Real-Life Renos

Lessons in Sustainable Living From My 100-Year-Old Japanese Farmhouse

Writer Hannah Kirshner's century-old kominka is full of stories about how it was lived in. What can she learn about how to renovate it—and what to preserve?

February 27, 2021
Photo by Hannah Kirshner

Welcome to Real-Life Renos, where we’re pulling back the curtains to the home renos we just can’t get enough of. Tag along as our favorite designers, chefs, and cookbook authors welcome us inside their spaces and share the behind-the-scenes stories behind their transformations. We’ll explore their takes on sustainable living, how they express their identities through design, how they create beautiful spaces that center around accessibility—and so much more.

At first it was only a daydream to own a farmhouse in Japan.

The one I fell for is a century-old kominka set among fallow rice fields at the edge of Yamanaka Onsen, a hot spring town in Ishikawa. Its tile roof echoes the rusty colors of indigenous elm and maple leaves lighting up the valley in autumn. Its wooden siding is weathered dark grey, reinforced in places by corrugated metal with a patina of rust and faded green paint. Tall plumes of susuki grass and stands of goldenrod have taken over the neglected agricultural land around it, providing cover for wild boars that dig pits in search of tubers and grubs, then retreat into forests of oak and cypress that cloak the misty mountains. The kominka is not built on the landscape so much as into it and of it.

Poured-glass windows—from the Taisho era, in the early 20th century—frame former rice paddies. Photo by Hannah Kirshner

I found my place in the community of Yamanaka the past few years while writing a book—Water, Wood, and Wild Things—about its material culture. Growing rice, practicing tea ceremony, working in a sake brewery, and gathering wild vegetables under the guidance of mentors started as research, but became my life. Gradually, my husband (Tokyo-born and -raised, but a New Yorker for more than two decades) warmed to the idea of returning to Japan, a country he left deliberately toward the end of its decadent bubble years. Our Yamanaka home will be a base for foraging, farming, and welcoming guests to cook and eat together.

Tall plumes of susuki grass and stands of goldenrod have taken over the neglected agricultural land around it, providing cover for wild boars that dig pits in search of tubers and grubs, then retreat into forests of oak and cypress that cloak the misty mountains. The kominka is not built on the landscape so much as into it and of it.

We’re buying that dream house—which has been empty for years and needs repairs—for the cost of a new economy car. Old houses have little economic value in Japan, and it is expensive to remodel a kominka into the kind of contemporary home that most people want. To live close to nature is a beautiful idea, but moving into the kominka we’ll face the uncomfortable reality of little protection from cold winters or frightening insects like sparrow bees (also called “murder hornets”) and mukade (giant centipedes).

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Top Comment:
“Hi Hannah, I REALLY enjoyed this as I grew up spending time in a beautiful home just like this one in Japan (my grandmother still lives there and way past due for a visit!). I really love and admire what you are doing! While I can agree with you to keep its traditional details as much as possible, few things can be updated. My grandmother’s home has been thru few renovations but still feels and she kept many details as original. One area of the house she has updated over the years is showroom. It’s modern but works :) I look forward to follow this beautiful journey and feel free to reach out if I can be of any help! I see we share love for food and culture :)”
— Lina V.

My challenge is to plan a renovation that makes the house more comfortable and easier to maintain, respects its traditional construction of joinery and natural materials, and takes into account accelerating climate change. I want to turn it into an eco-house (an eco-minka, if you will.) But a kominka is already a model of sustainable living. As architect-writers like Yoshihiro Takishita and Azby Brown have described, kominka are built in a style shaped over millennia by the geography, climate, and natural resources of Japan. It would be a shame to make my house look and feel like a modern Western home inside the shell of a kominka, and to lose the functional advantages of its design.

I admire the rustic farmhouse house where my friend Mika Horie makes photographic artwork and teaches papermaking—with its tattered paper screens, coarse mud-plastered walls, and sliding glass doors that make the fields beyond feel like part of her studio. With the carpenter-turned-designer Kuniharu Murai, she preserved its wabi-sabi charm while bringing in light and warmth. There’s much I can learn from books and blogs, but (like Mika) I’ll need the help of specialized professionals for some projects.

