Japanese Paper

A Medium for Meditation

There’s a softness—not just in feel, but in effect. Each stroke slows the world a little.

The first time I wrote on Japanese paper, I noticed how smooth it felt—with just enough texture to feel each motion of the pen as it moved across the page. The ink sat on the surface in a more vibrant, more permanent way. Writing became deeply pleasurable, more tactile and more vivid. The moment became heavier, quieter. I paid more attention.

Japanese paper slows you down. It encourages care and focus. It makes the act of writing feel like something more than we are used to.

A Quiet Invention

Paper arrived in Japan from China in the 7th century. Over time, Japanese craftspeople developed their own methods and materials, creating what became known as washi—Japanese paper made from mulberry, gampi, or mitsumata fibers. It’s light, durable, soft, and strong.

Washi was used in poetry, religious texts, architecture, and art. It showed up in screen walls, tea rooms, garments, and lanterns. People wrote prayers and poems on it. It reflected ideas rooted in Shinto and Zen—natural materials, impermanence, and harmony with time and place.

Today, a few small workshops still make washi by hand. They soak and pound the fibers, layer and press them, then dry each sheet on wooden boards in the sun. Each page carries traces of this process—the memory of trees, hands, and quiet repetition.

Modern Makers

While a few small workshops in Japan still make washi by hand—such as those in Echizen, Mino, Tosa, and Ogawa—their paper is typically sold as specialty art paper, used for calligraphy, printmaking, or traditional crafts. These handmade sheets come from multi-generational artisans who carry on centuries-old techniques. They soak, pound, and press each sheet by hand, drying them in the sun on wooden boards. The paper they produce is beautiful, but not commonly used for everyday writing.

Modern Japanese stationery companies continue the spirit of this tradition in more accessible forms. Their paper is designed for daily use, but it still reflects precision and craft.

Midori makes smooth, elegant notebooks. Life offers structured formats and archival paper. Yamamoto produces samplers that highlight different textures. Kakimori lets you create your own notebooks and ink colors. These products are carefully made and thoughtfully designed.

Right now, I’m using a C.D. Notebook by Apica. The paper inside is impossibly smooth—buttery, almost milky in texture. It has the perfect weight and thickness, substantial enough to ground each word without ever feeling stiff. The cover is blue with silver lettering. On the front, it says:

“Choose the paper like you would a good pen.”

That line has stayed with me. Though it appears as a small design feature on the cover, it's a deeply profound statement. It captures the essence of what makes Japanese paper meaningful. Writing is an art form, even when it's used for everyday tasks. Like painting, both instrument and canvas become an extension of the artist.

Writing as Ritual

Japanese paper changes how I write—and may change how you write too. The texture slows my hand. I notice the pressure of the pen, the sound of the nib, the shape of each word.

Writing becomes a small ritual. I write more slowly. I pause more often. I focus. This kind of paper invites attention.

I use my Japanese notebook entirely for self-reflection and long-term planning. I don’t fill it with to-do lists I plan to throw away, or random notes, or letters. Every page holds the most honest and reflective thoughts. Some I return to for strength. Others I reread to remember moments of uncertainty, or pain. Writing on this paper makes me feel more grounded because I don’t skim over or minimize my own thoughts and emotions. I feel them fully, sometimes even more viscerally than before. As my pen glides across the page, it's as if my mind and body reconnect. The physical act of writing on this sacred medium opens the gates to emotions buried within the dissociative labyrinth of my consciousness.

Writing on Japanese paper has the potential to foster mindfulness that is difficult to access with ordinary paper, and nearly unimaginable with a touch screen. The act becomes a moment of deliberate attention. You are present with the page. The texture, the flow of ink, the way each letter takes shape—all of it grounds you in the moment. This kind of presence changes the quality of your thoughts and creates opportunity for cultivating personal insight.

If you begin to approach writing this way, using this paper, you may notice a shift in the way you relate to your own thoughts and feelings. The paper becomes a reflection of your inner landscape, offering a space to appreciate and integrate what is there, rather than perfect it. The goal—like with mindfulness—is not simply calm or clarity, but intimacy with oneself. Said another way, it is an act of love.

There is no finish line in this kind of practice. Writing with intention is not something to master or complete. It is something to return to. The beauty lies in that return—the quiet decision to show up again, to offer care again, to keep meeting yourself on the page. This kind of ritual asks nothing of you but honesty. It holds space for everything you bring, whether clear or conflicted, steady or uncertain. And over time, the practice of returning can become a way of being—a life shaped not by perfection, but by presence, compassion, and a deepening intimacy with your own mind.

A Personal Practice

I return to Japanese paper because it creates space for intimacy—with my thoughts, my emotions, and my attention. It slows me down in a way that many of us desperately need. Writing becomes a quiet way of being honest with myself, of staying close to what matters to me, even when I don’t have all the answers.

The C.D. Notebook’s cover line—“Choose the paper like you would a good pen”—feels less like a branding detail and more like a quiet philosophy. Objects like this fine Japanese paper shape not only how I express myself, but how I relate to myself. The paper carries meaning because it holds everything I’ve entrusted to it—with care, with patience, without judgment.

As the quote suggests, the pen matters too. But I’ll save that for another time.