It was a farm on an island, somewhere in the Seto Inland Sea.

A tiny private boat took the three of us there. The wind was active as we jumped through the currents. Everyone’s hairstyle in a constant tussle, strands of hair were waving — not like waving hello, but more like a goodbye, or a shaking off of something. My beard tasted of sea salt.

On the boat, our ambassador pointed to a tiny beige-green lump far off in the sea and explained. Their organization purchased the island around a century ago, before synthetic fertilizers and pesticides were common in Japan.

From the start, it was decided not to use either on the island.

Rare.

Must be the only place in Japan that never once used chemicals?

So far as we know, it is, they said.

The wind became lighter over the thirty minute ride. The island grew bigger. Clearer. We could see the outline of individual trees across the hills.

The tiny outboard motor quieted. The boat slowed up beside a wood dock.

—

Dinner that night looked like a luxury spread from a swanky hotel.

This, I knew only from a short stint years ago, throwing tech events at swanky Silicon Valley hotels.

This was not a swanky Silicon Valley hotel though. It was a humble private kitchen, on a small Japanese island where no one had ever sprayed pesticides.

And that is how I knew it.

With the first bite of melon.

I knew that the world was going to end.

Not the whole world. The world where food came from a package.

The world where that package came from a distribution center stacked with boxes of melons, tomatoes, heads of cabbage.

Where the melons, tomatoes and cabbage came from a regional sorting center.

Where the regional sorting center took arrivals from other national sorting centers, and those ones got the shipments from the farms, and those farms got their loads of fertilizers and pesticides to grow the foods from other distribution centers, vast dockyards with rows of cranes—from processing plants in far off countries that must have more oil extraction capabilities than we do.

Or more relaxed environmental laws.

By contrast, the distribution of food on this island was more simple.

—

We had walked through the fields just before dinner.

That was when the head farmer showed me the chart.

We were in an apple orchard, glistening green-yellow apples. Or maybe yellow-green.

It really depended on the angle of the light.

The chart outlined when to apply poison.

The farmer pointed his tough, thick finger, stabbing at the giant fold-out paper chart, sent to him by the agriculture association.

They send it every year. He said, gripping the chart, relaxing his thick finger for a moment.

He took in a deep breath. Looked away from the chart for a moment.

The air was not salty up here, but crisp. A breeze through the leaves carried the scent. Grass and wet earth.

He usually swears at the chemical spraying chart when it arrives in the mail. Then burns it in a personal ceremony.

A smoke signal.

But he saved the chart this year. Not to follow, but to show people like us.

Thirteen times in the growing season. You see? The thick, stabbing finger resumed its assault on the glossy card-stock paper.

Ichi, ni, san, yon, go, roku, nana … I looked at the chart, but couldn’t read the Kanji characters.

Ju-san. Thirteen times. You should spray.

Look. Here. This is the harvest date. And here. The last application of poison to the apples.

Right before harvest? I half-guessed.

Right! Yes! Right before shipping. For people to eat. You should spray.

He laughed.

Shook his head.

Folded the chart back up.

Did his best to flatten out the angry finger-jab-induced wrinkles.

We all took another few deep breaths.

Crisp. Clear. The smell of earth.

—

At the dinner table, the three of us commented on how good the food was. You always do this, for the benefit of the host.

But we also shot wide-eyed glances back and forth with every bite.

On the boat ride back the next morning, hairstyles were again in a constant tussle as we jumped through the currents. Strands of hair waved even more furiously.

A lot to shake off, I thought.

A lot of charts to burn.

Notes: This writing is based on a true story, of our visit to one of many natural farms during 3 years of filming Final Straw: Food, Earth, Happiness.

Question: What charts do you need to burn?

Another Story: If you enjoyed this short adventure, you might also like this story from 2023, inspired by another natural farm visit, in which I become a tiger radish hunter.

—

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By train and bike, they arrived at sunset, to a neighborhood park in Osaka with a small pond. We had with us, sake, pens, and pieces of paper.

As the moon came up above the treeline, we took turns writing poems, reciting them, toasting, and setting the poems alight in the pond. Within the prose were social rants, love letters, observations—

About how many billions of years
it took to produce this one moment

Cool breeze through the tall trees
along the water
a reflection

Softly glowing rock, rippling,
spinning around the sun with us.

Much time was also spent just being there—present in this precious life we share here, together.

There used to be moon gazing parties in cities around the world.

People called it the best show on earth.

Poetry exploding, wine drifting down streams, celebrations with fire, dance, music, food, and time for contemplation of our glowing rock.

I want to live in a city where sitting for hours at the park
and staring at the moon
is more normal
than sitting for hours in front of a television or smartphone.

But sometimes we let normal get away from us.

If we could swap doom scrolling
for scrolling our eyes back and forth
between the moon and the earth

If we could let the gravity of the moon
pull harder and stronger
than the gravity of the latest outrage

Something important would return.

And maybe, this moon-gazing city would be inevitable.

Notes: These moon-watching rituals still do exist, though they are quite rare. In times and places when they can not be found nearby, the only thing I can do is create a new one that relates to the lives of people around me, not something strictly bound by tradition, but certainly informed by it.

Question: When was the last time you watched the moon for a while?

Another Story: Coincidentally, the moon also appears in this one, published almost exactly four years ago, in a mountain shrine on the outskirts of Kyoto.

—

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—

The city of Gimhae is known for its diverse population and growing number of multicultural families.

That is one of the reasons why Bomnunbyeol feels at home here.

“It feels like traveling without having to travel.” He laughs as he takes us for a walk around an ancient royal tomb of the legendary King Suro. Making our way slowly through the forest surrounding the tomb, the woods glisten with light and shadow, and a Daurian redstart looks on curiously from a branch. There is a sense of calm here, but also, something mysteriously different from other Korean tombs. In 48 AD, King Suro is said to have married a princess from India. Whether the legend is true or not, both of their tombs are situated here, embraced by lush urban forest.

Coming around the front of the tombs, I bow once each — to the King from Korea, the Queen from India, and the orange-breasted bird we saw in the forest. We walk back to Bomnunbyeol’s shop.

—

Bomnunbyeol is a musician by trade, and can often be found traveling the country on a tiny motorbike with instruments strapped to his back. His choice to settle here and eventually open a small studio and shop was a big decision. He opened 없는집 (the name literally means House That Isn’t) in part, to kick-start his life in a new direction.

I asked Bomnunbyeol what advice he might have for others who are thinking to open their own such space. He says:

“First, find a space that you think can serve as a turning point in your life. Then, give it an atmosphere you can’t experience at home.”

Bomnunbyeol sees the space partly as a way to push himself beyond the comfort of his own home. For him it is more than a place to conduct lessons or to sell the instruments he has collected over the years, he reflects:

“… think of it as a place for the moments and stories in your life to meaningfully accumulate [and] a space where you can focus on the work that you want to bring to the world.”

Walking from his shop, through the town, past the old tomb, I wonder if King Suro’s multicultural-bridge-building energy had a hand in luring him here. After all, Bomnunbyeol’s music does build bridges between cultures, in its own way.

Kalimba. Tongue Drums. Native American Flutes. All of the instruments that Bomnunbyeol plays are from places outside of his home country. When performing these instruments, his soft and caring style feels healing. Yet something larger also seems to move through the music — healing not just for the personal daily stresses we accumulate in life, but also touching upon the shared tension that exist between cultures.

