Shu, Ha, Ri and Me: How a Japanese Philosophy Quietly Shapes My Hands, Heart and Home

When I first heard the words Shu-Ha-Ri, I was standing ankle-deep in clay scraps, wondering if I’d ever get this pottery thing right. It was late at night — the dogs were asleep, the house was still, and all I could hear was the hush of the countryside pressing in through my farmhouse windows.

Shu-Ha-Ri is an ancient Japanese concept, often used to describe the stages of mastery in martial arts, tea ceremony, calligraphy — any art that asks more of you than your hands alone can give. It breaks down into three simple syllables:

Shu (守) — Obey. Learn by following.

Ha (破) — Detach. Break away and adapt.

Ri (離) — Leave. Transcend the forms altogether.

At first glance, it’s a tidy framework for learning anything. But to me, it has become a quiet map of how I live — and how Whistle & Page has unfolded, one imperfect, hopeful piece at a time.

Shu: Obey

When I first decided that i wanted to pursue this artistlife for real, I brought with me all the neat boxes and bullet points I thought I needed to “do art right.” I signed up for classes, devoured books, watched endless videos. I made hundreds of lopsided mugs and pinched bowls that collapsed if you looked at them sideways.

Shu was my season of humility. Of copying shapes. Of asking, “Am I doing this right?” It was about reverence — for the clay, the teachers, the process. Shu asked me to hush my ego and bow to the centuries of potters whose fingerprints are buried in the earth.

In Shu, my work was careful. My glazes were timid. My hands trembled every time I trimmed a foot ring or loaded the kiln. But the discipline gave me a quiet faith: that I didn’t need to know everything at once — I just needed to show up and listen.

Ha: Break

Ha is where things get messy. And goodness, did they.

Once I’d learned the rules — how to wedge, centre, pull a cylinder, compress a base — I began to itch for my own voice. I wanted to break the edges. I stopped trimming perfectly. I carved textures that felt like wind and rain. I glazed with more abandon, letting drips run and puddle like a good autumn storm.

Ha taught me to loosen my grip. To trust that mistakes are part of the lineage too. I began combining wheel-thrown forms with handbuilt bits — seams visible, joins imperfect, stories layered in every wonky lip and ripple.

In Ha, I felt my pieces speak back to me for the first time. They said, This is who we are. Not perfect — alive.

Ri: Transcend

Am I in Ri? Not yet — not fully. Maybe that’s the point.

Ri isn’t about rebellion for rebellion’s sake — it’s the quiet dissolving of teacher and student, form and formlessness. It’s when the technique lives in your bones so fully you don’t think about it anymore. You just are. The clay, the wheel, the kiln — all extensions of breath.

Every so often, at the workbench in my TARDIS studio, I glimpse Ri. When I’m lost in the trance of carving a cloud edge. When I catch myself humming, not worrying. When my hands move without doubt, and the piece that emerges feels more like a memory than a plan.

But most days, I’m content to dance between Ha and Ri — breaking, returning, dissolving, beginning again.

Where You Fit In

You — reading this — are part of my Shu-Ha-Ri. Every time you pick up a mug, come to a workshop, or send me a note about how your new vase catches the morning light, you remind me why this path matters.

You make my practice bigger than my hands. You make my farmhouse studio feel like a shared hearth. You remind me that art isn’t just about mastery — it’s about communion, imperfection, the daily practice of noticing beauty in small, wonky places.

So if you’re learning something new — pottery, parenting, sourdough, or simply how to be a little kinder to yourself — maybe Shu-Ha-Ri can guide you, too. First, follow. Then, break. One day, fly.

From My Hands to Your Heart

If you take anything from this muddy, hopeful confession, let it be this: mastery isn’t the point. Wholeness is. And wholeness comes from obeying, breaking, and transcending — over and over, in clay and life alike.

May you find your own Shu-Ha-Ri in the garden, the kitchen, the pages of a good book, or in the way you hold your tea tonight — warm palms around a vessel shaped by hands that are still learning, too.

From my glasshouse cottage to yours — keep noticing the beauty that wants to bloom through you. I promise: it’s enough.

Until next time,
Nawsheen, your friendly homebody artist from Murrumbateman.