It’s been a couple of weeks since I watched Komorebi. The translated title, Perfect Days, hardly does justice to the beauty of the Japanese word Komorebi, which captures the quiet magic of “sunlight filtering through trees.” Reflecting on this film, or perhaps meditating is the better word, I find myself drawn to the simple, unhurried parts of life. I’m caring more for my plants, spending extra time in nature, slowing down, and discovering the subtle beauty in details I once missed. Above all, I’m cultivating a sense of perspective, calm, and serenity.
On a flight back to England, a seemingly mundane moment became unexpectedly profound. Headed to the toilet, I was reminded of the film’s protagonist, Hirayama (Kōji Yakusho), a humble public toilet cleaner in Tokyo. To me, he seemed like a man of wisdom and freedom, quietly at ease with himself and his choices. He leda life of simplicity, not as a retreat from the world, but as a conscious choice to be fully in it. Despite his modest income, he pursued knowledge and growth, spending evenings at the bookshop, reading late into the night. His contentment wasn’t about having less; it was about appreciating more.
As I approached the tiny airplane toilet, an unusual thought crossed my mind: What if I cleaned it? Initially, I felt genuine disgust at the idea — a place like this, after all, wasn’t my responsibility. But the thought lingered. Wouldn’t this act elevate my experience, even if no one would know about it? Yet, my mind quickly conjured reasons against it: “This is a private company’s job, and they pay someone for this work,” and “What would people think if they saw me?”
But then, I caught myself — these were thoughts born of ego. The narrative playing in my head wasn’t truly mine but a chorus of social expectations and identity. I almost laughed at myself: “You’re a professional, you give presentations, and here you are, contemplating cleaning a toilet.”
In that locked space, it dawned on me that I was wrestling not with the idea of cleaning but with the prisons of my own thoughts. This was a small act, inconsequential to the world, but in that moment, it was an act of dissolving the ego — a test of humility. And so, I cleaned it, discovering a peculiar satisfaction in the simplicity of the act, as if it opened up a small, hidden door to freedom.
Emerging from the toilet, I was surprised to see my 9-year-old daughter waiting next in line. Little did I know, I had unknowingly prepared it for her. And isn’t that life? We go about our tasks, sometimes begrudgingly, yet in a broader sense, these small acts ripple out, touching those around us in ways we may never realise.
This experience reminded me of a Buddhist practice I once heard about in Oprah Winfrey’s SuperSoul Conversations with Pema Chödrön. The “Just Like Me” practice encourages us to see the shared humanity in others, even those who challenge us. It involves repeating, “Just like me, this person wants to be happy. Just like me, this person wants to be free from suffering.” These words help me recognise that, beneath the surface, everyone I encounter — strangers, friends, even adversaries — shares the same instinct to avoid pain and seek joy.
In a way, cleaning that toilet was a small act of compassion, a moment of stepping outside myself to touch another life with kindness. And this realisation followed me back to my seat: we either let the ego expand until it fills every thought, or we find ways to gently dissolve it. Small, mindful acts of service can humble us, leading to clarity and freedom.
That day, I was reminded of an old teaching: let the ego die so that the self may truly live. These small acts — these tiny moments of letting go — are glimpses of what lies beyond, a path to understanding that all of us, in some way, are connected.