We all know this kind of tension, even if we don’t realize it. Passed down through generations, it is the result of antagonism and wars that were not started by you and me. Nevertheless, it builds within our minds and bodies as we see, hear — and sometimes participate — in the global theater of us-versus-them.

This tension needs healing, too.

So it is that each time we share something between cultures, learn something about another culture, practice honestly a custom of another culture, or even appreciate music from another culture, we are entering a process of healing the most ancient of wounds.

If deeply knowing our own cultures tells us where we came from, then deeply learning about other cultures shows us where we might go.

Individually — but also as a species.

Bomnunbyeol’s music then works at two levels: locally through his tiny shop and intimate performances, and globally, through his dedication to music and instruments from beyond the place he was born, from that wider homeland we call Earth. Surely King Suro, Queen Heo Hwang-ok, and even that bird from the forest — who migrates effortlessly across political lines — can all attest to the importance of that.

Is not the Earth our homeland?

If you are curious to hear Bomnunbyeol’s music, his name in Korean is 김봄눈별 which makes it easier to find. He has a YouTube Channel and an Instagram @bomnunbyeol

Also, here is a film we did of him playing in a metro station in Seoul:

—

Coming Up Next: Did you enjoy this look into a tiny shop? Maybe we can make it an occasional series, illustrations and interviews about little shops.

Another Story: There was a neighborhood coffee shop by our old house where, from 6am-10am you could get breakfast for $4 while smoking a cigarette — until noon when smoking hours finish. Not the healthiest breakfast, but it was a beloved spot for locals.

—

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—

This tree does not exist.

The city behind it does not exist, though the buildings likely do, in a place we visited, or one we did not visit but imagined we might.

I have been here, in my dreams. My mind tells me that there is a tree in this place, and that I stood under it. Or else, that I stood under a tree like this one, in a forest that might have been a city. Or in a city that might have been a forest. Or in a world where a city is always part forest, part green tea bar, part office with a view. Part playground, part microbrewery, part dance club.

Whatever it is, wherever it was, it was here, for a moment, even if only on a page. One with very detailed instructions, on how to get from here, to there. And if it did exist on that page, if someone wrote it down, then it must still be here, and there, for once an idea is paired with an action, it becomes a reality.

The reality of this tree then waits for us, like the wind waits to blow through your hair as you turn the corner of a tall building. It hides from us, like the worst hide-and-seek player, laughing from behind a tree. It plays with us like a kitten, eyes wide, curious without judgement, at the flickering shadows of leaves and branches on the ground.

You see, it is not so difficult to find the things that do not exist.

The hard part, is remembering what to do once you do find them. To stop and feel the wind. To wink at the laughter behind the tree. To accept that the being who does not yet know how to judge might be a good teacher.

This tree does not exist. Though it could. And it will. And it does.

Next Week: I’ve been working on a map-related story about a special place in Japan. It is taking time to be beautiful enough to share. Perhaps next week.

Another Story: This week’s story might have been a little bit dreamy and fantastical. If you liked that, you’ll probably enjoy this story from four years ago.

—

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We rush across the intersection and the sun beats on us twice — once from above, and once from below, as stored heat radiates up from the asphalt and concrete.

After crossing, a rush of cars whirs along that asphalt vein between the city and its river, and then finally, we arrive. Squeezed in between the street and the river, is a narrow strip of land, planted thickly with bamboo.

At the entrance to the bamboo forest, we notice, not only does the heat of the sun lessen, but the ground itself radiates cool, too.

Sitting on a bench, we take off our shoes because, that is what you do here.

On baking hot asphalt, you wear shoes.
In this forest, nearly everyone walks barefoot.

In most parts of a city, you move from A to B as quickly as possible.
Here, the barefoot people move slowly.

Except me.

I walk at my normal city pace. It takes several minutes of this, until a different inertia nudges me. Several minutes until I finally slow to the pace of the others around me. In doing so, some strange kind of lightness occurs.

What strange kind of lightness?

You could say there is a subtle-yet-tight grip that holds us, in the normal days of working and stressing. We rarely feel it directly, this stress. The tightening of a particular kind of grasp is usually too gradual to notice, until its too late.

But here, feet connected to the clay soil, light and wind flicking through the bamboo, we notice it, by its absence, by the loosening of this grip.

We notice it also by the sheer quickness with which these giant hands — usually busy wringing our bodies of energy like water from wet laundry — suddenly let go.

We notice it, a loosening of muscles, and lightening of the mind.

There is a different sensation of being here that occurs, throughout your whole body.

This is the lightness.

After this experience, which lasts perhaps forty-five minutes, I wash my feet at a conveniently located set of water faucets built expressly for this purpose. This also, feels good.

—

In this world, there are many acts of slowing down.

Here however, the slowing does not feel like an act.

It is not a trying, to purposefully move slowly.

It is more like a different pulse, something that one feels, and then gradually, slips into, without effort.

It is something that happens in a small urban forest, walking barefoot, joined by fellow humans and other living beings, who are also a part of this pulse.

Together, we slow into a kind of lightness where, even the city herself seems to breathe more deeply.

Question: When and where was the last time you walked barefoot in a city, and how did it make you feel?

Another Story: Years ago in one of the world’s most dense cities, I walked to work, for an hour, through a forest. This photo essay from three years ago takes us on this unlikely commute route in Seoul, Korea.

—

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—

Sitting under a tree in Kyoto, I watch two kids play in a stream. They walk with surprising care, as the younger one hangs onto the sleeve of the older one. Both are wide-eyed however, observing signs of life in the tiny flow of water. Every now and then, they laugh or scream in amazement.

This kind of thing makes a person feel a little bit better about the world. A little more connected to it when, right there in front of us, two humans are deeply into the world in a way we adults rarely are.

Through the wonderment of those kids, I can remember what a miracle it is.

This little bit of water, moving by gravity from one place to the next, supporting all kinds of life in the process, including ours.

This little bit of water, inherently connected to those kids, to me, and to everyone and everything else.

And yet I wonder, besides myself, where all the adults are in this scene.

Of course, the people living here are mostly at work.

And the tourists — who double the population of this city on days like today — are more attracted to the shops and buildings, escaping the humid heat.

Understandable. It is 40 (104 F) degrees outside.

The hottest day in Kyoto’s recorded history.

Sitting here in the shade though, it seems a city with more trees might be a better long term climate plan than a city with more air conditioners.

—

Kyoto does have the bicycle thing going for them though.

My friend lent me her bicycle today. On the rear fender is a sticker that is over 30 years old — it identifies this as the bicycle of a high school girl. Though I am slightly embarrassed by the sticker, the bicycle works fine, and even on this hot day, I join a fairly large number of other bicycling people on their way from one place to the next.

After ten minutes of gliding on this trusty machine through peaceful side streets, eventually, another river.

The big one. Kamo-gawa.

I find them here. The other adults.

Also, a group of girls with the same sticker as me on their bikes. They giggle.

On the river are people of all ages. They sit and chat. They dance. They run. They rest on the grass. They jump gaily across stepping stones in the water.

That’s more like it.

Dancing and jumping across a river can probably fix more things than we know.

