On gratitude, generosity and deafening silence
I've been thinking about something recently, and I'm curious whether I'm the only one noticing it.
Over the years, a lot of people have reached out to me asking for advice. Sometimes they're interested in working in Japan. Sometimes they're looking for information about Japanese companies, introductions to people in my network, or guidance on navigating a career change. Most of the time, I'm happy to help. I've been fortunate to have many people help me throughout my career, and sharing a bit of what I've learned feels like a small way to pay that forward.
What I've noticed lately, though, is how often the interaction simply ends once the help has been provided.
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Finding our Ibasho 居場所
This week's Mindful Monday was inspired by a recent LinkedIn post from my friend Darren that asked three simple questions: Where were you born? Where do you live now? Where do you feel you belong?
My answers would be Belgium, the United States, and... I'm not entirely sure.
What I do know is that if you asked me where home is, I'd probably answer Japan or the U.S. It definitely wouldn't be Belgium.
That feels strange to say because I mostly lived in Belgium until I was 38. I then moved permanently to Japan, and later to the U.S. On paper, Belgium should be the obvious answer. It's where I spent most of my life.
But belonging doesn't seem to work like that.
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Finding calm in a Japanese train-timetable murder mystery
I've always found it slightly funny that one of my favorite ways to unwind is reading detective novels.
Most people relax by shutting their brains off. I relax by trying to solve fictional murders.
I just finished Tokyo Express by Seichō Matsumoto, a Japanese detective novel that was originally published in 1958. When I looked up the publication date afterwards, I honestly couldn't believe it. Apart from the absence of smartphones and email, it didn't feel dated at all.
The story starts with what appears to be a lovers' suicide, but two detectives become suspicious and start pulling on loose threads. Before long they're analyzing train schedules, station stops, travel times, and alibis in painstaking detail.
And somehow it's absolutely gripping.
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Curiosity, compassion, and a Master Detective
I've been listening to the audiobook of My Grandfather, the Master Detective by Masatera Konishi, and it has turned out to be one of those rare books that is both comforting and genuinely thought-provoking.
Part of the enjoyment comes from the narration by Hanako Footman, whom I've written about before. She has an incredible ability to bring characters to life, and her performance adds warmth and nuance to every chapter.
The story centers on Kaede and her grandfather, a former mystery enthusiast whose life is complicated by dementia. What struck me most is the care with which the condition is portrayed.
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The many faces of one authentic self
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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From Tokyo sidewalk gardens to my balcony
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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Wishing gently into summer
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.
Patience, apparently
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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