Patience, apparently

There is a moment at summer festivals in Japan when everything becomes very simple. A shallow pool, a paper scoop that feels too fragile to be useful, and a handful of goldfish moving in slow, unpredictable patterns.

Kingyo sukui looks like something you can figure out. That was my first mistake.

I am not a patient person. I like understanding how things work, adjusting quickly, getting to a result. So the first time I tried it, I approached it like a small problem to solve. Watch carefully, pick the right moment, move decisively.

The paper broke immediately.

I assumed I had just been too fast. So I tried again, a bit slower, a bit more careful. Same result. After that, it just became a loop of small adjustments and the same outcome, which is usually the point where my patience runs out.

And that is where it shifts, whether you want it to or not.

At some point you realize this is not something you can optimize your way through. The paper stays fragile. The fish keep moving however they want. The water reacts to even the smallest intention.

And, more annoyingly, the more you try to “get it right,” the faster it seems to fall apart.

So you are left with very limited options. Either you keep pushing and watch the same thing happen again, or you slow down in a way that does not come naturally.

Not strategic slowing down. Real slowing down.

Lowering the scoop into the water without immediately acting. Letting it sit there for a second. Resisting the urge to chase the fish that looks easy to catch. Not because it is a clever tactic, but because anything else simply does not work.

It feels almost passive at first. Slightly uncomfortable, even. Like you are not doing enough.

And then, occasionally, a fish moves over the paper on its own. The water stays still just long enough. The paper holds for a second longer than expected. Not because you managed to control it, but because you did not interrupt it.

Those moments are brief and inconsistent. You cannot force them, and you cannot really repeat them on demand. Which, for someone like me, is exactly the point where patience becomes less of an idea and more of a necessity.

Kingyo sukui does not reward effort in the way you expect. It forces you to sit with the limits of what you can influence, and to accept that most of it is out of your hands anyway.

And maybe that is why it stays with you.

Because somewhere between the broken paper and the missed chances, there is a small realization. Not everything improves just because you try harder or think faster. Some things ask for a different kind of response.

One that I am, clearly, still learning.