—

Speaking of dancing, later that night in Osaka, a few thousand people come by train and bicycle to a city park. They dance and sing and shout, clink cans of beer and highballs. Though I am different, and though I do not know any of them, I also do not feel like a stranger. We dance together.

Leading us is a minstrel on a stage with a gigantic fabric flower sewn to the middle of her dress. She sings and dances like a beautiful idiot. She and the band spread some kind of contagious energy to everyone.

Meanwhile, the moon looks on and two crows glide across a deep blue evening sky. They land on a tree with a good view of the scene. They must take some kind of joy from this group of wild humans, because they stay for a while.

Taking part in this scene, listening, dancing, smiling, singing, I suddenly feel tears well up — soon they roll down my cheeks, and I laugh.

In this park in the middle of this busy city, there are differences, between people, physical objects, living beings.

There are differences, but there is no real division.

Maybe there is no real division anywhere.

Maybe it just takes the right music, or the right art, or the right social conditions, for us to realize this.

To take action accordingly.

—

After the concert, I walk though the park to catch the Keihan Line train. On the way I pass sweaty joggers, old people with walkers, cyclists, and wildly dressed girls enjoying the night together. The trees sway with a breeze that tumbles gently along the moat, and through them Osaka Castle is lit up like a birthday cake.

There is some proverb somewhere, about how, sometimes the people who seem like idiots, are actually the most wise. Maybe at our best, we are all beautiful idiots, dancing through this life?

Another Story: During another kind of gathering among the trees, we learn another lesson about acceptance — growing food in ways that accept the inherent value in everything.

—

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Below, I share three new illustrations from this morning routine, along with some notes and thoughts — on how what we value shapes our cities.

—

Some things are untouchable. In Japan, the local coffee shop seems to be one of those things.

You open a coffee shop in 1957. On opening day, working people from the neighborhood come by bicycle or on foot. In the hours before they open their own shops, they enjoy a cup of coffee and toast. They read the morning edition of the daily newspaper — on actual paper.

Now it is 2025. Yet from what I can see, the scene unfolds as it did nearly six decades ago. Same location, most of the same people, the smell of dark coffee, buttered toast, and newspapers still on newsprint. A few newcomers. Rent is still cheap enough to sell a morning set — coffee, toast, egg, salad — for 350 yen, and still get by.

This kind of old shop is still common in Japan. In some ways it is made possible through a rent control law that requires a clear reason and consent of the tenant before any rent increase can happen. Also, Japan’s zoning laws help a bit, too.

While a law exists to enforce this, such issues are mostly mediated outside of it, directly by the people who live in a place, who work in a place, who own the buildings in a place — by the people who share a responsibility for each other’s well being, and who are encouraged to put that well being on a higher pedestal than money or power.

There are multiple kinds of social hierarchy in Japan. Perhaps the most important one is the one where a supportive community is the highest form of wealth possible.

When this holds true, rents become more stable as owners, renters, and workers realize they are playing for the same team. Then, it becomes common sense that locally owned and run shops are critical parts of a neighborhood — they enrich the community, just by being there.

Questions: Is there a beloved local shop that you frequent? What is it about this place that brings you back, and how might you explain that value to someone who has never been there?

Next Week: There are more illustrations from this most recent trip to Japan. I will work to share them nicely with you.

Another Story: What is up with Patrick and ‘kissaten’? This illustrated essay from 2022 explores some of the other benefits of the old neighiborhood coffee shop.

—

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After class I usually stay to read, write, or draw in the library. Last week however, even though it was hot and humid in the streets below, something nudged me outside for a walk.

A few hours in the hot afternoon sun made me realize that there are only two main ways to escape summer heat in this city.

There are many ‘other ways’ to cool off here than relaxing in a forested park, but I’ll save those for another time.

—

Questions: What are the ‘other ways’ of staying cool where you are?

Next Week: We have been working hard on the house here, and I might try to find a good way to share what we are doing, and how it might apply to other places. Or more illustrations of ‘cooling down’…

Another Story: A crew lops off the tops of urban street trees and an old woman dies, creating a moment for a city to re-invent itself in the name of shade.

—

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—

3:00PM — Two young lovers stand at the riverbank together. They stare into the shallows, watching as a heron moves his long neck from side to side. Calmly shifting at seemingly impossible angles, the majestic bird’s head swoops fluidly, as if were on a rope — only to stop suddenly.

The bird gently lifts one leg, moves forward, eyes the waters, and continues its stretching and shifting act with intense focus. Though the couple had initially stopped to admire the stark white color of this large bird, they end up staying and staring, wondering what all the streching and shifting is about.

Then suddenly, with a splash, and a quick darting snap of a beak, they find out — gasping in excitement.

They have never seen a heron catch a fish before.

Just behind the lovebirds, another familiar figure appears — the young woman from earlier in this series. She is here with her mother, and half dozen other humans, doing their own kind of impossible stretching and shifting.

A group yoga class gathers here regularly on the river.

On this particular day, the yoga folks seem unaware of the heron yogi — undisputable master of stretching, balance, and patience — just beside them. Nor does the heron notice them.

As the humans work themselves into some kind of triangle pose, the reeds along the river ripple in the wind, the couple look into each others eyes with wonderment and love, and the heron lowers his neck in one final downward dog arc, pulling up, looking to the heavens, gulping down his prize.

Though the yoga group and the heron may not notice each other, their practice somehow connects them.

After the yoga session, the mother walks up to her daughter, shaking her head. “I can’t stretch like you anymore.”

The daughter touches her mom on the shoulder. “But you’re better than last week. Keep going!”

They’ll both be back next week.

So will the heron. He’s here every day.

The illustrations in this series were originally commissioned by the Daejeon Sejong Research Institute.

—

Questions: What are the water birds like in your part of the world? How do your urban rivers support them, and how could they do it better?

Next Week: In our final entry of this series, we go fishing illegally — kind of.

Another Story: Do you know your “BFPs?” The rights of an urban river to meander is one of them.

—

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This is the first in a five part series exploring the curious and wonderful ways that people in Daejeon, Korea use their local waterway. These illustrations of Daejeoncheon — ‘cheon’ meaning ‘stream’ — were originally commissioned by the Daejeon Sejong Research Institute, for a publication pairing artists and scientists to explore the city’s rivers.

For the most part, the editors at the Institute liked the concept I presented — a layered view of how people connect with the stream in ways that support health, and nurture relationships between people and the environment.

But there was one illustration that they were not too sure about.

So, I’ll begin this series by sharing that illustration, along with one that eventually served as the opening illustration for the series.

While these two scenes are from two different locations along the same stream, they’re only about 500 meters apart. I share these together here, not because the thought of it raised eyebrows on the editorial board, but simply because I think it offers an important juxtaposition.

Suhee and I often used this stream as a bicycle route to get around town, or even to cut clear across the city, out to the hot springs and the new town. The river bike path was indispensable to us as people without a car, who relied heavily on their bicycles for transportation.

Riding between the two parts of the river illustrated above was always a big shock, not only for us, but for anyone not inside a car.

In one of these places, we can hear the chatter of birds and kids in the river. We can see the fishing tactics of heron and humans next to each other. We can smell sweet riverside grasses mixing with the scent of deep fried chicken from the Central Market.

