There is a quiet magic in the Japanese language. It holds words that don’t just describe a feeling—they invite you into a way of living. Think of Komorebi (sunlight filtering through trees) or Wabi-sabi (finding beauty in imperfection). But there is one phrase, less poetic in sound but monumental in practice, that has changed how I approach everything from my morning coffee to my deepest fears.
This is not about productivity. It’s not about winning trivia night or impressing a professor. It is about restoring a sense of wonder to the ordinary. Here’s the problem most of us face. We are born curious. An infant will stare at a ceiling fan for twenty minutes like it’s a revelation from the gods. But somewhere between school, work, bills, and the endless scroll of social media, we trade curiosity for competence. shiranai koto shiritai koto
Instead of the ritual “How was your day?” I ask, “What’s something you noticed today that you almost missed?” People pause. They think. They tell me about a crack in the sidewalk that looks like a whale, or the way light hits their teacup. We laugh. We connect. There is a quiet magic in the Japanese language
Why? Because we kill curiosity with quick answers. Google gives us facts but steals the slow pleasure of wondering. By holding the question, you let your imagination play. Later, you can research—but first, just be in the state of shiritai . The wanting-to-know is itself a kind of knowing. I have been practicing this for three years now. The changes are subtle but profound. But there is one phrase, less poetic in
This is the shiranai without the shiritai . We walk through a world full of unknown things, and we feel nothing. Or worse, we feel anxious. Because to admit “I don’t know” in a culture that prizes expertise feels like failure.
Shiritai koto (I want to know you—not your data, not your resume, but your living, breathing, wondering self).
Shiranai koto, shiritai koto.