A Tea Room of One’s Own
Zen design as the antidote to chaotic living
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I wonder if anyone else ever feels, at times, like the world is seeping in - as if the walls of my room are dissolving. As if the edges of my own mind are growing faint, unable to keep the outside at bay. In those moments – as in any other rough patch – a cup of strong tea helps. It brings me back to myself, to the present.
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In a world of digital prowess, where the physical spaces swing between shallow spectatorship and cold efficiency, for me as an architect, the purpose of my profession remains clear: to create spaces that support and nourish a joyful existence. This seems, on the surface, to be a shared belief. “Human-centered design” is everywhere, a buzzword proudly displayed on the About pages of all sorts of companies, but I can’t shake the feeling that something essential is being lost. Without us noticing.
What I fear we’re losing is the agency of those who live in a space, their ability to shape it, to claim it, to truly own it. That sense of control over our environments is increasingly being eroded. On one side, complex dynamics of economical power dictate how spaces are conceived and developed, ending up disregarding the wishes (not yet expressed) of those who will inhabit them. But on the other side, even worse, I believe there is an effort, subtle but systematic, to manipulate those very desires. Not only do we lack influence over the creation of our intimate spaces, those very spaces are now being quietly invaded by a new presence.
Smart devices are becoming ever-present guests. Claiming to serve our needs while in truth harvesting our data and influencing behavior by offering nudges and suggestions that slowly reshape the rythms of our daily lives. The Smart Home, more than an answer to people’s needs, is a profit-generating tool for third parties - one that also while quietly shapes our identity.
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Our home should be a safe corner of the world that belongs to us alone. A refuge to rest, recharge and reconnect to our inner world. A sanctuary linked to the outside only through intentional, controllable points – like a window, a garden, a door left ajar. Over the last century, these points of connection have multiplied and evolved. The radio, the television, and later the internet introduced metaphysical apertures into our walls. But at a certain point, the flow of information reversed: it no longer moved just inward, it began to flow outward as well - extracting pieces of our lives into vast, invisible systems, often without our knowledge, and certainly without our control. Now, with the rapid expansion of AI, that breach will only continue to widen.
This, to me, is more than a technological concern. It feels like a profound waste, a squandering of one of design’s deepest potentials. At its best, architecture is not just about shelter or aesthetics. It is a spiritual act. I believe we all carry an innate longing to inhabit space with intention - to shape the world around us as a mirror of who we are.
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Architecture didn’t always neglect this. When I look back on my studies, I can still recall countless examples of spaces that nourished the human spirit — ancient and modern, humble and grand. But strangely, it was not in a textbook or design manual that I found the purest expression of this idea. It was in an unexpected gift from my sister: The Book of Tea.
At first glance, I thought I had received a kind of recipe book. But what I found instead was a quiet philosophy - the reflections of a man who lived at the edge of two worlds, East and West, and who captured something deeply human in the ritual of making tea. That book brought me back to a different way of thinking about design. One that is gentle. Spiritual.
The chashitsu, the tea house, is a small pavilion built within a garden, designed for the tea ceremony. But it is so much more than a room. It is a vessel of intention - a structure that embodies the principles of Zen, merging spiritual practice with aesthetic restraint. In this, it offers a model of architecture that feels urgently needed today. It is an antidote to the soulless, functional spaces that surround us - a reminder that meaning matters.
Among the many beautiful ideas embedded in the tea house, three stand out to me - perhaps less celebrated, but profoundly relevant. Whether you’re an architect, a designer, or simply someone who inhabits a space, these are principles worth rediscovering and reimagining for our time.
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SEPARATION FROM THE OUTSIDE
The tea house is set apart far from the routines of daily life - a space of deliberate detachment. Often windowless, or with small openings only allowing glimpses of the world beyond, it is typically reached by a garden path. This physical and sensory distance serves as an invitation to pause and be fully present.
We can bring this sensibility into our homes, even in subtle ways – a softly lit alcove or a room where screens are absent – to create moments of calm and intentional rest. In days overloaded with stimulation, such a space gives us room to breathe and return to ourselves.
SPIRITUAL INTENTION
The tea ceremony goes far beyond enjoying a delicious drink, it’s a practice honoring something - beauty, imperfection, presence. This mindset is reflected through it simplicity: empty spaces with no decoration on the surfaces and neutral tones. There is one central feature though, the tokonoma, an alcove where an object chosen by the tea master is displayed - a flower arrangement or a work of art. Unlike in Western culture where paintings are normally permanently positioned, the contents of the tokonoma are changed regularly, reflecting the transient nature of beauty and the shifting seasons of life.
In our own homes, we might adopt this idea as a way to practice mindfulness: a small dedicated space that reflects who we are and what we hold dear in the moment. It could be a shelf, a side table, a corner of the room, anywhere we can place something meaningful. A photograph, a handwritten note, a stone from a walk; simple objects that speak to the present season of our lives. Like the tokonoma, this space becomes a gentle ritual, inviting us to pause, reflect, and realign with what truly matters - not once, but again and again as we grow.
FREEDOM FROM HABIT
This is perhaps the principle closest to my heart. Expressed by the Japanese word Datsuzoku, it refers to a release from the expected: a freedom from habit, convention, and external control. It encourages spontaneity and individual expression. Though shaped by tradition, the tea house was never formulaic. It was built for its master’s poetic sensibility and growth, not to impress. In today’s world, where conformity and optimization rule, this quiet freedom feels radical. Let our spaces give us room not only to support who we are but also who we might become.
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To conclude, in this age of noise and distraction, it feels more important than ever to ask ourselves - architect or not – what truly matters to us. To rekindle a dialogue with our own inner lives and imagine our homes as tools for transformation. To imagine what we desire and, in the end, let our homes be tools for that growth. This is how we reclaim our most intimate spaces - by giving them meaning beyond their aesthetic or market value. And by re-establishing a boundary between the outside world and the sanctuary within.
And when we feel that boundary thinning – and the world begins to seep in - we can always reach for a simple, strong cup of tea.