But just a few hundred meters down the river, all of those sensations disappear. The sound of birds and kids playing is replaced by the roar of cars, racing down a literal highway alongside the bike path. Neither heron nor fishermen are anywhere to be seen. The sweet smell becomes a cocktail of murky algae pools, dust, and exhaust fumes.

Only a few dedicated bicyclists and runners continue into this latter section of the river path. Most turn around just before the first pedestrian crossing — and it’s no mystery why. I see the ones who brave it: dashing across a faded crosswalk, just past an equally faded 50km/h speed limit painted on the roadway. When traffic lightens, cars move at twice that speed.

If we identify as drivers, we might choose the riverside highway where no one is in our way.

But if we identify as human beings on this Earth, we might choose the place with heron, kids, river grass, and fried chicken.

As I sit on the river, sketching out these scenes, I wonder to myself: at the root of our being, which one of these are we?

Car drivers? Or human beings on this Earth?

Do we get to choose?

Questions: Do you feel like you get to choose how to get around your city?

Next Week: We join early-morning rush hour on the river… at 5:30am. What are hundreds of people doing down here this early? If you live in Korea you probably already know. If not, see you next week for the answer.

Another Story: The seed for this series was actually planted a few years back, as we were first exploring the river trails in Daejeon, and learning about how all of them used to be parking lots and highways. In fact, a lot of progress has been made in Daejeon.

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There is a classical radio station here in Korea that is part of the national Korean Broadcasting System (KBS). Suhee and I often have it on at the studio, especially in the mornings. The announcers are usually quite interactive, responding on air to thoughts, questions, and sometimes stories from listeners around the country.

The morning host is especially talkative, to the point where I sometimes say aloud things like “I could have sworn we were listening to a music station Suhee. Who turned on the talk radio?” Suhee ignores me. She likes this announcer, and this morning she told me the story that this announcer recounted. I haven’t complained about his talking since she told me this story, because what he said actually gave me great faith in humanity, and that feels more important these days than ever.

Apparently, a young schoolboy listens to KBS Classic with his mother every morning. This boy knows that people often call in to the station with important stories or thoughts, and that the announcer picks the most important ones and shares them. So it is completely natural that this young boy told his mother one morning “Mom! The Magnolia tree at our school is blooming today and it is so beautiful!” and that after this, he added “You need to tell the KBS Classic announcer about it!” which his mother dutifully did.

That story from the young boy – who admired a blossoming tree with his classmates and teachers at the onset of spring – reached the whole country this morning.

When the announcer reported the story, he added a thought, as he usually does.

“A lot of us rush to boast about things in our life. These days that boasting is often about our financial success, or some new fancy thing we just bought.” The host paused for some time, and you could feel the weight of what he said sinking in, as he continued “What if instead we rushed to boast about the flowers that were in bloom in our neighborhood, and how the sight or smell of them brightened our day?”

If the world is made of the stories we tell each other, this is the kind of world I want to live in.

—

This particular radio broadcast was streamed live on YouTube, and you can watch and listen (in Korean) here:

—

Question: What flowers are blooming in your neighborhood right now?

Another Story: The ecological vitality of Seoul is beloved by its citizens, but often underestimated by visitors. How underestimated? Imagine that, in the most densely populated city in the developed world, people walk to work through a forest instead of driving…

—

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Suhee is still upstairs, finishing packing. I pick a seat for us next to the garden. Being a tsuboniwa however, all seats are really next to the garden.

Many people say that tsuboniwa — the tiny courtyard gardens often found in equally tiny urban Japanese homes — are beautiful.

On paper, they are just little vacant lots. Small rectangular shafts, deliberately cut out of the side of a home. These spaces are adorned with motifs from nature, perhaps some moss-covered stones, a lantern, a tree, some shrubs, maybe a water feature if you are feeling extravagant.

Cutting out a slice of an already small home, you lose something. Giving this slice over to nature, you gain something.

In practice then, Tsuboniwa are not just empty shafts, but glorious vertical columns of light, air, and green that — because of their central location in a house — bring certain qualities from the outside to the inside. They can be natural air-conditioners in summer, and calm miniature snowscapes in winter. Year-round they can transform what would be an enclosed part of the home into a portal, where our daily life can connect with nature. In a world where buildings are often designed to isolate us from nature, tsuboniwa reverse this trend, allowing buildings to literally embrace nature.

By the way, have you ever watched the dew-covered moss on a stone? As Suhee is still upstairs, I take time to do that. It goes well with a cup of coffee. I guess it would go well with most any beverage though. There is utility in this too. This scene and this moment somehow assures my heart. It feels like something is purified inside. Maybe in this sort of utility, is also part of the beauty people speak of when they speak of tsuboniwa — especially the kind found in an old Okiya geisha house like this one.

Though tsuboniwa are common features of both geisha houses and normal townhomes in Japan, this is not just a sentiment for the home.

Later, down the way in the bigger city of Kokura, Suhee brings us to the busy Uomachi shotengai. Being in a central business district, the shopping street here is typically alive. You might picture it like a highway of pedestrians, yet with hundreds of direct offramps where feet scurry into the shops and alleys. The action is endless and diverse.

Suhee stops to look at the map while I watch people. A few old ladies chat with vegetable shopkeepers, and lines of young and fashionable folks wait outside one of the hot lunch spots. Suddenly, Suhee tugs at my arm. She pulls us into a very narrow building where the scent of green tea slips around racks of cups and teapots. As we slide deeper into the shop, the noise from the shopping street fades away, replaced by a soft piano cover of Elton John’s Rocket Man, and the quiet clinking of stoneware. Curious music choice, but we’ll see where it goes.

We take a seat, facing another tiny outdoor garden.

For an hour we enjoy green tea and chatting, and the stress in our bodies melts into something. Did the tea dissolve it? Did it go into the air? Into stones outside, or the green leaves? It went somewhere, for sure, and it feels good. There have actually not been many extended moments of pure calm on this trip. In this one Suhee reads the poet Hiroshi Osada ( 長田弘 ). She tells me how, with few words, he takes us to versions of the world overflowing with beauty and meaning. Suhee translates a poem for me. It sparkles with the skill of a poet who is absolutely efficient at being aware of beauty, and turning it into words.

Suhee, the former book editor brings it home for me. “When you only have a few blank pages, what you put there matters.”

“Kind of like this garden?” I ask, as we both stare into the tiny green space.

“Hai. They could have put more seats here instead of a garden.” says Suhee.

“Or a parking spot.” I reply.

Suhee holds her teacup, looks at the fern outside. “But they chose a garden.” says Suhee.

I stand up, camera in hand, and take in the scene of Suhee and the tea shop tsuboniwa. “If you only have a small space, what you put there matters.” I click the shutter a few times. Suhee nods in approval. We sit for a few moments more and decide it’s time to go. Rocket Man has been on loop for an hour and we guess it is the shop’s way of saying “Hey, don’t overstay your welcome.”

Music choice aside, when you have a small space, it is clear that the utility of beauty becomes even more important. This tea shop, a businesses with a legacy dating back more than a century understands this well.

Of course it does. If it lasted this long, it must.

Traditional architecture in this part of the world — and really, vernacular architecture in general — tends to hold the view that if we are to be expected to put forth energy required to build something, both beauty and function should exist in the thing to be built. Otherwise, why bother?