Ko-kutani dishes, a local style of painted ceramics. Photo by Hannah Kirshner

Before handing over the house, the owner helped me clear out furniture and clutter that I wouldn’t need; I could keep whatever treasures I wanted. I found hand-painted ko-kutani dishes, an iron kettle, and large ceramic pickling jars. There were enough sake cups to throw a party for 50 people (an elderly neighbor told me this house used to host weddings and funerals for the village). Mulberry trees outside and a blackened bamboo rack in the warmest room on the second floor were clues that the family cultivated silkworms. The house is full of stories about how it was lived in—and how to best live in this place. Here are some that I’m learning:

Heat the person, not the space

The contemporary concept of an ecologically sound building is one that is well insulated and sealed, so minimal energy is lost in heating and cooling. But a kominka operates on a different principle: Airflow is encouraged to prevent mold during rainy seasons, and to make the space bearable during humid summer months. In the front room there used to be an open hearth called an irori, for burning charcoal. In the room to the left is a pit for a kotatsu, a table with a charcoal heater underneath and a blanket draping down from all four sides (an electric version doubles as a coffee table in the modern, but chilly, apartment where I’ve lived while writing my book). The irori and kotatsu are natural gathering places, and embody a principle common in East Asia: Heat the person, not the space.

Heating with charcoal wouldn’t be great for my asthmatic lungs or the ozone layer, and I’m not a big fan of the electric or kerosene heating popular in Japan (which either blows dry air or produces carbon monoxide). The high cost of installation is the only thing keeping me from putting in a geothermal pump and heated floors (an energy-efficient system that could pay for itself within a decade by cutting my electricity bill). I don’t mind wearing thick sweaters and wool socks, but I want my home to be comfortable—especially for guests.

Originally, the kitchen probably had an earthen floor and woodstove. Photo by Hannah Kirshner

Make old ideas new

Originally this house might have had a clay oven called a kamado in the earthen-floor area called a doma (that is now a grimy 1960s kitchen). The sugi trees outside were planted at least 50 years ago as a source of kindling (and future lumber); the plentiful dry twigs and leaves they drop would also be good fuel for a DIY rocket mass heater.

A rocket mass heater burns more efficiently and produces less exhaust than a typical woodstove. Like a traditional Eastern or Central European masonry stove, Korean ondol, or Chinese kang bed-stove, it heats a large thermal mass (adobe, brick, or stone) that works like a heat battery, gradually transferring warmth to the room. This seems like the most affordable (and relatively environmentally friendly) way to stay warm in a drafty kominka—plus it would bring the house closer to its original form.

Use natural, biodegradable materials

Beyond the irori and kotatsu rooms, sliding paper doors and carved wooden panels, called ranma, divide a grid of four more rooms. The ceilings shine with a reddish gloss of urushi, lacquer made from tree sap. Lifting the dingy tatami, I unearthed a layer of 40-year-old newspapers covering the wide wood underfloor (in a closet was an advertisement for the 1964 Tokyo Olympics). The life of a tatami is 10 to 20 years, so my friends helped take some to the dump, before I realized the mats—made of rice straw and reeds—could be used in the garden for compost and weed suppression.

Old tatami can be composted in the garden. Photo by Hannah Kirshner

Heat and cool passively

Long, narrow porches called engawa flank the sides of the house. Deep eaves and storm doors with thin hand-poured-glass windows protect the engawa from heavy rain and snow. Translucent paper shoji screens separate the interior. In summer, the storm doors can be slid into a pocket, and the shoji replaced with reed doors that let a breeze flow across the entire house. I imagine myself napping on grassy-smelling new tatami, listening to birds sing in the garden.

To maximize passive solar gain on the south engawa, I could install tiles to collect warmth from the low winter sun, and replace the storm doors and shoji with glass sliding doors. In this region, people lean wooden scaffolds against their houses to protect windows from drifting snow. In summer I could use them as trellises for fast-growing bitter melon vines that provide shade (and food).

Light pours in from the open engawa. Photo by Hannah Kirshner

Consider local and renewable resources

Upstairs, two bedrooms are enclosed with 1970s faux-wood paneling, and drop ceilings hide the house’s best feature: a huge pine beam running the length of the roof. It must be an entire tree, with its strong natural curves and irregular shape intact.

I pulled down a few drop tiles to see more soot-blackened wooden beams above, and got excited about opening up the upstairs into one big room. Tearing off warped veneer revealed clean-smelling tsuchi-kabe, walls made entirely of materials that can be found nearby: earth and straw pressed into bamboo lattice. I like the rustic beauty, but wonder how I’ll feel about sweeping up dust as the mud gradually crumbles, and stink bugs that come in through the cracks.

