May Prompt: Abundance

As an art form, ikebana requires practitioners to be ruthless at pruning. It is an art of genteel elegance and detached efficiency. Every piece placed in the receptacle has to earn its place. Unlike western floral arrangements which prioritises showiness, abundance and extravagance, ikebana tends towards simplicity.

For years I had wanted to try this art form, but in practice I was shocked at the amount of plant matter I had to trim away for an acceptable ikebana arrangement. Green leaves, unopened buds, blooms that did not make the cut -- ha! -- lay scattered across the table.

They're to be discarded, the instructor replied when I asked what could be done with them. The of course was not expressed, but I heard the words anyway.

I had to admit that the practice of selecting the plant material and considering their potential and aspects was very meditative. Flower, foliage, filler. Lines and shapes. Every decision mattered. I enjoyed the contemplation, even as I inwardly winced with the mass of greenery I had to discard.

The act of trimming away everything that did not conform to the intended final form on the other hand felt extremely callous. Can't this slightly damaged leaf stay? Why must I cut away the second chrysanthemum just because the first is larger and already in bloom?

Four years ago, I took three lessons of ikebana, just to give it a try. Despite the instructor’s best efforts, I could not bring myself to cut everything that didn't create the right lines. And the more I saw how the stalks are broken and the stems bent in service of Art, the more I wanted to let them sprawl and be themselves. I wanted the buds, I wanted the damaged leaves, I wanted nature with its flaws in my arrangement. That was when I realized I could not practice the Art of Ikebana; my very spirit rebelled against its rules and guidelines. I liked the lines and stark simplicity of finished arrangements, yet I craved fullness and profusion.

Yet when it comes to Writing, I am more than happy to delete words, lines, passages, even entire chapters, if they do not serve my intention. The number of words I have deleted, even in the course of responding to this prompt, would exceed the word count of what is displayed here.

I understand a little better now how ikebana was a practice and a craft, just as writing is a practice and a craft for me. It is the space held within the arrangement, the space between words, that creates connection with the audience. The ikebana masters delineate space using plant material, and that space is how the audience perceive the overall construct of the arrangement. It is the space under the bent branch that shows Fujisan, for example; it is the missing buds that bring to mind the exuberance of spring blossoms. Similarly, it is in the things unsaid that bring out tension or highlight mood; it is in the empty spaces where our readers can interpret, and perhaps empathize.

The teacup is hollow so it can be filled. The space - the emptiness - is abundance in potentia.