Question: Where was the last place you noticed both function and beauty being executed as a rule? What do you think enabled it to happen?

Next Week: A surprise. This little travel series will pause and we’ll take a look at what has been going on with our DIY shop remodeling process here in Daejeon. Do you want to see plans and sketches, or photos of the place, or both?

Another Story: Many of you will not yet have read this essay below, from three years ago. It was at very beginning of The Possible City. In it, we briefly look at what scale, ownership, and love have to do with better cities.

—

Thanks again, for letting me into your corner of the world each week. You can help keep this little publication going by thinking of a friend or colleague who might like this work, and sharing it with them. If you are not signed up yet to get these stories to your inbox, you can go ahead and do it below. If you are signed up, why not join the super awesome club of paid subscribers if you have the means?

Regardless, see you next week.

If you want to catch up, the previous installment of the series is here:

—

Stomachs grumble and there is a mist to cool us as we take on the incline of the hill. The scene reminds me of my younger days walking the streets of San Francisco. I had to stop less back then, but somehow walking still feels more enlivening than it does daunting. Thankful for that.

I look at Suhee, who is ahead of me. She often is. “Go left up there!” I say as I catch up. “Dinner is going to feel really good.”

Suhee nods. We head left and continue up the hill. The curious hilltop building we were aiming for on this walk slowly comes into view. “Ah ha! I was right!” I declare triumphantly. “A restaurant!”

When traveling, Suhee and I call each other’s sense of direction our internal ‘GPS.’ Some days Suhee has better sense, and some days I do. We pay attention to who has the better ‘GPS sense’ on a given day, and this is how we decide who should lead on that day. In light of this, I take a moment to look around the street with my head held high in mock-pride, announcing to Suhee that “My GPS is very fine-tuned today.”

Somehow Suhee seems unconvinced. She walks closer to the stone wall in front of the restaurant and reads the sign on the wall in more detail.

“It’s closed.” Suhee announces.

My face winces. Suhee however, is not discouraged, she swirls around and takes out her camera. “Stand there.” She points to the middle of the road, then snaps some photos of me with our umbrella. Later, I draw the scene.

Suhee thinks it looks like something from a Miyazaki film. “It’s like you are waiting for Totoro!” A lot of Japan really does look like a Miyazaki film. Of course it does.

Then Suhee notices something just down the block. Some lanterns shine along an old wood building. I turn and squint. It seems there is also steam coming from a vent in the wall. Might be food. Our stomachs urge us to walk back down the hill for an investigation.

Closing in, the smell of the steam gives it away. This is a neighborhood oden bar. Suhee asks, “Should we go inside?” but by the time my brain registers it I already have the door open with my head poked inside. I see only four seats in the entire place — two are already occupied. The owner stands behind a high bar counter, ladling soup and chatting with the other patrons. He looks startled when he sees my head come through the opening in the curtain.

“Konbanwa!” I announce, politely asking if there is room for two people.

The owner looks down at the two empty bar seats, and up at us. He nods. “Two seats. Two people. Yes yes! Please, come in!”

Over plates of good, cheap food, and flowing beer, we chat with the owner and guests. One of the guests also happens to be the owner of the guesthouse where we are staying. Small town, this Mojiko.

We find out that the guesthouse was a proper geisha joint back in the days when this town had loads of money. Nowadays the geisha are gone but tourists still flock to the hip ‘Retro’ neighborhood by the docks to relive the glory days. Or at least, to see the buildings that were produced by the glory days. Banking on that nostalgia seems to be a main source of income here in Mojiko, but the empty streets in most other parts tells a different story. Tourist income probably did not trickle down and out quite as far as the town might have hoped.

“Strange tourists! How did you come here?” asks the guesthouse owner, motioning with his arms to the confines of the small oden bar in which we sit. “Tourists don’t come here. This is a local restaurant.”

Suhee and I — the strange tourists who take naps in parks and eat at local oden bars — look at each other, suddenly a bit embarrassed. The story about how we got here probably would not make the least bit of sense to this man. Even so, I consider how to say “A pigeon in the park led me here” in Japanese. As I am thinking this over, the man can obviously see the neurons firing in my head. Suddenly he smiles, leans over the bar, and looks us in the eyes. “If you ever come back to Mojiko, let me know. I’ll take you around.”

Thanking the man for the kind offer — and promising to return — we finish our plates and raise our beer glasses. “Kanpai!”

As Suhee and I walk back to the guesthouse, I look up at the now clear sky. A few dozen stars are shining between the buildings and the mountains. After over a decade living abroad, I ponder what it means to be a local. Is it about the length of time spent, or the depth of local knowledge in one’s head, or is it more simply just about what one gives back to that place in the process of existing there?

We can dwell in a place in so many ways. For now, we happily accept the ‘strange tourist’ label as we head back to the geisha house, for some sleep.

Question: Have you ever felt a sense of belonging in a place you were just visiting? What made that experience special, and how do you think we can cultivate deeper connections with the places we travel to — whether as tourists or as locals who interact with tourists?

Next week: If you’ve ever wanted to see the inside of an ‘okiya’ geisha house, we will do it right here. This particular house does not serve the purpose any longer, but has been tastefully remodeled as a guesthouse. We’ll get to see some of the main features that make this kind of building both simple and beautiful.

Another Story: If you are interested in the oden bit of this story, have a look at this story from January of last year. It might make you hungry though.

—

Thanks for letting me into your corner of the world each week, all 500 of you now! You can help keep this little publication going by thinking of a friend or colleague who might like this work, and sharing it with them. If you are not signed up yet to get these stories to your inbox, you can go ahead and do it below. If you are signed up, I encourage you to join the club of paid subscribers if you have the means … a really cool group of people, IMO ;-)

See you next week?

—

The guesthouse seems close enough. Google tells us to take the train across the strait, then to wait an hour, and then transfer to another train which will finally take us to Mojiko. Maybe not as close as we thought.

“That’s going to take all morning!” Suhee picks her head up from the map. She looks out into the strait and points to a tall building across the water. “Mojiko is right there! I can see it!”

A stream of thick grey clouds moves swiftly across the strait as Suhee examines the map again, more closely. She might love maps even more than me. She squints, scrolls, zooms, and furrows her brow. Then she notices something curious. An under-sea pedestrian tunnel.

“What do you think? We can walk. It might be better than the train.”

A wee shaft of sunlight comes down in the distance. It penetrates the waters of the strait with a surprisingly bright glimmer. I squint my eyes as I look out, and then at the map. Indeed, there is a pedestrian tunnel under the sea, connecting Shimonoseki and Mojiko. I look at our bags. A small suitcase, a large suitcase, and our backpacks. “We can do it,” I tell Suhee, casually adding “I’ve been working out,” while flexing my biceps. Suhee rolls her eyes. I secretly hope that the incline in the tunnel is not too treacherous.

Kanmon Tunnel, we learn, is one of the longest undersea tunnels in the world dedicated to pedestrians. It connects the Japanese islands of Honshu and Kyushu. The air inside is thick and wet at this time of year and yet joggers, school kids, couples, and people pushing their motor bikes join these two tourists, dragging their suitcases. Luckily there are elevators on both sides of the tunnel. Definitely not treacherous.

