It’s been a couple of weeks since I watched Komorebi. I’m not sure the film’s translated title Perfect Days truly captures the beauty of the Japanese word. The original title Komorebi means “sunlight filtering through trees.” I’ve been reflecting on this film ever since — perhaps meditating is the better word — as I find myself taking more care of my plants and spending more time in nature. I’ve been pausing, slowing down, paying attention to tiny details, and noticing things that were always in front of me but never truly observed. Above all, I’ve been cultivating a sense of perspective, calm, and serenity.
Today, I am on a plane on my way back to England when I feel the need to go to the toilet. In the film, the protagonist Hirayama (Kōji Yakusho) works as a public toilet cleaner in Tokyo. When I look at him, despite his presumably small salary, I see a rich man — wise, intellectual, sophisticated, and free. He appears to be self-educated, for example, going often to the local bookshop and reading books in bed every evening. It seems that he has consciously chosen a simple life, which is different from a monastic life of withdrawing from the world because he is still fully involved, participating in social events.
There are moments in life when I find myself wondering: what is the true cost of silence? I headed down to the beach, looking forward to the calming sound of the waves, but instead, I was greeted by someone’s loud music. It made me think about how nice it would be if everyone could enjoy the natural beauty of the beach in their own way. Maybe using earphones could help keep the peace so everyone has a chance to relax and take in the surroundings.
Hirayama has discovered a way to create the right space for silence, moments of stillness, natural retreats from the world, and the ability to be immersed in it without being consumed or disturbed by its madness. He understands that silence should only be interrupted by truly worthwhile music. Perhaps due to the influence of my meditations over the film, after the initial disgust of approaching the tiny toilet on the flight, the thought of cleaning it crossed my mind.
I assure you, dear reader, that I don’t have any compulsions related to OCD; as I mentioned earlier, my first reaction was one of genuine disgust. What if I cleaned it, I wondered? Would it elevate my meditation to a new level? But naturally, plenty of resistant thoughts surfaced: “It’s a private company, not a public place, so why should I be the one to clean it? Someone else will clean it soon, and that person is getting paid. If you really want to do something for the community, why not do it somewhere public? What would people think of me if they saw me?”
That’s a very silly thought, I told myself. Nobody is going to see me — the door is locked, I’m the only one here, and even if someone did, who cares? Yet the thoughts persisted: “You present at conferences, work with clients, attended university, and now you’re contemplating cleaning a toilet.” These thoughts were more about ego and identity than anything else. “What are you trying to prove anyway?” But then I was also able to counter-attack these thoughts with the notion that nobody will know (except I’m writing this now — my ego wins again, but at least it’s boasting about cleaning toilets!).
Have you heard of the ‘100th Monkey Effect’? This idea traces its origins back to studies from the 1950s involving Japanese macaque monkeys on the island of Koshima. Researchers observed that a young monkey discovered how to wash sweet potatoes in the sea to remove dirt. Gradually, this behaviour spread among the group. The surprising twist? When a certain number of monkeys — supposedly the 100th — adopted this behaviour, it seemed to suddenly spread to monkeys on nearby islands even without any direct communication.
Although Watson’s account of the “Hundredth Monkey” has been criticised for being anecdotal and lacking scientific evidence — it has never been replicated or observed under controlled conditions — I believe we can view it as a powerful metaphor rather than definitive proof of collective consciousness. In today’s hyper-connected world, the 100th Monkey Effect seems more relevant than ever. Unlike the monkeys on another island, we observe each other, learn, and adapt in ways that have always been part of our nature.
Now, social media platforms have significantly amplified the speed at which ideas spread, allowing them to reach critical mass with unprecedented swiftness. What once required direct observation and learning within small isolated groups can now be shared across vast networks in seconds. This rapid dissemination makes what once seemed improbable not only possible but almost inevitable. In this hyper-connected era, ideas, behaviours, and trends can quickly gain momentum, spreading far beyond their point of origin. As a result, social media has transformed the way we learn, influence one another, and shape collective consciousness, making the ripple effects of a single idea far more impactful and far-reaching than ever before.
