The Art of Devotion

Weekly wisdom to level up your creative life in 3 minutes, for free.

A SHORT STORY

I’ve been thinking a lot about the Japanese concept of Shu Ha Ri—which emphasizes the importance of learning from established practices (Shu), adapting those practices to one’s own understanding (Ha), and eventually transcending form to find one’s own voice (Ri). In many ways, this is the core of my teaching.

Over and over again, I return to the importance of innovation and mastery.

It reminded me of a moment I had long forgotten.

Years ago, I got drunk with a Japanese Bunraku performer in Osaka. Bunraku, for those who don’t know, is an ancient form of Japanese puppetry, where three performers operate a single puppet in perfect, coordinated silence. It’s an art form of exquisite control and devotion—where mastery often takes decades.

As you can see in the photo of my journal above, a performer begins training for 10–15 years on the legs, graduates to the left arm, and only after 30 years of training is allowed to operate the head.

I remember how he leaned in and said, “I want to leave a lasting impact on my form—not just create something unique.”

He grew emotional as he added, “I want to do it for the puppets that will outlast me.”

That line stayed with me.

There is something I’ve always admired about Japanese artists—their profound sense of continuity, their willingness to disappear into the work, and their understanding that true artistry is not just about innovation, but devotion. It’s not about being different. It’s about being in service.

In an age obsessed with originality, I find myself drawn instead to deep tradition—to learning the form, honoring the form, and only then, daring to move beyond it.

I wonder: What would it mean for us—artists, teachers, makers—to create not just for ourselves, but for what will outlast us?

A POEM

“Poetry” by Pablo Neruda

And it was at that age… Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don’t know, I don’t know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don’t know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating planations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
I felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke free on the open sky.

Grateful,

Michael