15/2/2026 Ami
An irresistible urge came over me to write with ink.
I think I was in the third grade. That was when we first began calligraphy at school. At the beginning, I couldn’t write well at all, and it was a class I truly disliked. But in fourth grade, our vice principal—whom I adored—began teaching calligraphy. The lessons I had once dreaded became something I looked forward to, and before long I was even attending a calligraphy school outside of class.
On a whim, I signed up for a trial lesson at Shikamon Shoin, a calligraphy studio in Asagaya. The teacher was bright and forthright, the kind of person who spoke crisply and clearly, splitting bamboo with her words. When she looked at the characters “Kaikō” that I had written for the trial, she said, “This is very good—but that last stroke… you’re from the countryside, aren’t you?”
Inside, I gasped. How does she know?
She would say other things, too—looking at someone’s work from the Kansai region and remarking, “These characters are speaking in Kansai dialect.” To me, they had been nothing more than letters sitting quietly on paper. But to her, they seemed to speak, to reveal something. And in that moment, a depth within calligraphy—something my elementary school self had never noticed—began to take shape.
During the trial lesson, I borrowed one of her brushes. It was well worn, and it allowed the ink to bloom and the lines to widen or taper exactly as I wished. I couldn’t help but think to myself, Maybe I’m actually pretty good.
When I officially enrolled and used my own brush for the first time, I felt a thrill, almost saying to it, “I look forward to working with you.” The model text read “Kōshaku.” I soaked the brush generously with ink and lowered the tip onto the white paper. The sense of strangeness I felt in that instant still clings to my hand. It was as if the brush had a will of its own, refusing to draw the lines I wanted. I couldn’t make it move the way I imagined.
Before I could manage a single piece I felt satisfied with, the teacher called out cheerfully, “Bring me something we can show!” I timidly handed in a few sheets. “Yes, very good,” she said lightly. “If you can just make the long horizontal stroke in this character for ‘happiness’ perfectly straight, it’s finished.”
Still wrestling with my headstrong brush, I wrote several more and turned them in. Flipping through my pages, she smiled and said, “We’ll submit this one for your promotion exam.”
She praised my work, yet I couldn’t understand what was good about it. All the while, I felt tossed about by my unruly brush. The day I might be able to sense, as she did, the very presence and bearing of a character still seemed far away.
Since beginning at the calligraphy studio, I have come to know the tension of facing a blank sheet with a model before me, the movements of my heart as I write, and the way the finished characters expose me in unexpected forms. Sometimes there is more than I can fully receive, and things slip through my grasp. And yet I feel there are nutrients—essential and irreplaceable—that can only be gained from the texture of the paper, the scent of ink, the weight of the inkstone and paperweight.
My black-and-white world began, quietly, to take on color.
(原文)
無性に墨で字を書きたくなった。
小学3年生のときだったと思う。授業で習字が始まった。最初は上手く書けなくてすごく嫌な授業だったが、小学4年生になって習字の授業を大好きな教頭先生が教えてくれるようになり、習字の授業が楽しみに変わって、書道教室にまで通うようになった。
思い切って体験入門。鹿門書院という阿佐ヶ谷にある書道教室。先生は明るくて竹を割ったようにズバズバはっきり、しっかり指導してくれる。私が体験入門で書いた「開皇」を見て「すごく上手なんだけど最後の1画がね、田舎出身でしょ？」と言われ、心の中で「え⁉︎なんでわかるの！」と思った。その先生は他にも関西の方の書を見ながら、「字が関西弁を喋っている」なんてことも言っていた。私には「ただそこにあるだけの文字」が、先生には何かを語っているように感じた。そして小学生の私には気づくことができなかった書道の奥行きが姿を現した。
体験入門の時、私は先生の筆をお借りした。使い込まれているその筆は、墨の滲みや線の太さを思い通りに書くことができ、「私上手いじゃん」と少し心の中でドヤ顔をした。正式に入門して、初めて自分の筆を使う時は「これからよろしくね」と思いわくわくしていた。お手本に書かれた「弘釋」の文字。筆にたっぷりと墨を含ませ、筆先を半紙に置いた瞬間の違和感は今でも手に張り付いている。筆に意思があるように、書きたい線を書かせてくれない。思い通りの書が書けないまま、先生から「見せられそうなやつ持ってきてねー」と声がかかる。恐る恐る何枚か提出すると「うん、上手だね。この幸せって字の長い横棒だけ、真っ直ぐ書けたらもう完成で良いよ」とあっさり。その後も筆のじゃじゃ馬ぶりに四苦八苦しながら、数枚書き提出。先生は私の書をペラペラとめくりながら「これ、昇級試験用に提出ねー」と言ってにっこりしていた。先生は私の書を褒めてくれるが、私は私の書のどこが良いのか分からないまま筆に振り回されてしまった。先生のように文字のありさまを感じ取ることができるようになる日はまだまだ先のようだ。
書道教室に通うようになって、お手本を前にして、まっさらな半紙と対峙する緊張感、書いている途中の心の動き、書き上げた文字はいろんな形で私自身を浮き彫りにしていくので、受け止めきれず取りこぼしてしまう時もある。しかし、半紙の肌触りや墨の香り、硯や文鎮の重みからしか得られない栄養素があるとも感じている。
私の白黒の世界が静かに色付き始めた。