured at the selection of decorative
mugs in the cabinet, painted with arrogant-looking birds perched on flowery trees.

“Hm…yeah…” I retrieved my cup and examined it. It was smooth, but I could feel shy grains in the clay under the
white glaze. It was not perfectly round but it had no harsh angles either, and no handle. The finish was just
shiny enough to reflect a bit of light. On the bottom, almost undetectable, was a trace of a fingerprint left in
the clay that was exposed where some of the glaze had chipped. The elegant lines that the cup made in
space and the weight that it had in my hands it were both confident and purposeful, but not aggressive. It
was pretty. It was beautiful.

My cup had been one of many displayed in a pottery shop in Mashiko, a town in the Tochigi
Prefecture of Japan that is known for creating pottery. This shop was slightly outside of the main streets,
next to a small barn where the owner worked and lived. The tiny man in a smock greeted my father and me
when we entered. In my thirteen-year-old eyes he looked old and wise, but looking back, he was probably
no older than 40. I scrutinized the contents of the display case, perplexed as to what the artistic point of
these white cups and bowls were.

The man seemed to read my mind.

“Nice. Simple. Natural,” he said. “Not too big, not too loud. Shibui.”
Shibui is the adjective for shibusa, or shibumi. It took me a while to grasp this term, but from what I
have gathered, it refers to an undisruptive beauty. Subtly is often a key element of something that is shibui,
but its simplicity is relative, depending on how deeply one observes it. Shibui objects and people have
quality and meaning that can be found hidden behind small details that are often overlooked. The
importance in shibusa is found by reaching inward to explore what something is, as opposed to loudly
shouting the importance and trying to turn something into something it is not.

I now realize how foreign a concept shibusa has been in my life and the lives of so many people
around me. We grow up being pushed to win, stand out and waste no time as we climb to the highest
position possible. But the small, wonderful parts of life that occur intuitively, both inside of us and out, are
often ignored. We rush past opportunities that could be explored as we search for a title, an endpoint or
recognition. Even as young as 13, I stood angrily at my middle school graduation, knowing how much
work I had put into having the second best grades in the class, and knowing there was no award for that. I
have seen medical students in college living to become doctors, miserable if they could not get the grades
they needed. Yet I have also sat next to a family member in a hospital room as people who had become
doctors rushed in and out, checking numbers and levels, without even looking at their patient’s face.

Shibusa does not mean laziness. Effort and success are ingredients of a great life. Yet, people often
grasp for objects and experiences to haphazardly paste onto themselves without stopping to do something
wholeheartedly, to really sink their teeth into something, even if it is some small detail—just for them.

I am okay with never being President of the United States or a chief surgeon. No matter what
profession or stage of life I am in, I will live with proud modesty and with senses open to detail. Even if no
one is handing me an award or a title or a raise, I will strive to never eat anything without tasting it fully,
never listen to music without hearing it thoroughly, never forget that the simplest and slightest of actions
can and should be appreciated. My shibui white cup is sincere, straightforward and, to most people in the
world, nothing special. But the potter’s fingerprint has left a permanent impression on the way I see the
world. I have not dropped a cup since.

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