Growing up in Cebu, I have always harbored a fascination with Chinese characters. It was all thanks to our alma mater, Sacred Heart School, which has several years ago annexed Ateneo de Cebu, the forerunner Kuang Chi and eventually Xavier School. Both institutions are run by the Jesuits driven out of China before the communist takeover.

In those quiet classrooms, on special Saturday morning classes, we were introduced to the elegant complexity of Chinese script. I was totally in orbit! Every character told a story, each stroke deliberate and full of intent. There was just a magical touch with the idea that each character represented a complete thought, a singular definition captured in just one symbol. Combine two or more of these hanzi, and a new meaning blooms.

I remember the symbol for mountain, which looked like an elevated land with a peak! Others likewise resembled what they represented — the horse, trees, rain and even the moon — crafted with minimalist grace. It felt like decoding secrets passed down for millennia.

As young students, we must admit that the joy of discovery was often clouded by the need to memorize — stroke after stroke, line after line, from top to bottom, right to left. Still, there were golden moments when we gingerly exchanged the mechanical Mongol pencil for the mopit brush, letting ink flow as we sashayed with form and movement.

Fast forward to a recent holiday in Japan. An otherwise unremarkable walk from the airport lounge to the assigned gate at the Narita International Airport, in plenty of time, turned into a moment of awe. Beyond the predictable airport bustle, I found myself face to face with an extraordinary sight — a Japanese calligraphy exhibit titled “Totonoeru Shodo.”

Calligraphy? At an airport? And not just tucked in a secluded corner. Boldly displayed with two-meter-tall works, it seemed to magnetize, breathe and sway. How, I wondered in sheer disbelief, can they stage an entire exhibition using only characters? No portraits. No landscapes. No still life. These were simply confident, flowing brushstrokes commanding attention.

The showcase spotlighted celebrated calligrapher Oufu, a lady whose biography reads like a novel. She began playing strokes at the tender age of seven and had already passed the 10th Dan in calligraphy — a master’s level — by 15. After university, she ventured into mass media. However, she felt the weight of a fast-paced life devoid of meaning. This internal conflict led her to rediscover her roots through calligraphy and fitness.

Combining her knowledge of physical training with the mental clarity fostered by Zen meditation, Oufu developed an approach, which prepares both body and mind before each session. “Zen meditation + calligraphy,” she calls it. With this strategy, she focuses on five aspects: breathing, posture, mind, trunk or torso of the human body, and handwriting.

While the Narita exposure seemed austere — they were simply ink on paper — it meant more than just simple symbols. Each stroke and every kanji has been passed down through generations, for the future to preserve.

I witnessed words like Fly, Soar, Wing, Dragon, Connect, Wish, Love, Challenge and Good Fortune take centerstage in these massive canvases. Each character, carefully chosen, carries not only linguistic weight but emotional resonance, specially through dedicated quips related to the word.

One piece reads: “Believe in your own strength and have the courage to fly into the unknown world. Each person’s potential is limitless. This is a cheer for you.”

Another gently reminds: “There is always happiness, no matter the time. Let’s live by counting our blessings.”

And I must say — how fitting it is to encounter such messages in a place of flight! As we, and other travelers prepared to leave Japan — some for new adventures, others homebound — these brushstrokes served as silent whispers of encouragement. They chanted sayonara to Japan, not just in ink, but in intention.