In Praise of Incompleteness: 'Kizuki' in Chaos

Any professional who designs experiences and hosts spaces knows the immense energy poured into that design.

We stand in the participants' shoes and simulate every possible ripple:

"Will this one word deepen the experience, or will it cause them to stay at the surface?"

We weave potential troubles into the scenario as foreshadowing, meticulously considering and repeatedly imagining systems to address them beforehand. This cycle—designing and then imagining—is the essential practice for anyone in this field.

I am aware of a strong "educator’s nature" or perhaps a "maternal instinct" within myself—an urge to pluck away the dangers before participants face them and to guide them hand-in-hand. Yet, intellectually, I understand perfectly: uncertainty and difficulty are the best teachers. The learning gained from so-called "failure" is what truly becomes etched into the body at a cellular level. To overcome this internal nature and carefully draw the line between what to offer and what not to offer, one must refine choices with professional, clinical precision.

The "Incompleteness" Left in the Storm

This workshop was a collision between "design" and "reality." The 90-minute limit was a dauntingly high hurdle, but because of that challenge, I was able to focus intensely on "stripping away" and "refining". In that process, I feel I was able to—at least in part—"purify" the essence of what I truly want to share.

However, after the session, a sharp sense of self-reproach remained within me. It pains me as an experiential designer that some participants left the space carrying frustration and confusion. Their raw reactions are palpable in their words:

"It was all a bit chaotic"

"I had no idea how to do it"

I am certain that this "confused mindset" is itself the greatest learning (Manabi). Yet, I lacked the time and timing to receive it with gentleness and connect it to a compassionate dialogue. That state of incompleteness weighs heavily on me.

The Resolve to Accept Critique and the Boundaries of Ego

The desire for "everyone to leave satisfied"—while seemingly sincere, is this not perhaps just my own ego and pride? As long as I stand in the field as a professional, I cannot escape this question.

Every person grows on their own timeline. A seed sown may not sprout instantly; its meaning might only be realised years later. Is my inability to wait for that process not proof that my own perfectionism fails to fully trust the power of the participants?

One could take people's dissatisfaction simply as a critique of the design. However, at the same time, this is a question to myself: "Did I design this experience with the resolve to accept even these critiques?" The self-reproach—wondering if there was a flaw in the design or if the guidance was insufficient—is both a professional responsibility and a lingering attachment to wanting control over everything.

Yet, as I recall the voices in the session, I saw that participants were moving autonomously, regardless of my concerns.

"Do not fear the unknown"

"It will be fine—even if I am not driving the boat"

"Jump and swim"

They were plucking their own "Kizuki" out of the chaos through their own strength.

A Prayer for "Incompleteness," and Life as an Experiment

Is it deceptive of me as an experiential designer to believe that the participants' insights made this space an opportunity for a mindset shift? If it is not deception, how do I receive it? Even if participants gain autonomous learning, I cannot simply rest on my laurels. For in life, there is nothing but learning. I am gaining new insights every day, and as someone in that state, I am providing a space for experience. That is why the experiences I offer never take a fixed, "standard" form.

Life is a continuous series of experiments. 

This is where I stand now.

I want to continue to be a "Host" who provides the space and opportunity for experience. My inner experiential designer’s ego wants to see everything beautifully resolved, but I also know that true transformation may live within the "void" left by letting go of control, or within the "incompleteness" that remains unresolved.

As I write these thoughts, I realise once more: the process of challenge, stripping away, and purification was necessary for me. I believe that even this complex aftertaste I feel now has appeared exactly as it was meant to, offering me an opportunity to learn something essential.

Furthermore, this day happened to be an "Ichiryumanbai-bi" (a day when a single grain yields a ten-thousand-fold harvest)—a day said to attract new encounters. Just as sown seeds eventually sprout, I quietly hope that new connections will grow from this space moving forward.

To accept dissatisfaction and critique as a professional. To embrace this state of "incompleteness" and move toward the next design. The entire world can be remade through a single shift in mindset—and I feel that I must be the one to continue holding that truth most sternly for myself.