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.

Click below to read more.

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.

Click below to read more!

There is something energizing about landing in Tokyo and diving straight into meetings with people like Rob Van Nylen of Akisha, Zach Krause at GLOBIS University, and Maya Matsuoka. Maybe it is the city’s rhythm: efficient yet warm, fast yet thoughtful. Or maybe it is the way connections formed years ago continue to show up in new and unexpected ways. My first day back reminded me that in Japan, relationships do not just endure. They mature quietly and steadily, and when you least expect it, they bear new fruit.

Click below to read more!

Today’s mindful thought comes straight from my rice cooker, which continues to prove that it may actually be the hardest‑working appliance in my kitchen. I finally tried making satsuma imo gohan, Japanese sweet potato rice, using the recipe from JustOneCookbook.com, and I’m annoyed with myself for not doing this years earlier. It is absurdly easy, almost suspiciously so, and yet the result tastes like something with a long, thoughtful tradition behind it.

You literally chop a satsuma imo, soak it for a bit, toss it on top of your washed rice, add water and a splash of seasonings, close the lid, and push the button. The rice cooker does all the work while you wander off and pretend you’re busy. When it pops open again, you’re greeted by fluffy rice dotted with soft, naturally sweet cubes of potato that somehow feel both comforting and elegant. It’s the kind of dish that makes you want to stand in the kitchen with the spoon and “just taste a little more” until half of it is mysteriously gone.

Click below to read more!

This Monday I am still thinking about my recent visit to the Paramount Theatre in Oakland. I knew it was an Art Deco landmark, but walking up to that towering façade felt almost surreal. The huge mosaic on the front of the building, which you can see in the first image of the collage, is so tall and intricate that it is hard to take in all at once. Standing on the sidewalk, looking up at that vertical mural against the winter sky, I already had the feeling that I was about to step into another era.

Inside, the theatre felt even more dreamlike. The long, soaring lobby and auditorium drew my eyes upward again and again. In the collage, there are a couple of photos taken from the center aisle, looking toward the stage and up into the dramatic green and gold ceiling. Being there in person felt like walking into a golden canyon of light and pattern. Every surface shimmered with details that only reveal themselves slowly, and it is the kind of space where you instinctively lower your voice even when there is no performance happening.

Click below to read more!

I installed a set of clear drawers recently to keep the things I reach for most: medication, supplements, those small daily essentials, in one visible, accessible place. My husband is always a little amused when I come home with yet another organizing tool, but for me, there’s something genuinely calming about creating visible order. Sliding those clear drawers into place and seeing everything arranged inside felt like a tiny exhale. It reminded me so much of Japan, where organizing isn’t just tidying, it’s a form of gentle care, a way of making life feel smoother and less overwhelming.

That small moment made me realize how much I rely on order to soothe my mind. Not perfection. Not a Pinterest-level aesthetic. Just the grounded, everyday comfort of things having a place, and me knowing where that place is. It’s amazing how seeing what I need, clearly, simply, quietly lowers the background noise in my mind.

Click below to read more!

Yesterday I went to what will definitely be my last Shinnenkai of the year: the US-Japan Council NorCal & Nevada gathering at Fermentation Lab in Japantown, San Francisco. It was a lunchtime event, and that midday sun filtering into the restaurant added to the relaxed atmosphere. Instead of anything formal, it was a buffet where people wandered between tables, caught each other’s eye, and easily slipped into conversations. That casual setup made everything feel open and natural, and I found myself connecting with people I might not have spoken to in a more structured setting.

USJC President Audrey Yamamoto shared a little about the US-Japan Council’s projects to strengthen U.S.–Japan relations, but it felt less like a presentation and more like a heartfelt reminder of why this community matters. It set the tone for an afternoon where relationships, not agendas, were the center.

Click below to read more!

Have you ever had a small moment stop you in your tracks, the kind where the world feels busy, but something simple pulls you gently back into the present? For me, that moment often arrives in the form of a winter camellia.

One of the small joys that always grounds me, both during my years in Japan and now here in California, is spotting the camellia, 椿 tsubaki, blooming in the coldest months. When most plants are taking a winter rest, the camellia chooses that moment to shine. Its glossy dark leaves and perfectly layered petals offer a kind of quiet presence, a reminder that beauty doesn’t need a season, it arrives when it’s ready, and often when we least expect it.

Click below to read more!