This feels like one of those themes that becomes more interesting the more you pay attention to it. The older I get, the more I've reflected on how we all move through different versions of ourselves depending on where we are and who we're with.

I've been thinking lately about the many personas we all carry.

There is the person I am when I'm completely alone. There is the version of me that exists with my spouse, another that emerges with friends, and another that shows up at work. Each one is slightly different. Not better or worse. Just different.

For a long time, I thought authenticity meant being exactly the same in every situation. But the older I get, the more I realize that isn't how human beings work.

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Walking through residential streets in Tokyo, especially around Kiyosumi Shirakawa, I remember how the city would occasionally soften without warning. One moment it was concrete and utility poles, the next it was a quiet row of pots edging into the street, as if someone had gently expanded their home by a few inches.

In those neighborhoods, the sidewalk often carried these small, personal gardens. Plants arranged in front of houses in mismatched containers, some elevated, others directly on the ground. Nothing symmetrical, nothing styled in a deliberate way, and yet it always felt intentional. A bicycle leaning nearby, a hose tucked away, a doorway half visible behind the leaves. Everyday life continuing right alongside this thin band of green.

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Every summer in Japan, something quietly magical happens. Convenience stores fill with colorful paper, shopping streets sprout bamboo branches, and people start pausing, just for a moment, to write down their wishes.

This is Tanabata, or 七夕, the Star Festival.

It comes from the story of two stars, Orihime the weaver and Hikoboshi the cowherd, separated by the Milky Way and allowed to meet just once a year on July 7. If it rains, they cannot cross the sky to see each other, which adds a gentle sense of uncertainty to the tradition.Click below to read more.

There is a moment at summer festivals in Japan when everything becomes very simple. A shallow pool, a paper scoop that feels too fragile to be useful, and a handful of goldfish moving in slow, unpredictable patterns.

Kingyo sukui looks like something you can figure out. That was my first mistake.

I am not a patient person. I like understanding how things work, adjusting quickly, getting to a result. So the first time I tried it, I approached it like a small problem to solve. Watch carefully, pick the right moment, move decisively.

The paper broke immediately.

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There is something surprisingly refreshing about playing tourist in your own city. You think you know it. You think you have seen the highlights. And then someone who has lived its stories for decades takes you by the hand and shows you a completely different layer.

That is exactly what happened to me last week.

I had the joy of exploring San Francisco with a long time local with deep Japanese American roots, and while it did not completely change how I see the city, it added a richness and depth that I had not experienced before. What felt familiar became more meaningful, filled with connections I had not fully noticed.

One of the highlights was visiting the Legion of Honor for the first time.

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I grew up with hydrangeas as something fragile.

Back in Belgium, my mother worried about them constantly. Were they surviving the winter. Was the soil too acidic. Would they bloom pink or blue this year. Hydrangeas were not just flowers, they were a responsibility. Their color felt like feedback, a visible response to how well they were being cared for. Too much acidity and they shifted. Too little attention and they suffered. They required watching, adjusting, and a certain quiet vigilance.

To me, hydrangeas were delicate creatures that needed protection.

Then I lived in Japan and married into an entirely different relationship with the same plant.

There, my husband cursed them.

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One of the quiet realities of living with a Japanese spouse is accepting that there are correct ways to do very ordinary things. Folding towels. Pouring beer. And, perhaps most humbling of all, cutting vegetables.

In Japan, cutting is not just preparation. It is technique, intention, and language all rolled into one. There are words for how you cut something, why you cut it that way, and what it will become once you do. Growing up, I thought chopping was chopping. After living in Japan, I learned that chopping is merely the beginning of a very long conversation.

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There are some books that do not ask much of you. They do not rush you or demand answers. They simply sit beside you while you hold what feels heavy.

The Vanishing Cherry Blossom Bookshop by Takuya Asakura felt like that kind of companion.

Reading it, I kept thinking about how loss is treated in Japan. Death is not always something to be explained or fixed. It is something that is acknowledged, given space, and woven gently into everyday life. Shrines appear at street corners. Names are spoken quietly. Seasons carry memory. Grief is allowed to exist without urgency.

The book carries that same softness. It does not turn away from death or absence. It stays with it. And in doing so, it creates room for healing that feels honest rather than forced.

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