After several breaks along the way — for tea, for bread, and for saying hello to another local shrine god — we arrive to the guesthouse by late morning on foot. Too early to check into the room, we leave our bags and start to walk the town. First on my list is to visit the closest shotengai shopping street, while Suhee wants to visit the park for a nap.

We do both, in order.

The local shotengai is sparsely populated this time of day and few shops seem open, yet in short time we already have in our possession: some tea snacks, a new teacup, and — as we are in Fukuoka prefecture — some Gyokuro tea leaves.

“Enough shopping?” I ask Suhee as I pack the tea into our backpack. She nods. Suddenly two Swallows buzz her dome and swoop down. They duck into one side of the shopping street.

A shopkeeper sees the birds. She also sees us, tilting our heads to watch the birds. “Come have a look.” the shopkeeper says, motioning us calmly into the row of shops. Heading around the corner, a small cluster of stores is revealed. There is a fish shop here, a florist, a clothing shop, and then, five baby birds in a nest adhered to the wall. The birds are being fed by their parents [see video below].

Florist lady and clothing shop lady stand around and chat about the birds. They must be used to their urban nesting habits and they laugh as we take videos. Although Swallow nests can be messy, they tend to be welcomed by shopkeepers. If a Swallow selects your home or shop as their nesting place, this is something to be proud of. Quite good luck. Such good luck in fact, that many a celebration is had when these birds return each year for mating season. Can you imagine inviting friends over for a party, to celebrate the return of mating Swallows?

Lovely excuse for a party, if you ask me.

Though this scene is relatively common in urban Japan, it does not make it any less amazing to us every time we see urban dwellers welcoming and celebrating other living beings who, for various reasons, choose to live in the city.

After bidding farewell to the Swallows, the shoe shop lady and the clothing shop lady, we reach the park. Soon, Suhee is in a deep nap. Meanwhile, I meet another bird — an Oriental Turtle Dove. Her gaze is typically shifty and I wonder what her view of the world is like. Somehow, those beady little eyes seem to be contemplating a building on top of a nearby hill. This might just be my projection though. Why would a Turtle Dove contemplate a building?

As I draw the scene, an old woman walks by slowly. She pushes a cart filled with groceries and a bag of bread crust on top. She sings. A slow rolling ‘raaaa’ with one step, and a ‘riiii’ with another step. The Turtle Doves know this song. They gather. She sits, takes out the bread crumbs, and sings and chats with them in a grove of Japanese Redwood trees.

They are magnificent. The woman, the Turtle Doves, and the trees, together.

In another context, this woman might be written off as crazy. Who knows, maybe she is, but in this moment something about this feels good. Or, pure? This is a dove-lady-musical, and we are the audience.

Above the trees, that deep grey blanket is still holding the sun at bay and yet for a moment there is once more the smallest pocket of blue. It opens, closes, and then a light mist begins to fall. Suhee wakes up from her nap. Refreshed.

“It’s looking at that building up there.” I tell Suhee. She stares blankly at me. I show her the drawing. “You see, here. This old building. We should walk there.”

“It’s almost dinner time. Are you hungry?” asks Suhee.

“Hai! And I guess this place might be a restaurant.”

As evening approaches, we pack up our things, nod goodbye to the Turtle Dove lady and the magnificnt trees, and set out on foot once again.

This story, of a journey through Mojiko, Japan, continues again next week.

Thank you everyone for being here with me. It is striking to me how, in a very short timespan, we met multiple people — the Turtle Dove lady and the shopkeepers — who have meaningful connections with non-human beings. What are some examples of human-nature relationships you have experienced … or want to experience in the city?

If you are not signed up yet, you can go ahead and do it below. If you are, you can help keep this little publication going by thinking of a friend or colleague who might like this work, and sharing it with them. As always, I encourage you to join the club of paid subscribers if you have the means.

Finally, if you enjoy urban bird illustrations, there exists a beautiful collection of them from the Substack of Emmy Kangas in Japan. Emmy has taken a break from the series, but it remains a beautiful collection to explore.

—

When arriving in a place, I try to take a moment before doing anything substantial, to mark that arrival. There are various ways of doing this, but it is helpful to have a catalyst — a marker that feels like it reveals something about where you are. This could be human-made, like a monument, a gate, or a building that relates to local heritage, or it could be a natural feature like a unique mountain, an old tree, a water feature, or simply a curious stone. However it is, something in this place should clearly say to you, “hello, you are in a new place, which is different from the last place.”

In Japan, they tend to make this easy by habitually merging natural features and human-made features into singular expressions of place. This is done in so many ways, and likewise, each visitor notices the different expressions in different ways.

Arriving to Japan from Korea, our ship docks in the early morning. Passing through immigration, we exit the ferry terminal onto a series of raised walkways, lofted above the streets between the canopy of trees and buildings. These say hello to us in their own unique way. Walking along, a soft breeze from the mountain comes down through the man-made valley to greet us, and this, too feels like a welcome and hello. Yet then comes something that stops me.

Straight ahead, wide flights of stone steps and a towering stone gate. Otoshi Shrine, at the end of our gaze, is perched atop the forested hill where the soft breeze came from. It watches over the city and harbor, at once both a fierce protector, and a greeter.

Later we visit the shrine properly. For now though, I simply stop on the bridge over the road. I address the hill. A pigeon examines me, blinks and cocks his head to watch this newcomer’s hair tussle in the wind. In the presence of Suhee and the pigeon, I make a brief bow and silently thank the place for having us, wishing that we can spend our days beautifully.

Simple gratitude. Every place deserves it.

Now, minutes after leaving the port on foot, we are enjoying coffee and toast at the bakery in Shimonoseki Station. The way that places are thought out with pedestrians in mind here is extraordinary, and we appreciate it as we sip the sweet dark coffee.

But Shimonoseki is not our end goal today. We need to make it across the Kanmon Strait, to Mojiko. This is Japan, so normally we would do that by train, but glancing over at Suhee, it looks like she has another idea brewing...

This story, of a journey to Mojiko, Japan, continues next week.

Thank you everyone for being here with me. Are there places that ‘welcome’ you in your part of the world? If so, what do they look and feel like? If not, what would you want them to look and feel like?

If you are not signed up yet, you can go ahead and do it below. If you are, you can help keep this little publication going by thinking of a friend or colleague who might like this work, and sharing it with them. As always, I encourage you to join the club of paid subscribers if you have the means.

We take the train to Busan in the afternoon and board an overnight ferry bound for the Japanese port city of Shimonoseki. Dusk comes as the ship pulls away from the dock, passing the threshold of the Busan Harbor Bridge. It is all lit up.

So are the old ladies. They drink and joke and dance on the decks of the boat as we float beneath the bridge. One of them plays an ocarina, sheet music propped up against an air intake vent. “They are having fun!” Suhee looks over at the group of retirees sharing the deck with us. I smile and glance up at the bridge. “I hope we have that kind of energy when we’re that old.”

The voyage takes eleven hours. After the first hour, the lights of Busan are only a faint line of sparkling dust on the horizon behind us.

Looking up, above this line of city lights is a glow and then, dark sky, deep space. Below this line of lights are tiny reflections of the city and then, dark water, deep ocean. Our ship moves between these two spaces, itself a glow and a reflection, floating along that thin line between the depths of the universe, and of our oceans. Within the space of this thin line is the world we claim to know, the dancing old ladies, the ocarina player, me and Suhee, the city lights, and you, too.

