If you read my recent reflection on doing ohaka‑mairi with my husband’s family at Engaku‑ji, you’ll know the day already had a calm and thoughtful atmosphere. But right before heading back to Tokyo, a quick stop at the gift shop turned into a small cascade of discoveries about patience, protection, and some surprisingly vital information about omamori care that I had somehow never learned. I also found a noren that felt like it was speaking directly to me. Let’s just say I returned home with more than I expected.

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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.

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Yesterday was one of those beautifully layered days that only Japan seems able to create. I started the morning hiking with Tom Kobayashi, then met Kouji Miki at Engakuji for a long, thoughtful conversation about Zen, and ended the day with ohaka‑mairi at my husband’s family grave. Each person held a different piece of my Japan story, and somehow the entire day unfolded with a sense of gentle alignment.

Returning to Kita‑Kamakura, where my husband and I lived in my mother‑in‑law’s house before moving to San Francisco, felt bittersweet. Seeing the house again brought back early‑marriage memories, the quiet routines we built, and the feeling of being held by a place that shaped the beginning of our family life. It felt like revisiting an old chapter with gratitude rather than longing.

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