This curvy pine beam is my favorite thing about the whole house, so I want to expose it. Photo by Hannah Kirshner
Tsuchi-kabe, walls made of mud and straw. Photo by Hannah Kirshner

Incorporate grey-water recycling

The house has no shower or bath (because it’s within walking distance of the public hot spring), and one toilet in a closet-sized room with baby blue fixtures and papered walls. Sewage drains into a cesspit buried in the front yard that must be pumped out by professionals at least once a year. The kitchen sinks and laundry drain into the garden, irrigating the plants with grey water; runoff joins waterways feeding the rice paddies and ultimately a river that flows to the Sea of Japan. If I don’t replace the cesspit with a modern septic system connected to every drain in the house, I’ll need to be conscientious about the amount and kind of soap and detergent I use.

Find balance

Before I can install solar panels, create a teaching kitchen, or build an outdoor bath (why not?), I need to fix the leak above the stairs, and make sure I have a functional toilet. In her memoir, The View from Breast Pocket Mountain, Karen Hill Anton is frank about the hardships of maintaining a vast kominka without modern heating or plumbing—an enormous commitment that leaves little time for other work. I’m not willing to give up all my favorite comforts and conveniences: joining video calls from my laptop with colleagues overseas; eating Cup Noodles when I want to write instead of cook; making my bed fluffy and warm with a futon dryer, and taking a hot shower without planning ahead.

Photo by Hannah Kirshner
Photo by Hannah Kirshner

But researching systems for heating and wastewater management is making me aware of all the ways I use electricity and water without even thinking. My goal is not to live perfectly with zero impact, but to make deliberate and sensible choices that suit this microclimate and keep in mind the future of the planet. With each decision, I can change the kominka, or I can let it change me. My adventure with this eco-minka is just beginning, and I hope you’ll follow along.

What parts of this kominka would you preserve and what would you modernize? If you’ve renovated a 100-year-old old house, or built an eco-house, what do you wish you’d known before you started? I’d love to hear from you in the comments!

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Hannah Kirshner is author of Water, Wood, and Wild Things.  She is a writer, artist, and food stylist whose work has appeared in The New York Times, Vogue, Saveur, Taste, Food52, Roads & Kingdoms, and Atlas Obscura, among others. Trained at the Rhode Island School of Design, Kirshner grew up on a small farm outside Seattle and divides her time between Brooklyn and rural Japan.


mimulus September 1, 2021
I picked up your wonderful book on a whim at Third Place Books in Ravenna. My instincts served me are living the life I want to be! So glad someone is. I know it is alot of hard work and a labor of love, and look forward to following on IG. Do you know these? Japanese grandma recipes:
and about a 600 year old estate an American woman is restoring. I have never travelled to Japan, but do hope to some day. Meanwhile, I am mastering Japanese vegan cooking. Sadly, after twenty years of keeping chickens, I am allergic to eggs, but so many wonderful ingredients/recipes to explore: takuan, kiriboshi, menma. So glad Seattle has such wonderful Asian markets. Be well.
Paul F. May 16, 2021
Lovely read; my wife and I have been renovating a 130yo kominka in Tochigi; CNN featured us last year: . Good luck with the renovation! You're in a gorgeous part of Japan. We lived in Kanazawa for three years in the early '90s and still miss it now.
davethorvald May 27, 2021
Hi Paul, I read your extensive article on CNN with great interest and added to my "round-up of resources, musings, riffs and etc" about Akiya and Japan country life. Hope each day is wonderful. Regards from Tsuchida Cottage in "goldilocks" Okayama.
Hannah K. June 14, 2021
I read that article! You found some amazing treasures. It's inspiring to see your beautiful renovation. I do love the landscape and culture of Ishikawa.
Mary-Ann April 22, 2021
Hannah, this is so inspiring! I will follow the progress of your home reno and likely, the unfolding of a new life for you and your husband.
Hannah K. May 5, 2021
Thank you! I'm learning new things from this house every day.
davethorvald March 7, 2021
Hello from Sunny Okayama where my wife Ryoko and our new baby live on ancestral land in a "cottage" (kinda shotgun house slapped together) next to the parents who renovated Grandma/Grandpa's kominka about 4 years ago keeping all the original touches but doing some practical and comfortable upgrades. We don't get much snow here but does get chilly and summer's of course hot and humid. We are staying in a big tatami room while we do some changes to the cottage - lovely sliding doors, changed form original but maintaining aesthetics, engawas (where i sit now) now have thermal glass windows but also open fully for the fresh breeze. We're now bring this full circle as we use the old sliding doors to the cottage reno, plus re-wrap the tatami mats rather than tossing out, plus adding an efficient wood stove (my wife is an arborist so always has wood gathered) plus we adding a new room, moving kitchen into a more open location and whatnot. We also added a new ofuro bath so the 3 of us can bathe together. Unlike the parents' house, the cottage is sorta slapped together but we resisted a tear down and start again and making incremental changes. (Funny the parents said "you will just live in our house when we pass away" to which i replied, "you are 65 year old healthy Japanese so that means 30 years from now!"