In that moment, in that toilet, I was the first monkey. And my thoughts needed to be acknowledged and challenged: “Yeah, but it makes no difference to anyone,” was then challenged with “It will make a bit of difference to the next person.” And with that, I began to clean it. And of course, I am used to sweeping the floor, cleaning toilets, and doing other cleaning activities in my house. However, when I cleaned that toilet, I not only realised the prisons of my thoughts, such as “lots of people would think I am crazy,” but also, and more importantly, that when I clean a toilet in my house or engage in other activities, I usually do it for myself or my family, so this is a form of self-enhancement or care for those closest to me.
My ‘thoughts’ — in inverted commas because they aren’t truly mine, and yet they dominate my life — seem to revolve around the idea that “it’s all about me.” It would appear that in Naples, for some years now, a man has been posting a provocative notice that reads “I am 50 years old, looking for a soulmate, but only if she can give me an heir.” This notice, which reappears annually, has sparked both irony and disgust. Why such strong emotions? Because we easily recognise in others what we sometimes fail to see in ourselves — a problem rooted in the ego.
Even if we can’t always articulate it, we sense that this person hasn’t truly reflected on what they are seeking in a partner and a child. Is it a deep, meaningful connection, or is it the continuation of one’s own legacy and the fulfilment of societal expectations? We might speculate that the desire for an “heir,” along with the emphasis on status, family background, and even physical attributes, are manifestations of the ego — an ego more concerned with perpetuating itself through lineage and social image than with genuine love and connection.
We are all like this man from Naples to varying degrees, hypnotised by our thoughts as if we were hallucinating reality. In contrast, cleaning that toilet in that moment is about the dissolution of who I am. The realisation that occurred to me when I went back to my seat was that either I am expanding my ego, or I am destroying it. Either I make my thoughts the walls of a prison, or I destroy such prisons. I think clearly that we should have moments to let the ego die. In order to live, the ego should die sometimes and for long enough.
Tormented, one of my clients reported, “Why did we have the most authentic conversation with my father when he was on his deathbed? Why so late?” The client had just witnessed the relationship between death and ego. Her father needed to die to live. Imagine this dying man; he is powerless now, he doesn’t possess anything, and he is left with his breath and his values. In that moment, the love for his daughter. His heart is soft; he is free from pleasing and cultural expectations. He is dying, but he has never been so alive.
The ego is dying, and he is accessing a different level of consciousness. The ego is the best film director since the invention of films. It causes an avalanche of thoughts, images, feelings, and words. The ego is the maker of which we are made. And yet this isn’t true: it’s a deceptive film. We need to learn to turn off the TV sometimes, to observe the projections and how the ego operates in relation to others and society.
The light through the toilet is the realisation that some methods can facilitate the process of dissolution, while many other activities lead to imprisonment. It’s a moment when my mind is free, with little or no self. I know that by dissolving the self, I go beyond it. I know how it feels, and it brings a simple joy.
As if this profound lesson wasn’t enough, guess what happened when I opened the door to leave? My 9-year-old daughter was next in line for the aeroplane loo. You can imagine my surprise — I had unknowingly cleaned the toilet for my daughter. But after all, in a broader sense, isn’t everyone in some way our ‘daughter,’ ‘son,’ or ‘elderly mother’? Just as a father might clean the toilet for his child, wouldn’t we do the same for another person if we viewed them as an extension of our family, or perhaps even of ourselves? And yes, perhaps the idea of cleaning it for one’s mother-in-law might give us pause (chuckling), but the reflection remains: if we act from a place of genuine equanimity, we extend our care to all, regardless of who they are.
One day, I listened to an episode of Oprah Winfrey’s SuperSoul Conversations with Pema Chödrön, a Buddhist teacher. She spoke of the “Just Like Me” practice, which invites us to recognise our shared humanity. We bring to mind someone we find challenging and repeat, “Just like me, this person wants to be happy. Just like me, this person wants to be free from suffering.” This practice helps me see that beneath the surface, everyone has an instinct to avoid pain and seek pleasure. I am sure that even a simple act of kindness, particularly when it humbles our ego, can free us from the separation caused by our thoughts, elevate our consciousness, and create practices that foster what is natural: connection