Steven LaChance Blog

Every morning I go down to the onsen in our hotel and soak for about a half hour. It has become a ritual for me, not just relaxation but something deeper. The Japanese onsen is steeped in centuries of tradition. There is a right way and a wrong way, and before you go, you must learn the etiquette. If you show that you understand, they will welcome you without hesitation. Step outside of that etiquette, and you will quickly be corrected.  

You begin by removing your slippers at the door. That small act of humility is your first bow to the space itself. You then move to the washing area, where you sit on a small stool and cleanse yourself completely before entering the bath. Not a quick rinse, but a full and deliberate washing of the entire body. This ritual cleansing is called kakeyu, and it is as much spiritual as it is physical. The idea is to leave the impurities of the world outside so that the bath remains pure for everyone.  

Once you step into the water, there are unspoken rules that must be followed. Your tenugui, the small washcloth, should never touch the bathwater. It should rest folded on your head, never in your hands or the water itself. The same is true of your hair. You do not allow it to touch the water under any circumstance. Those with long hair tie it up neatly. The onsen is sacred in its cleanliness, and each person carries the responsibility of preserving that purity.  

Inside the steaming pools, the world slows. The air is thick with the scent of minerals and heat. Some men stretch in silence, their movements deliberate and slow. Others sit perfectly still, eyes closed, breathing in rhythm with the rising steam. There are no loud voices, no laughter, only the gentle sounds of water and breath.  

It is not social in the way we think of conversation or camaraderie, but there is a quiet connection. A sense of shared understanding. A silent brotherhood that forms among men who respect the same peace.  

There is also a trust in the nakedness. All pretension, place in life, and class, everything that defines us, is left at the door. In the water, everyone is stripped bare both physically and mentally. There is a Japanese term for this: hadaka no tsukiai. It means “naked communion,” the idea that when all layers are removed, people meet as equals. In that shared vulnerability, there is honesty and quiet dignity.  

I stand out, of course. A tall foreigner among them. At first, I felt their eyes on me, studying how I moved, testing whether I knew what to do. They watched how I entered the bath, how I handled my towel, how I kept my hair from touching the water. When they saw that I respected their customs, something shifted. A small nod, a faint smile, an unspoken acknowledgment. I was accepted.  

In that quiet pool, surrounded by strangers and steam, I learned something about peace, humility, and equality. The onsen is not only a bath. It is a reflection of the Japanese spirit, discipline, grace, and harmony. And it has taught me that stillness can be its own kind of prayer.