Anyhow, the property also has a magnificent 150+ year old "kura" grain barn with massive wood beams, mud walls and 3 thick doors with cast iron puzzle keys. This has turned into my art studio and music lounge (needs a few little upgrades for safety and power/lighting) and a "naya" tool shed for wife's business which also has loads of Grandpa's heavy duty pre-war farm tools (including probably 6 pick axes!).

Documenting loads of this life (amongst other projects) at if curious. Not a plug, just me saying "right on with your awesome project".
Hannah K. April 6, 2021
Wow! I love hearing about and seeing your home/project too!
davethorvald May 28, 2021
Circling back to say, i added your wonderful story my "round-up dossier" of resources, directories, musings and stories about Akiya and Kominka and inaka living - just hoping to spark and assist others in their dreams of living eco, natural and calm in pleasant places.
Hannah K. June 14, 2021
Thank you!
Lisa P. March 7, 2021
I love this! Following. I'm a semi-retired architect with a lifelong affinity and love of classic Japanese architecture and design, and am particularly interested in your solutions to water/heat/sewage issues. Looking forward to seeing your progress.
Hannah K. April 6, 2021
Thank you! I have so much to learn. I will share when I make some progress :-)
Carisensei March 7, 2021
Hi Hannah,
I know this is very challenging and a lot of hard work but what a dream! I lived in Japan for seven years in the late 80s and your story brought back some amazing memories. I’ll be following your progress on IG. Gambatte kudasai!
Hannah K. April 6, 2021
That is really nice to hear. Ganbarimasu!
Lina V. March 6, 2021
Hi Hannah, I REALLY enjoyed this as I grew up spending time in a beautiful home just like this one in Japan (my grandmother still lives there and way past due for a visit!). I really love and admire what you are doing! While I can agree with you to keep its traditional details as much as possible, few things can be updated. My grandmother’s home has been thru few renovations but still feels and she kept many details as original. One area of the house she has updated over the years is showroom. It’s modern but works :)

I look forward to follow this beautiful journey and feel free to reach out if I can be of any help! I see we share love for food and culture :)
Hannah K. April 6, 2021
Lina, your grandmother's home sounds wonderful. I'd love to know how she has updated it over the years. If you're on Instagram, would you send me a message there?
Lina V. April 6, 2021
Hi Hannah,
Of course, happy to share what I know & can 😊
I love what you are doing and so inspiring !

I’ll say hello on your IG 😃

My IG: @linav
SRDfoodie March 2, 2021
Hi Hannah, I'm also a food writer, sustainability consultant and visitor to Japan. One of my favorite reading resources of women's lives in the home, food, samurai warriors and Japanese tales of social justice are the old stories and letters written by a 13th monk named Nichiren Daishonin, called the Gosho. I look forward to watching the progress of your Nippon farmhouse!
Hannah K. May 5, 2021
I have not read the Gosho yet, but will put it on my list. Thank you!
Nancy M. March 1, 2021
Have a look on YouTube for Tokyo Llama's renovation of his Japanese home - lots of inspiration for you and wonderful to watch the progress . His efforts to restore and modernize his home is an inspiration. I wish you the best of luck in this adventure. Look forward to your progress.
davethorvald March 7, 2021
Indeed, Tokyo Llama is doing a great job and his videos are lovely.
Hannah K. April 6, 2021
I'll take a look, thanks!
luvcookbooks February 27, 2021
Following in the Bronx. I love this story that takes me so far away.
Hannah K. April 6, 2021
I'm so glad <3
Arati M. February 27, 2021
Hannah, I can't wait to follow along on this journey of discovery...