All of this is very clear on the ocean in the night, and I breathe it in. For a moment, the distant view, and the sound of the waves breaking against the bow become the main attractions. I could stay out here all night, but as I think this the winds pick up and the staff herds us and the slightly drunken old ladies inside the cabin. “We don’t want anyone dancing their way off into the ocean,” says a staff member, in a slightly more serious tone than one would expect. “Or into the stars,” I whisper back.

The ladies move to the indoor dance floor. Suhee and I move to our bunk beds for the night. I lie down, close my curtain, and think about all the unknowable things and how they are a part of our experience even if we do not know them. I think about smiles and laughs of old ladies, notes from an ocarina, and the city lights, spread out like a line of stars just below the stars of the sky, and just above the ocean. I think how something ties this all together, wraps it up, and delivers it to us in a series of moments. What is this thing? On this adventure, I hope we can come to know it more closely.

Soon it is lights out time and the ship rocks softly back and forth, like a giant crib with a few hundred people inside. Sleep takes over. A good thing. We will have a long morning tomorrow after our arrival in Japan, with a bit of travel to do yet, and no idea how we are going to do it. We didn’t plan that far ahead.

—

Thank you everyone for being here with me. This story continues next week, as we arrive in Japan and journey to Mojiko on foot, in an unexpected way.

On another note, we have grown to over 400 subscribers! Right on! That’s thanks to you all who are out there reading and sharing this work. If you are not signed up yet, go ahead and do it. If you are, you can help keep this little publication going by thinking of a friend or colleague who might like this work, and sharing it with them. As always, I hope you consider becoming a paid subscriber if you have the means.

A handful of us regular folks — people with a bone to pick and a dream to chase — sit around a table. We are here to meet with a mythical local figure named Kim Je-Seon.

This dude's been around the block. Back when I was still learning how to walk — and Korea was still finding its democracy legs — Kim was a young student, out there mouthing off against Korea’s military dictatorship. You probably can guess what happened to him next. He was kicked out of university, tortured by secret service agents, thrown in prison, the full treatment of a dictatorship. And you know what? He's still here, and he has been leading local and national movements for citizen solidarity, effective education, and a political system that offers more local autonomy ever since.

So our motley crew of moms, nature punks, and local activists sit with Kim, and we talk about all the stuff that keeps us up at night. Things like, why can't our kids play outside without getting hit by a car? Why do we gotta fight tooth and nail just to plant a damn garden? How can we get more nature in the city, and generally get this whole urban sprawl mess under control?

All of it is important. But then politician Kim drops the bombshell. It is about his dream. A dream of a car-free city.

Not believing my ears, I lean over and whisper to Suhee. “Did this politician really just say he dreams about a car free city?” Turns out Kim is not just blowing smoke. The dude has receipts. He starts talking of the benefits, and names other world-class cities that have already made the leap and never looked back.

After hearing this, I take my turn speak up. “You are not the only one.” I pause for what feels like a very long time, but it is likely just a moment. In that moment, all of the other concerns people had raised in the meeting whirr around in my mind. I see them, and how each one connects directly with Kim’s car-free dream. “Say.” I continue. “There are 8 or 12 lane roads running across the whole city. That is a huge amount of land. If it were re-arranged a bit, we could make enough space for a safe bicycle and pedestrian network, linear parks, nature corridors, gardens, playgrounds, little neighborhood libraries and hangouts for kids, moms, the elderly, and for other species. You know, all the things we have been talking about. It would bring the city together, bring us closer to each other and to nature.”

Then I throw down an illustration from The Possible City on the table.

The politician Kim smiles. He gives a big thumbs up, and seems to agree with the assessment — later he even calls and asks to share one of The Possible City drawings on his blog.

But there is a catch. There is always a catch. Presently, Kim looks around the room. He meets our gazes, observes the spaces, and then he breaks it down for us. “All of you here. You are the minority.”

Suddenly a military jet suddenly streaks across the sky outside, leaving a trail of thunder as often happens in Daejeon. We all stare back in silence at Kim. He elaborates, telling us that there are few people who care so much about the city. Even fewer make it a point to join together with each other, and do something about it. “But we need it.” Kim says that awareness is built, and change happens, only when people like us take actions.

Kim knows a lot about the importance of local actions. Though he was recently courted by the Democratic party to run for a National Assembly seat, he chose instead to run for local office. He tells us it is more important to focus on the neighborhood where he lives right now. As a result of such choices, Kim has an extraordinarily wide view for a local politician. “I talk to other politicians about a car free city and they think I am crazy.”

Is he crazy? Are all of us in this room crazy? Probably not, but ideas like this are not something you can build a political platform on, at least not at this moment in Korea.

So Kim's got big ideas, but he's also got big problems. Like, how do you sell a car-free city to a country that has relied on the trusty sedan since the first Hyundai Pony rolled off the assembly line? It's like trying to get your grandma to make TikTok videos when she is still fixated on her dial-up modem.

But Kim ain't crazy. He's just ahead of the curve. And us? You and me? Well, we're the lucky ones who in various ways, get to ride shotgun. On our bicycles. With our strollers. With our Chevro-Legs.

So, what did we learn from the meeting? We already know that change does not happen by sitting around and thinking about change. Sometimes you need to grab the handle bars, pop a wheelie, and get going down that forested urban bicycle path — maybe throwing down some seed bombs and tactical urbanism along the way.

But where to start? For that, we might take a page out of Kim's book. Dream big, but start with what you can do now, in the place where you are.

—

Thanks for reading everyone. I am extremely thankful that you all are here. If you know of others who might enjoy The Possible City, please take action to share it with them. If you are already doing that, the next best thing to help keep this ship sailing, is to join the secret club of paid subscribers. It is a great club, full of wonderful people. No matter what, thanks to all of you, for whatever actions you are taking in your own life and work.

Keep it up. See you next time.

Just a minute or two after exiting the Kitakagaya subway station, I walk through our old neighborhood, and I hear Wolf.

It is not so usual to hear this cat before you see her. Despite her name, Wolf mostly keeps to her voice to herself, unless you clearly have food, and I do not. As I walk closer, Wolf scampers up to me. I guess it is for a pat. I oblige her. She looks up at me, but then darts away a moment later.

Now, usually when Wolf darts away from you like that, it means the old lady who feeds the neighborhood cats is nearby. I look around. There are several old ladies, to be sure — this is an old Japanese neighborhood after all. But Wolf does not run to any of them. Instead within seconds, Wolf is all the way down the block. She stops just before arriving at a narrow alley, and turns to look back at me. By now, I can guess what she is doing. There is no food that way. There is, however, a place she wants to take me.

Three years ago, just after leaving Kitakagaya, our garden here was turned into a slab of asphalt. At the time, we had tried to figure out how to save the garden. A small army of friends even stepped up to share in caring for this little piece of nature in the city. Somehow though, the urban garden gods would not allow this particular patch of green to be rescued. Since then, I haven’t allowed myself to even think about it. I guess it still hurts too much.

Though we had visited Kitakagaya a few times since moving, I have studiously avoided the alley where our garden used to be. The photographs that friends and would-be visitors sent me over these years was enough, and I got plenty of them.

