WHEN YOU THINK about ikebana, if you ever do, you most likely think about how it looks: spare and deliberate in its construction. And maybe you think about how it has lots of seemingly unfathomable rules, which it does — so much easier to just throw some flowers in a jug!

And yet, were you to consider the philosophy at the core of ikebana, grounded as it is in Japan’s ancient polytheism and its Buddhist traditions, you might find something quite relevant to the times we live in: an art that can expand your appreciation of beauty. And who wouldn’t, in this age or any other, want to find beauty where you hadn’t seen it before? One of the main components of Ikebana is the notion that “the whole universe is contained within a single flower” — for one small thing to open our minds to so much more.

In the Animistic polytheism at the root of Japanese Shinto culture, god resides in everything —from stones to flowers to the wind. God is all things natural, and so all things natural are god. Arranging flowers has always been considered a way of harmonizing humanity and the natural world. The practice began with the arrival of Buddhism in Japan from China, when converts started leaving floral offerings at the temples, and was codified in the 15th century with the creation of the first school, Ikenobo, in Kyoto, which is still in operation today. Eventually, other schools emerged, each with their own masters and aesthetics, and ikebana went from a religious ritual to a trapping of aristocratic palace life, eventually becoming a genteel pastime for 19th-century ladies. (The simplified form practiced by those ladies is what most Westerners think of as ikebana — a triangular composition of three main elements: the tallest representing heaven, the lowest, earth, with man as the bit of flora in the middle trying to negotiate between them.) And though ikebana has continued to evolve with the times, reflecting various eras and influences, it is a practice governed by rules imposed by the successive masters of its various schools. Even the more freestyle, modern incarnations have rules designed to discourage, in the words of one book from the 1960s, “arrogant expressions of creativity.” But for the current generation of floral artists, who see nature as their only master, this system of connecting to flowers by following guidelines set down by others no longer feels vital or appropriate.

One thing, however, that unites all the innovations and developments that ikebana has seen over the centuries is a search for balance between opposites. Ikebana is, fundamentally, an exploration of the frictions between the visible and the invisible, life and death, permanence and ephemerality, luxury and simplicity. This duality is embodied in the two original Japanese floral styles, of which all the rest can be seen as iterations: tatehana (which translates as “standing flowers,” because the flowers seem to be standing upright in their container) and nageire (which means “thrown in,” because the flowers appear to be leaning against the container as if they were just tossed there). Tatehana, which, while formalized in the 15th century, evolved from those sacred offerings left at Buddhist shrines, has a grand formality: It might feature a tall central evergreen, like a pine, chosen for its sense of unchanging permanence, along with other elements, like flowers or grasses, placed subordinate to it. Nageire, born in the16th century as a response to this style, was more individualistic and free-spirited: It made use of delicate ephemerals like wildflowers that would have gone unnoticed in tatehana. These dual styles are not in opposition, but rather complementary, and to the Japanese eye, the other is always present even if not visible.

The story that best illustrates the tension and interconnectedness of the two approaches is one that involves Toyotomi Hideyoshi, the ruler of Japan, and the Zen tea master Sen no Rikyu in the 16th century. Hideyoshi was known for his lavish, gaudy excess, and under his rule, tatehana, which he adored for its grandeur, had become increasingly more relaxed — libertine really — in its expressions of extravagance. (Hideyoshi once commissioned 40-foot-tall arrangements in 7-foot vases — for him, size definitely counted.) In response, Rikyu developed the wabi form of the tea ceremony, one that prioritized simplicity and slowness over polish, and along with it, advanced the humble nageire style of arrangements for the teahouse interior. Rikyu tried to refine nageire to its essence, evolving the style from an arrangement of several flowers to just one, housed in the most humble and common of containers, like a rice bowl or an earthenware jar. One day, upon hearing that morning glories were in glorious bloom in the garden of Rikyu’s teahouse, Hideyoshi made an appointment to see them. But when he arrived, they had all been cut down. He entered the teahouse and found there a composition of a single morning glory of such exquisiteness that he saw within it the beauty of the entire natural world. Hideyoshi was awed and affronted that his rival had achieved such transcendence, and later, he ordered Rikyu to commit ritual suicide.

This emphasis on the brevity of life is one of the fundamental differences between ikebana and Western arrangements, but another is the particular recessiveness of the flower itself. Western arrangements prioritize full-frontal blooms, ripe and bold and staring straight at the viewer. In ikebana, there might not even be a flower in the composition, and if there is, it rarely looks you in the eye: It is more likely bent or turned to the side. Stems or leaves or branches are often emphasized over flowers, and those might very well be crooked or yellowing or covered with moss.

Ikebana changes and is informed by the culture and the times; what makes ikebana especially poignant and potent in this moment is its direct and personal connection to nature, its awareness of and emphasis on decay in an era in which our own ecological and environmental ruin feels more vivid than ever.