The Spiky Frog Incident

A Tale of Love, Logistics, and Ikebana Tools

It all started in the early 2000s, at the dawn of the 21st century, with 12 kilograms of spiky flower frogs. Not just a couple, not a handful—an entire box filled with weighty metal pin holders, all packed neatly for international travel. And who was the mule? My husband, Ben.

The Airport Incident

At check-in, Ben casually presented the box and his suitcase, blissfully unaware of the quizzical look forming on the airline attendant’s face. A young Japanese woman, trained in politeness but clearly struggling to compute what she was seeing, tilted her head slightly to the right, furrowed her brows, and let out a hesitant

‘Eeeeeh?’

‘Kenzans? Ikebana…?’ she murmured, as if testing out foreign words on her tongue.

A quick, formal ‘Sumimasen deshita’ (Apologies for the bother) later, and—miraculously—no mention of overweight baggage!- the spiky flower frogs were on their way home, and Ben, ever the wise husband, knew one thing for certain: Happy wife, happy life.

The Early Struggles of Finding Tools

When I started teaching ikebana in Belgium, finding the right supplies was a mission worthy of a grand robbery—minus the ski masks and getaway cars. Kenzans, containers, proper scissors—none of it was easy to source.

I was lucky—or perhaps unlucky, depending on how you look at it. When Ben lost my original Japanese driver’s license, I was faced with a cruel dilemma:

- either start from scratch and take the Belgian driving exam,
- or fly back to Japan and get a duplicate.      Now, given that I had once burned through an absurd number of kanji flashcards (cards with Japanese characters to be memorized) just to pass the Japanese driving test, there was no way I was signing up for another round of bureaucratic torment.

Japan it was! And, of course, I wasn’t going to waste the trip—I stuffed my luggage with as many ikebana supplies as physics (and airline regulations) would allow.

But even then, keeping up with demand was tough. For years, I turned Ben into my unofficial ikebana supply mule, dispatching him on missions to the Sogetsu Ikebana Headquarters whenever his job took him to Japan.

He became a well-trained operative, expertly maneuvering through customs with boxes of kenzans and shears, all the while dodging suspicious glances from airport security. The 12 kg spiky frog incident? Just one of his more memorable assignments.

Luckily, times have changed. Kenzans and scissors are no longer the elusive treasures they once were. These days, you can summon them with a mere click, and they dutifully arrive at your doorstep like well-trained couriers of creativity.

Our personal favorite is Wazakura, a Japanese supplier that doesn’t just sell tools but upholds the time-honored precision of Japanese craftsmanship.

Back in the early 2000s, when I first started teaching in Belgium, I stumbled upon what felt like an ikebana goldmine—a wholesaler with a steady supply of tall (Nageire) and shallow (Moribana) vases. A discovery so rare, I half-expected a fanfare of trumpets when I walked through the door. Best of all, the containers were actually affordable for beginners, a true unicorn in the world of ceramics.

Because let’s be honest—when you’re just starting out in ikebana, you’re not exactly looking to invest in handcrafted, limited-edition masterpieces.

You’re cautiously testing the waters, floral shears in hand, asking yourself: Do I even like this? Will I stick with it? Dropping a small fortune on ceramics at this stage feels about as sensible as buying on a concert grand piano after your first music lesson.

As fate would have it, the shop eventually closed. So, in a moment of inspired (or perhaps mildly desperate) thinking, I did the only logical thing: I bought up a significant portion of his remaining stock. That stash saw me through years of teaching, but now, well… let’s just say the cupboards are looking more minimalist than intended.

But thankfully, unlike those elusive beginner-friendly containers, Wazakura’s beautifully crafted kenzans, scissors, and other essentials arrive at our doorstep with the effortless punctuality of a Swiss clock.

Read more about Ilse : 

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