To truly understand Japanese gardens, my mentor insisted, I had to immerse myself in Japan’s broader cultural fabric. It wasn’t just about plants and stones—it was about experiencing tea ceremonies, learning calligraphy, understanding aesthetics, and, naturally, practicing ikebana.
"You should try it," he said as if offering me a mysterious but promising new path. And so, guided by both professional curiosity and the thrill of cultural discovery, I found myself following a friend to my first ikebana class.
The school was Seigetsu, a traditional ikebana school found mainly in Niigata Prefecture. And by traditional, I mean very traditional. We sat on tatami mats, knees tucked beneath us in a pose that looked elegant in theory but quickly introduced me to the sensation of losing all feeling below the waist.
The entire lesson was in Japanese, which was fine—except that my Japanese at the time was of the nod-and-smile variety, and there were no textbooks. Ikebana, it seemed, was something you absorbed by osmosis.

For a year, I persevered, appreciating ikebana much like one appreciates a book in an unfamiliar language—aware of its depth but only grasping fragments. Then came a whisper of possibility: another school had textbooks. In English. It was called Sogetsu. I had always been someone who preferred to learn by doing, yet my years of structured education had ingrained in me an appreciation for clear frameworks. The idea of having a reference, a tangible guide through this artistic journey, was tempting. And so, despite my natural inclination to follow intuition, I was drawn in.

I switched, and it was a revelation. Sogetsu, I only recently realized, isn’t just flower arranging; it is art school with botanical material. Suddenly, my landscape architect’s brain recognized patterns, structure, design principles—it all made sense! The lessons didn’t just feel intuitive; they felt familiar, like coming home to a language I already spoke.

Enter Kobayashi-san, my new instructor. She taught in both Japanese and English, which not only improved my ikebana but also my vocabulary. The class was a melting pot of students from all over the world, and I began to notice something fascinating: cultural background changes how you arrange flowers.
I loved it. I raced through the curriculum, devouring every lesson, eager to finish, to move forward, to conquer ikebana. And just when I thought I had mastered the art—
"Again," my teacher said with a calm finality.
I blinked. Surely, I had misheard.
It turned out that before earning a teaching certificate, my teacher insisted that I redo the entire curriculum—not something inherently required in Sogetsu, but a personal standard she upheld. The second time around, I discovered something unnerving: my hands knew what to do before my brain did.

It was a humbling realization. The first time, I had copied the textbook; the second time, I understood it. Ikebana wasn’t about speed—it was about depth. And each time you revisit the textbooks, you uncover new layers of understanding.
Ikebana Schools
I only trained in two schools, but there are over 2,000 ikebana schools in Japan. As my husband Ben once put it:
Ikenobo Classical music. Precise, elegant, rooted in tradition.
Ohara Country music. Strong connection to nature, earthy and warm.
Sogetsu Heavy metal. Experimental, bold, breaking the rules just to see what happens.
In the end, ikebana is like music—there’s a school for every personality. Some need structure, some need freedom, some need a challenge. And some, like me, need to learn that you can’t rush art—only practice it, until one day, your hands know more than you do.

After completing the four books of Sogetsu Ikebana, we moved to Yokohama, where I continued my studies under Joko Crivelli. It was there that I officially earned my teacher’s certificate and embarked on the delicate art of instructing others—a challenge that would prove to be as enlightening as it was unpredictable.
Why do I share my story? Every ikebana journey is different, but they all share a common thread—discovery, creativity, and connection. In this series, I share my personal path in ikebana, from my first encounter to the lessons I’ve learned over the years. My hope is to inspire you to explore your own ikebana story and, if you're a teacher, to share yours with your students. Ikebana grows when we share it—let’s grow together.
Why do I share my story? Every ikebana journey is different, but they all share a common thread—discovery, creativity, and connection. In this series, I share my personal path in ikebana, from my first encounter to the lessons I’ve learned over the years. My hope is to inspire you to explore your own ikebana story and, if you're a teacher, to share yours with your students. Ikebana grows when we share it—let’s grow together.
Comments