In a world obsessed with productivity, competition, and the "hero’s journey," Natsu Miyashita’s The Forest of Wool and Steel shines a quietly revolutionary light on something altogether different.
This book is a balm for those who’ve felt out of step with society’s narrow definitions of success or crave a deeper, slower, more meaningful way of living.
In this episode of The Gentle Rebel Podcast, I explore what I took as its key themes and why they feel so radical in today’s hustle culture.
Beyond "Finding Your Purpose"
Society often frames purpose as something we discover "out there" - a preordained destiny waiting to be unlocked. But The Forest of Wool and Steel shows us something subtler: purpose isn’t discovered in that way; it’s woven through our responses to chance encounters.
The protagonist, Tomura, stumbles into piano tuning after a random school errand. What captivates him isn’t some grand mission but a moment of sensory awe:
"His whole body trembled. It was like hearing colour."
This moment isn’t about the piano giving him purpose; it’s about how the piano helps reveal what was ready to resonate within him. The novel suggests that any object, experience, or moment can become a doorway to the forest if we're listening.
High Sensitivity as an Ordinary Feature of Humanity
Unlike narratives that treat sensitivity as a flaw or a superpower, Miyashita normalises it as simply part of being human. Tomura and his mentors experience the world with a depth of processing.
One tuner feels exhausted by public telephones, billboards, and the dirt on the road. He has learned to recover through a metronome’s rhythm.
Tomura often needs time to process decisions, rejecting opportunities before slowly embracing them - a familiar experience for many HSPs.
The book’s quiet power lies in its refusal to pathologise or glorify sensitivity. Instead, it shows how deep attunement - to sound, environment, and subtlety, is the source of growth and meaning.
The Question of Success
Tomura’s apprenticeship defies every expectation of the "hero’s journey." There are no villains, no competitions, no triumphant climax. Instead, his growth is slow, iterative, and deeply personal:
How long until I can make that sound I heard on that first day?
The novel suggests that true mastery isn’t about conquering a craft but collaborating with it and understanding with more than the mind.
In a culture obsessed with optimisation and "levelling up," the seasonal, non-linear approach we witness here feels quietly radical.
Outgrowing Hustle Culture
The book gently critiques society’s obsession with measurable success. When Tomura’s brother mocks his belief that a piano’s sound contains "the whole world," it mirrors how modern culture dismisses wonder in favour of utility.
Yet the novel celebrates the "useless", the wasteful, and the ordinary:
Knowing the names of trees
The taste of olive oil-drizzled eggs
The way light glistens at dawn
These moments aren’t "productive," but they’re where meaning lives. As Tomura reflects:
"It felt to me as though nothing was a waste, but at the same time, everything was on some level a colossal waste."
This paradox is the heart of the book’s rebellion: what if the "small" things are the big things?
Why We Resist Slowness (And How to Stop)
Critics call the book "slow" or "uneventful", but that’s the point. Our discomfort with its pace reveals a deeper truth: we’ve been programmed to equate speed with value.
Tomura’s mentors teach him that people assume "brightness" is a synonym for better. But it's not that simple. Similarly, the novel invites us to reflect on our relationship with depth and darkness:
Are we afraid of stillness because it confronts us with ourselves?
Do we mistake urgency for purpose?
What if the "forest of wool and steel" (the unseen, sensory world) is where real creativity lives?