How I Slowed Down and Found Joy in the Little Things in Japan

Japan gifted Explorer Gemma a slower rhythm to properly enjoy its enchanting perspectives, and some of her most treasured memories from over the years.

I first travelled to Japan as a wildly-enthusiastic 15-year-old dork as part of an exchange program in Chiba Prefecture. I stayed with a family of four who insisted on sleeping in one room so I could have my own space.

I bathed in a sento for the first time, learned that it was cool to roll up one leg of your tracksuit pants in class, and did ikebana after school where, for hours, we would arrange flowers and branches in a vase according to principles like balance, harmony, and space.

To bid me farewell, my host okaasan hand-iced me a cake with zoo animals and a chocolate plaque that said ‘See you again!’ in the kind of curly writing you know makes for perfect kanji.

It’s the first time I can remember crying at the abject beauty of cross-cultural connection.

Later that night, I curled up like a caterpillar on my futon listening to The Beautiful Girls on my walkman (lol), filled with natsukashii, a kind of happy nostalgia, as I reflected on the fact that Japan couldn’t be more different to Australia – but I didn’t feel homesick in this landscape at all. Instead, I was enchanted.

It’s easy to see the magic in Japan | Courtesy of ©JNTO

Since then, equipped with all the privileges of a stable income and an Australian passport, I’ve returned to Japan dozens of times, increasingly more drawn into the folklore, the countryside, and the culture.

I now bring groups of writers from all over the world to Tokyo as part of a storytelling and language project, but as much as I love that bustling metropolis and all the worlds you can step inside – from hundred-year-old senbei shops to sleek and smoky jazz bars – it’s the Japanese countryside that’s stolen my heart the most.

More and more, Japan has taught me to slow down and find joy in the little things: from immersing myself for hours in the mineral-rich baths of Kinosaki Onsen to skimming my feet through carpets of wildflowers on a specially-lowered chairlift as I ascend Mt Karamatsu at the peak of spring.

With its unique blend of modernity and tradition, to me Japan is fascinating, friendly, and filled to the brim with magic.

Onsen and Sento

As a teenager navigating the throes of puberty, my first experience with communal bathing in Japan was initially a harrowing one, but as soon as I plunged into the steaming waters of the sento beneath a tiled mosaic of Mt Fuji, my entire body – and mind – relaxed.

Around me were women of all ages: scrubbing themselves clean at tiny sit-down showers, eyes closed in bliss as they warmed their bones, and giggling with their friends in what I could only assume was a regular catch up.

Onsen and sento culture in Japan has a rich history dating back thousands of years. The former are natural hot springs heated by geothermal activity that have been revered since ancient times for their therapeutic properties.

Slowing down with friends in an onsen

Entire towns have been built around hot springs, and some of my favourite memories in Japan are of clip-clopping around the streets of places like Kinosaki Onsen (Hyogo Prefecture) in geta and a yukata, hopping between baths.

A few years ago, my grandmother Joan came with me to Japan for a couple of weeks. In her 80s, she was even shyer than I had been at 14 of the idea of a communal bath, but towards the end of our trip – when we were staying at a ryokan with particularly lovely kimono for guests to wear – Nan decided to join me in the sento.

Joan in her kimono!

It was such a treasured experience to share with her, and she still talks about it to this day (evidently, so do I).

In Japan, both onsen and sento are more than just places to wash: they’re essential third spaces where neighbours gather and interact, and are a beautiful reflection of the Japanese appreciation for cleanliness, relaxation, and community.

Another snippet of the culture I also love is drinking milk after bathing! Most bathhouses will have a vending machine filled with milk and a lounge to enjoy them from – and if you’re lucky, there might even be a massage chair to plonk on.

Post-onsen milk: acquired

Ama Divers and Satoumi-Satoyama

It was early winter last year when I went to Ise-Shima National Park to meet with the ama divers.

‘I knew the sea before I was born,’ said Kimiyo-san. ‘My mother dived when she was pregnant. And her mother before that.’

In Japanese, ama means sea woman. For thousands of years, women like Kimiyo-san have been combing the coastal waters of Japan for seafood and for pearls.

Views over Ise-Shima National Park | Courtesy of ©JNTO

Long before wetsuits existed, women’s extra body fat allowed them to stay warmer than men.

Even today, ama divers work without oxygen tanks – because the few minutes underwater that a trained breath allows means nothing is ever taken that cannot replenish itself.

Kimiyo-san is in her 70s, and told me she never plans to stop diving. Her favourite part of being in the ocean is the catch – specifically when she manages to grab a rather irritating type of octopus that competes with her for abalone.

‘When I see it, I do this,’ Kimiyo-san grinned, pulverising a phantom octopus in her hands.

Me and Kimiyo-san

Since ancient times, people in Ise-Shima have lived in harmony with the natural landscape: creating intricate ecosystems known as satoumi (sea villages) and satoyama (mountain villages).

Shaped by centuries of sustainable human interaction – such as terraced rice cultivation, forest management, and traditional fishing techniques like ama diving – these ecosystems are known for their biodiversity. They are also deeply linked to human wellbeing.

As travellers invested in a sustainable future on a healthy planet, there’s so much we can learn from the reciprocal relationships that exist between humans and the natural world in satoumi-satoyama ecosystems: from cultivating mindfulness to the importance of seasonal eating.

A seafood feast!

I’ve been particularly inspired by this concept, and have plans to spend several weeks in another part of Japan with these landscapes this autumn: Takigahara, a mountain village near Komatsu, Ishikawa Prefecture, where residents forage edible plants, harvest salt from seawater, and hunt wild boar.

Shinrin-Yoku, or Forest Bathing

As an Australian who grew up in the bushlands of Kombumerri Country, time spent in nature is essential to my wellbeing. After a few weeks back-to-back in Tokyo, I’m always hankering for a stint in the countryside – and the relief I feel when I’m on a train rattling out to somewhere like Kiso Valley in Nagano Prefecture is palpable.

Bells jingle gently amongst the cypress and cedar trees, warding off native black bears and serving as a reminder of the harmonious coexistence between humans and wildlife. The forest floor is soft with fallen needles, and chilly ice-blue streams wind through the rugged granite.

I’ll pack a picnic blanket, snacks, and a journal, and sit there for hours soaking up the tranquillity and spotting serow, tanuki, and flitting birds.

In Japan, there is actually a specific term for this practice – shinrin-yoku, which translates as forest bathing. It was coined by the Japanese Forestry Agency in 1982, with the aim to encourage people to spend time in nature to reap the health benefits of being amongst the trees.

Unlike traditional exercise or hiking, forest bathing emphasises slowing down and engaging all the senses to experience the natural environment mindfully.

Read more: I Finally Learnt How To Slow Down at a Forest Bathing Workshop

Enjoy a virtual forest bath right now | Courtesy of ©JNTO

Research the world over has documented the various health benefits of forest bathing – including stress reduction, improved mood, enhanced immune function and better cardiovascular health. Japan’s forests are also just ridiculously beautiful – and some of my favourite spots to practise shinrin-yoku include Mt Mitake in Western Tokyo, Kamikochi in Nagano Prefecture, and any alpine town after the snow melts.