By Kokoro Still
Wiping does not begin with removing what is seen.
It begins with noticing—
where the light has paused,
where the hand slows,
where dust has kept a memory you almost forgot.
The cloth does not erase.
It listens with Kokoro.
And in that listening,
something quiet rises,
settling not in the air,
but in the space between moments.
A Gesture Remembered
The cloth moves without instruction.
Slow arcs, steady rhythm—
like water finding the edge of a stone.
I don’t recall when I learned it.
But my hand slows
when I near the place where shadow lingers.
Not because it’s dirty.
But because it waits.
There’s a patch beside the tatami’s edge
where something always returns.
A fine trace,
soft and grey,
but not forgotten.
Beneath the Cloth
I once wiped the altar in silence.
Not out of ritual,
but because leaving it untouched felt wrong.
My cloth moved gently across the frame—
and something rose.
Not dust,
but scent.
The faint trace of incense,
and something older still—
like wood that had held years of quiet breath.
Some dust does not lift.
It rests in the carved corners,
in the grooves of lotus petals,
as if it knows the hand that once touched it.
As if it, too, has stayed to remember.
After the Wiping
When the wiping ends,
the stillness thickens.
It’s not emptiness.
It’s presence.
Light seems to pause differently on the floor.
The air feels folded.
As if someone has just left,
or is about to return.
And there I am,
kneeling in the quiet,
the cloth still in hand—
not cleaning anymore,
but holding the moment open.
The Shape of Her Presence
She never taught me how.
She just moved,
and I followed.
The pause before wiping the shelf.
The way she returned a cushion with both hands.
These stayed longer than her words.
Now, when I reach that same shelf,
I still pause.
Not out of duty.
But because something in the air asks to be seen.
And I answer without speaking.
Wiping was never about restoring order.
It was about listening—
with Kokoro—
for what has quietly settled.
The things that do not speak,
but remain.
There is still a faint depression in the tatami
where her cushion once rested.
I do not smooth it.
I let it stay.
Because not every trace asks to be removed.
Some exist so we can return to them,
again and again,
in silence.
Featured image: The image was created by AI (ChatGPT)
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