Boro Happens
English is my second language.
I was 19 years old when I first began somewhat “communicating” in English. I use the word communicating carefully because, at that time, I could not really speak English with confidence. I was simply trying to connect words, gestures, expressions, and whatever courage I had in order to make myself understood.
After living in the United States for more than 15 years, I still feel that English is my second language. I can teach Sashiko in English. I can write in English. I can share complicated stories and thoughts in English. Yet there are still so many words, expressions, and cultural nuances for me to learn.
That is one of the interesting things about language. A word may have a dictionary definition, but its real meaning often exists somewhere between history, culture, memory, and the feeling of the person who uses it.
One of my favorite English phrases is:
“Sh⚪︎t Happens.”
It is short, direct, and strangely encouraging.
Things do happen. Life does not always go according to plan. We make mistakes. Something breaks. A carefully prepared plan collapses. We encounter situations we could never have anticipated.
Life can be quite “interesting.”
When someone says, “Sh⚪︎t Happens,” I do not necessarily hear only frustration or negativity. I also sense a small amount of acceptance—and perhaps even the motivation to take another step forward.
Something happened.
It may not be what we wanted.
But we are still here, and there is a next step.
Interestingly, the Japanese word Boro, now interpreted by many people as a beautiful and fashionable concept associated with recycling, sustainability, visible mending, and textile art, once carried a very different feeling.
Historically, boro referred to something worn out, tattered, damaged, or no longer considered valuable. Depending on the context and usage, it could also carry associations with dirt, waste, or animal droppings. When someone in Japanese says that they grabbed a piece of “boro,” the expression can sound as though they grabbed a piece of poop.
It is quite ironic.
Something that was once considered dirty, embarrassing, or negative has gradually become something cool, artistic, and positive.
For some people today, Boro represents beauty, sustainability, resourcefulness, and respect for materials. These are meaningful interpretations. I do not deny the changes that naturally occur as words and practices travel across time, cultures, and communities.
At the same time, as a Sashiko artisan who grew up in a family connected to this practice, I have quite a lot to say about how Boro is now understood.
I can accept change. What frustrates me is change created through ignorance—when uncomfortable histories are removed, when poverty is romanticized, or when people celebrate only the beautiful appearance without learning why the fabric became that way.
Yet the world keeps moving. Meanings continue to change. People create new interpretations, whether I approve of them or not.
So, perhaps:
Sh⚪︎t Happens.
Or, in this particular context:
Boro Happens, so as we do Sashiko.
For almost seven years, I had dreamed of creating an illustration around this idea. I had a rough image in my mind and made several clumsy hand-drawn versions. With a help from artificial intelligence to refine my imperfect illustration—not to replace the idea, but to brush up what I had already imagined—the design is finally ready.
The more I thought about the phrase “Boro Happens,” the more meaningful it became to me.
When we say “Sh⚪︎t Happens,” there is a kind of positivity hidden inside the resignation. Things happen, but life continues. We acknowledge what has already occurred and move forward from there.
Perhaps the current interpretation of Boro may contain a similar story.
A piece of fabric is made. It is used. It becomes worn. It tears. Someone stitches it. It is used again. It becomes thin in another place. Another piece of fabric is added. It is stitched again.
None of this needs to begin as an artistic decision. It may simply be the natural result of continuing to live with the fabric.
In that sense, Boro Happens.
A fabric may become Boro through repeated use, stitching, reinforcement, and mending. Boro does not need to be something we intentionally manufacture to achieve a particular appearance. It can be the result of time, necessity, care, and continuous use.
When I was a child, I despised Boro.
No one in my family business was making Boro or intentionally trying to create it. I did not find it attractive. To me, it represented something old, dirty, poor, and undesirable. I could not understand why anyone would want to celebrate it.
My feelings have changed over time.
I still would not place food directly on a piece of Boro. That physical reaction and cultural memory remain in me. However, I am now more comfortable admitting that I can appreciate Boro—not only for how it looks, but for the stories it may carry.
I can appreciate it as evidence of someone continuing to use what they had.
I can appreciate the time accumulated in the fabric.
I can appreciate the hands that repaired it, even when we do not know their names.
The beauty of Boro is not merely in its irregular stitches, patches, faded colors, or worn texture. Its beauty may exist in the fact that the fabric was not immediately discarded.
Someone continued to live with it.
Someone found a reason to stitch it again.
Boro happens as a natural part of living with fabric. As the cloth becomes worn through use, it requires reinforcement and repair. People stitch it to strengthen it, preserve it, and make it usable again.
And we call this kind of stitching—stitching performed to reinforce, strengthen, and mend—
Sashiko.
Boro is not necessarily a technique.
It is one possible result of people repeatedly using, repairing, and caring for fabric.
Sashiko is the stitching that may support that process.
Things happen.
Fabric wears out.
We stitch.
We keep using it.
Boro Happens... or not, and it is all good.
