The Teacup That Traveled Across the Ocean

Sometimes, beauty hides in plain sight.

For years, I had taken my teacup for granted — the one with a gray two-tone glaze and a painting of galloping horses running endlessly around its surface. It was always there, so familiar that I barely noticed it anymore.

When my husband’s mother moved into a care home, our family gathered to sort through her belongings. She was Japanese-American and loved Japanese tableware — her shelves were filled with everything from simple pottery to fine porcelain by well-known makers.

Among the stacks of dishes, I spotted that teacup again. It had belonged to my late father-in-law, who often traveled between Japan and the U.S. There were several of them back at my parents’ home in Japan, too. I remember serving guests tea in those very cups when I was a child.

As we were packing boxes, my brother-in-law picked it up and said, “This one’s beautiful.”

I blinked. Really? That old thing?

Ōbori Soma-yaki

It struck me that what seemed entirely ordinary for me — something that had blended into the background of my life — looked refreshingly new to someone else. It was a small but powerful reminder: sometimes, we stop seeing what’s right in front of us.

The cup came from Ōbori Soma-yaki, a traditional pottery from Fukushima Prefecture, known for its distinctive double-walled structure and the iconic running horse. 

The inner and outer cups are joined with remarkable precision, so that the air between them keeps the tea warm without burning your hands.

As a child, of course, I didn’t understand any of that. I only remember trying — quite seriously — to clean the space between the two layers with a toothpick. (Let’s just say it didn’t go well.)

Fukushima and Me

Fukushima is also where my parents were born. After marrying, they moved more than 300 kilometers away to Kanagawa to start their small liquor shop. 

Every summer, my brothers and I would travel back to Fukushima for a month, spending our days catching insects in the rice fields and drinking cold mountain water that tasted better than anything in a bottle.

But as I grew older, school, work, and life pulled me in other directions. Without realizing it, decades had passed since my last visit.

And then came March 11, 2011.

The earthquake. The tsunami. The nuclear disaster.

Even now, I find it challenging to put that day into words. I was teaching in Tokyo when the shaking began — strong enough that I couldn’t stand. 

For days afterward, I couldn’t sleep, haunted by images of the towns swept away and by the thought of unseen radiation drifting through the air. Fukushima, my parents’ homeland, was suffering in ways I couldn’t bear to imagine.

For years, that pain was mixed with something else — guilt.

While others volunteered, donated, and returned to help, I stayed away. I told myself I was too busy, too far, too scared. But deep down, I knew I couldn’t face the devastation of the place that had shaped so much of who I am.

Once Again

Fourteen years passed. I didn’t go back. Maybe part of me was afraid of what I would find — and part of me was ashamed of not going sooner.

Then one day, while scrolling through Instagram, I came across a photo from Ikariya Kiln, one of the surviving Ōbori Soma ware studios. A familiar horse design galloped across the screen, and something inside me stirred.

I decided it was time.

This summer, I went to Fukushima — to see the place again with my own eyes, and to meet the artist who made that humble, extraordinary teacup.

To be continued …

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Author’s Note:

In Part 2 — “Visiting Ikariya Kiln: Rebirth and Resilience” — I travel to Fukushima for the first time in 30 years to meet Mr. Yamada, the thirteenth-generation potter of Ikariya Kiln, and discover the quiet strength behind Ōbori Soma ware’s revival.