From Hibachi to Mizugame — A Quiet Story of Heritage

The other day, I asked my father — he's 82 now — about this beautiful old ceramic pot I keep outside, filled with water and summer flowers.
I always thought it was a mizugame — a water jar. But he told me,
“No… that used to be a hibachi.”

Back when he was a student, he’d warm his hands over it while studying in winter. That was more than 60 years ago.
And it was already old back then.

So, this piece — with its deep, cool seidō-iro (bronze-green) glaze — has quietly been around for nearly a century.
From my grandfather’s time, to my father’s, now to mine.

It once held glowing charcoal.
Now, it holds water and wildflowers.
It once gave warmth in winter.
Now, it brings a little coolness to summer.

I find that beautiful — the way something can carry memories and purpose, even as its shape stays the same and its use quietly shifts.

We often talk about heritage as something fixed or grand.
But sometimes, it’s just this: a simple object that stays with us, changing with the times, holding onto stories without saying a word.

There’s no tea in this post.
Just a quiet moment of gratitude — for the past, for the present, and for the way they meet in ordinary, beautiful things.

Yuko