Life is short, and we are blessed
Almost 2 weeks ago, while I was in Japan, I received news that my dear friend, Jon Homewood, had passed away. The loss sat heavily with me, and I needed time, quiet and spacious, to process it. Life has a way of reminding us, sometimes sharply, that it is short, fragile, and impossibly precious.
I met Jon 12 years ago in Tokyo. We bonded over movies, wandering the city in search of good food, good conversation, and those small moments that stay with you for years. Jon had ongoing health challenges, yet he approached life with a kind of stoic joy, an ease, a willingness to laugh, a refusal to let illness define him. And always, that unmistakable crisp British accent that made every joke a little funnier and every conversation feel instantly familiar.
After he moved up north and I eventually left Japan, we weren’t in touch as often. But it was one of those friendships where, whenever we did connect, it felt like no time had passed at all. The thread was always there, steady and unchanged, waiting for the next time one of us tugged on it.
He was also an accomplished artist, and his creativity had a kind of magic to it. He could take discarded objects, scraps, things most of us would overlook, and transform them into something quietly beautiful. He saw potential everywhere, and maybe that was part of his gift, this ability to find light in places others might not notice.
One of my most treasured possessions is a pen drawing he gave me of a tree. It’s simple and profound all at once, full of texture and patience, like the way he saw the world. It hangs in my apartment now, a gentle reminder of him, of Tokyo, of the way our lives overlap in unexpected, meaningful ways.
In the swirl of my Tokyo trip, I knew he was back in the hospital. I saw the update, and instead of reaching out properly, I just sent an emoji. I thought he would be fine, the way he had been so many times before. I thought there would be another chance. This time, I was wrong. Sitting with that has been its own quiet lesson, one I’m still absorbing.
Even though I happened to be in Japan, I wasn’t able to attend his funeral because of work, something that tugged at me more than I expected. But during my trip, I visited Engakuji in Kita-Kamakura for ohaka-mairi with my husband’s family. Amid the moss-covered stones and the stillness unique to Zen temples, I offered up prayers for Jon. It felt right to say goodbye in a space where life and impermanence are woven so naturally together. Japan has always been a place that teaches me to breathe, to slow down, to notice, and that day it taught me to let go with gratitude.
As I continue to sit with his passing, I’m reminded how incredibly blessed we are for the people we meet along our paths. The friendships that shape us, the mentors who guide us, the companions who laugh with us on quiet Tokyo nights. And also the moments, fleeting, ordinary, beautiful, that eventually become some of our most cherished memories.
This week’s mindful monday message is simple: life is short, and gratitude is essential.
Gratitude for friendships that feel like home.
Gratitude for the people who show us how to live bravely, even when life is heavy.
Gratitude for the experiences that soften us and remind us why we’re here.
And gratitude for the chance to pause, to really see what is in front of us.
Fare you well, Jon. Thank you for the joy, the art, the laughter, and the reminder that every day is a gift.
May we all live with a little more fullness, a little more presence, and a lot more gratitude.