I have no wish to face the place in person.

It seems however, that Wolf does not accept this kind of attitude. She looks back again, quickly, then runs out of sight, down the alley. I follow her at a lazy pace, in no hurry to face what I already know is there. When I arrive, Wolf is sitting at the threshold between the street and our former garden.

There used to be eleven species of herbs here, thirty species of wild plants, and ten trees. I can still picture the trees — Japanese Cherry, Wild Cherry, Asian Pear, Apricot, Lemon, a Palm, Flowering Dogwood, Chinese Tallow, Chinese Hackberry, and Heavenly Bamboo.

I bought the Asian Pear tree from the Home Center down the street when we started the garden. They say it takes three years for it to bear fruit. I remember the tree being attacked by hungry caterpillars in year one, and then during our second year it was flattened during typhoon season when the roof of a house landed on it. Twice. Somehow though, it survived all of that and bloomed the third year, just before we left. We never saw the fruit.

In the front of the garden, the Flowering Dogwood was a favorite of the locals. We got a lot of comments on the flowers of all the plants, but the most came from the Dogwood. It bloomed suddenly, with spectacular blossoms like giant white bursts of popcorn that almost always caused people to stop with open-mouthed smiles.

Wolf seemed to like the Hackberry. Maybe because it grew unplanned, strong, quick, and wild like her. Or maybe it was just the most convenient trunk to pee on.

As a truck barrels down the main street on the next block, the houses on this little alley rattle, and Wolf and I sit for a spell. We stare at the three new, empty parking spots where all the trees and herbs and wild plants used to be.

Wolf talks first. “Meoow.”

I respond calmly, “Yeah. Yeah. I know, Wolf. It’s all gone. It sucks. It’s not my fault though.”

In the summer, Wolf sometimes sat under the small canopy. More often though, she would use the back of the garden to take refuge from the throngs of hostel guests hunting for her shouting “Where’s Wolf! Where’s Wolf! I wanna pet the kitty!” Being a hostel mascot can get tiring. On the days when it was quiet enough though, Wolf would hide under the bench by the Geranium, playing the prowler, watching birds flit between the trees. I never saw her catch a bird, but she did kill a few butterflies. The garden was a place Wolf could do all of these activities, without a worry in the world about the hostel cat-petting army, errant bicycles, or speeding cars.

Still watching the empty parking lot, Wolf talks again to me. “Meoooow.”

I sigh. “It’s not the land company’s fault, Wolf. They only do what people want and, well, I guess this is what people want.”

Wolf turns around to rub her head on my dangling hand. I turn my palm over to scratch the underside of her chin, and continue talking. “But you know what, Wolf? The things that we want will change. In time they always do.”

Wolf purrs. She gives one last short “Meow” before scampering to roll around on the asphalt. She prances a bit. Rubs up against the tire of a van down the way. Then suddenly, she darts off again.

Just down the street, I see the old cat feeding lady has arrived.

—

With both the building and eventual demise of our garden in Osaka, I was reminded that, hidden somewhere within all of the difficult moments in life are both lessons and opportunities. If we take the time to see what is called ‘difficulty’ without judgment, we find those lessons and opportunities waiting for us, and we can apply them to new efforts. This is one of the good qualities I remember in my years of working with Silicon Valley folks, though they may not have said it in such words. It is also a seemingly good anthem for life in general.

Thanks to Wolf for her help with this one, and thanks to you, as always, for reading and sharing these stories.

On the theme of renewed efforts, next week we get back to the building process here in Daejeon, where we will unveil to you, a rather beautiful looking finished work from those shipping pallets!

     
     Kickflip, bloody knee
     Do pigeons fly from laughter?
     Sweating, try again

Some are annoyed by them, but skateboarders are more beneficial to society than we give them credit for. I would say any self-respecting city needs a scrappy band of skateboarders or two. Certainly, this scrappy artist has no qualms sharing the park with them.

The drawing above was done after a short morning nap in Takamatsu’s Central Park, which in turn came after a weary-eyed 3-hour sleep on the floor of a night ferry from Kobe. I remember it being fun when I was in my 30s. Think I will take the normal day ferry next time.

I have been getting really deep into research and somewhat heavy projects, and when that happens, I tend to become too serious for my own good — and certainly, too serious for the good of my work!

Thus, my editor (aka: wife who was a book editor in her past life) suggested getting back to basics; focus every now and again, on what flows from me with joy. It will give me energy for the longer and more in-depth work, she says.

Indeed. I enjoyed this advice — and following it — a lot.

Thanks for reading. Thanks for your continued support. If you liked this, do let me know, and do share it with other cool people who might like it too.

On our first meeting I approach her slowly, and she runs off into a corner, under the rice thresher. I hear that some months ago, this cat — who they call Papico — had made a habit of constantly tearing her claws into every single shoji screen in the house here. You might know that Japanese shoji screens, the door/window which separates the rooms of traditional homes, can be quite expensive. These ones were made of delicate fibers and in this case, adorned with paintings. All were torn into fine pieces. Of course they were. Papico is a cat. This is her art.

For this offense, Papico, the shoji-screen-destroyer, was barred from entering the house until further notice. Possibly until forever. Nevertheless, the people here still care for her. When the male cat from around the corner comes by to pester her, the humans dutifully shoo him away. They feed Papico daily meals. Sometimes she gets treats, like a chicken gizzard or a fish head. Always she gets a pet and some love. So although these days this shoji-screen-destroyer can no longer enter the house, she seems satisfied to stay here and lounge in the garden.

When the flowers are in full bloom, scents and petals float around the garden, and Papico lies beneath them, basking in this glory. At other times she goes about fertilizing the garden in her own way. Mostly however, Papico has recently appointed herself a job, standing guard in front of the door to the house. Nobody here is quite sure however, if she is serious about this job, or if she simply stands close to the door as an easy means to sneak back in and tear up more shoji.

Then one afternoon it happened, that while Papico was standing guard, a giant raccoon dog came down from the bamboo groves, waltzed into the gravel driveway, and turned left into the front yard of the house. At this, Papico the guard cat arched her back and hissed once or twice. The racoon dog seemed unfazed. He countered, pouncing once on the gravel of the driveway for fun. This was enough to send the fearless guard cat darting faster than lightning, into a corner, underneath the rice thresher. The raccoon dog must have laughed inside. What he did not do however, was enter the yard. Instead he turned around and walked on his way. Now, maybe walking away is what the raccoon dog was going to do anyway, or maybe the frightened guard cat actually did her work. However it is, several minutes later, Papico came back out, made her way to the front of the door, licked her paws, and proudly stood her guard post once again.

When her dinner came that evening it was served with a treat — a whole fish head. Well earned too, Papico thought.

This all begs us to ask why this cat, who by most measurements seems nearly useless, gets fed and cared for? If you ask her unofficial caretakers, it might be they say, on account of how it transforms a place, when we care for another living being who needs our help. Or how, even if a cat ruins our new doors and walls, and poops in our gardens, and runs for cover at the slightest sign of peril, she still has a right to our compassion.

By the time I leave here, just a few days later, I approach Papico again, slowly. This time she gives me a rub and a purr and allows a few pats before heading into the garden to do her business.

Thanks for continuing to read, share, and support these illustrations and stories. With love.