This Mindful Monday, I’m still carrying the energy of the recent San Francisco Sakura Festival with me.

Being there as a member of the Japan Chamber of Commerce and as a JET alumna felt especially meaningful. The weather was glorious, the crowds were enormous, and the atmosphere was joyful in that very particular way that only community festivals seem to create. Everywhere you looked, there were cherry blossoms, smiles, music, parades, and people showing up for something bigger than themselves.

What struck me most was how many volunteer groups were involved. From early setup to guiding crowds to keeping things moving smoothly, so much of the festival rested on people quietly giving their time and attention. That kind of volunteering is a form of mindfulness in action. You are present, focused, and connected to the people around you, not thinking about what comes next, but fully engaged in what is happening right now.

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The recent opening night of Chiharu Shiota’s exhibition at the San Francisco Asian Art Museum was one of those experiences that stays with you long after you leave the building.

I went with a friend who worked at the museum for many years, which made the evening especially meaningful. Walking through the galleries with someone who knows the institution from the inside, who understands the care, history, and intention behind exhibitions like this, added a deeply personal layer to the experience. It felt less like attending an opening and more like sharing a moment shaped by art, memory, and connection.

Shiota’s work is often described as immersive, but that word still falls short. Her installations are environments you move through physically and emotionally. Thread, space, absence, and presence are woven together in a way that quietly demands reflection.

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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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