Listening to Hooked by Asako Yuzuki, known in Japanese as Nile Perch, turned out to be far more unsettling than I expected, in the best possible way.

After reading Butter, I thought I knew the emotional terrain Yuzuki was interested in. I expected sharp observation and discomfort, and I got both, but Hooked went further. It doesn’t just examine women’s friendships, it takes apart the myth surrounding them. The idea that female friendships are automatically nurturing, safe, and emotionally intuitive is quietly but relentlessly questioned. What emerges instead is something far messier and far more human.

The story drops you into the world of women’s friendship circles, where expectations are rarely spoken out loud but are constantly felt. What stayed with me was how easily intentions are misunderstood. A gesture meant as closeness can be read as control. Silence can feel like rejection. Admiration can blur into fixation. Yuzuki captures how quickly these misreadings can stack up, especially when someone is deeply invested in being chosen, seen, or needed.

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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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This series explores the three dimensions of a fulfilling life inspired by Shigehiro Oishi’s book Life in 3 Dimensions and my own experiences living in Japan, moving to the United States, and working between both cultures.

By the time I reached the final chapters during another morning walk, I felt as if Oishi had handed me a lens that clarified the shape of my life. The three dimensions he describes were already present in my experiences, but I had never considered how intentionally they could work together and how I can use this knowledge to help others.

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This series explores the three dimensions of a fulfilling life inspired by Shigehiro Oishi’s book Life in 3 Dimensions and my own experiences living in Japan, moving to the United States, and working between both cultures.

I listened to the middle section of the book during another early walk through Lafayette. The streets were still quiet, and the narrator’s voice carried Oishi’s ideas in a way that invited me to reflect more deeply. In this chapter, he describes psychological richness as a life marked by varied experiences, complexity, and shifts in perspective. It is not built on predictability or comfort. It grows through engagement with difference.

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This series explores the three dimensions of a fulfilling life inspired by Shigehiro Oishi’s book Life in 3 Dimensions and my own experiences living in Japan, moving to the United States, and working between both cultures.

I listened to Life in 3 Dimensions for the first time during a morning walk in my Lafayette neighborhood. It was cool and quiet, the kind of morning where eucalyptus leaves crackle under your shoes and the hills look soft in the hazy light. I had expected a book about happiness, maybe something gentle and encouraging. Instead, I found myself listening to ideas that cut right to the center of something I have been thinking about for most of my life: the search for meaning.

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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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