How Ikebana Helped Me Navigate Life With Cancer

One of the most striking principles in Ikebana is the celebration of asymmetry — of the natural, the irregular, the imperfect. A branch that bends unexpectedly, a flower that leans to one side, the uneven number of stems. In Western flower arranging, we often seek symmetry, balance, perfection. But Ikebana teaches us that true beauty lies in accepting things as they are, not as we wish they would be.

Cancer changes our bodies in ways we never chose. Scars from surgery, hair that grows back differently, energy that ebbs and flows unpredictably. With CLL, I’ve learned that my body no longer follows the patterns I once took for granted. Some days I feel strong; other days, inexplicably tired.

My blood counts rise and fall in their own rhythm, not the one I’d prefer.

I used to resist this asymmetry, mourning the body I once had, the life that followed predictable patterns. But Ikebana taught me something else: what if this irregular, changed body — like that bent branch — has its own integrity, its own beauty?

What if acceptance isn’t giving up, but rather the deepest form of self-compassion? We don’t force the branch to be straight. We find the arrangement where its natural curve becomes the most interesting part of the design.

When I first sat before those flowers in Kyoto, Japan, waiting for them to speak to me, I didn’t know I was also learning how to live with chronic lymphocytic leukemia or any type of cancer. I didn’t know that the patience required to listen, the acceptance of impermanence, the focus on this present moment, the embrace of asymmetry — all of this would become not just an aesthetic practice, but a path through the journey of cancer. The instructor who taught me spoke little, letting the flowers themselves become the teachers. In their delicate stems bending toward the light, in their inevitable fading, in the way each bloom claimed its own unique space, I was witnessing a philosophy I would desperately need when my diagnosis arrived.

Silence, I’ve learned, is not empty. It’s full — full of possibility, of presence, of that small still voice that guides us when we’re willing to listen. Whether we’re arranging flowers or arranging our lives around treatment schedules, oncology consultations, tests, and uncertain futures, the practice is the same: create space, accept impermanence (wabi sabi), stay present, embrace what is. The Japanese concept of ‘ma’ – the negative space that gives meaning to form — applies equally to our days. Between appointments, between worries, between one breath and the next, there exists this space where we can simply be. It’s in these pauses that we find our resilience, our capacity to continue, our ability to notice the light still filtering through the window.

I invite you, in your own journey with cancer, to find your version of Ikebana — whether it’s actual flower arranging, meditation, or simply moments of intentional silence. Find the practice that helps you listen. Because in that listening, in that silence, we discover we’re not just surviving. We’re creating something — an arrangement of our days in a way that honors both the difficulty and the beauty, both the fear and the profound presence that cancer can teach us.

This piece reflects the author’s personal experience and perspective. For medical advice, please consult your health care provider.

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