Sitting and Showering: Lessons on Stillness from a Japanese Bath

In the simple act of sitting and washing, I rediscover a gentle pause in a world that rarely stops.

The other morning, before the hurry and the noise, I pulled a foldable stool into my shower. The thing felt out of place under the cold glare of the light—plastic, plain—but as I sat down, kneecaps damp and skin prickling in the fog, a memory eased up beside me. Japan. Four, maybe five years in, and mornings smelling forever of soap and wet tile.

Back at my old university, everybody knew about the ofuro—shared bath, communal heat, everybody naked and not caring. Mornings, evenings, all the boys lined up on low stools, soaping skin that was still shaking off the day. There was a ritual to it. First, you sit. You clean yourself, every inch. Only once the work is done—when you’re rinsed and new—do you lower yourself into the steaming bath with the rest. It wasn’t just about hygiene, though we joked that it was, laughed as we scrubbed toes and earlobes. It was slowing down on purpose. It was the act of choosing each movement, wiping away more than just dirt.

I think there’s something honest about sitting while you clean yourself. You miss patches standing up, rushing through. Try balancing on one foot to wash the other—awkward. Sitting, you’re forced to pay attention. Soap, rinse, repeat. Listen to the water strike your shoulders. Feel the brush against your heel.

These days, there’s no hot bath waiting for me after. But I keep the ritual—sitting, washing, doing nothing else. Maybe it’s silly, but the repetition pulls me out of myself. Lowers the volume on the usual anxious chatter. There’s comfort in the routine, a little sanctuary carved out from rushing. I even clean the glass when I’m done, chasing each water droplet with a squiggy. It feels like finishing an old story, the quiet kind with no sharp endings.

If you ever feel like things are spinning too quickly—try this. Sit down to shower. Let water and soap become the only things that matter, just for a few minutes. Take care in the small things and see what opens up inside.
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Sometimes it’s the smallest rituals that remind you your skin is your own. Sometimes, sitting quietly, you remember how to be gentle with the world and with yourself.