Thoughts

Everything we do has consequences we don’t always see right away. When I think about where our waste goes, or how the land responds to our care — or neglect — I’m reminded that seeds respond to warmth and rain, trees to attention, and so do we. And if we don’t witness a super bloom this spring, we do, in some small but undeniable way, have a part in that story. Whether or not the hills explode into color, the earth is always listening. And so I begin this year by paying closer attention — tending what’s in front of me, choosing care even when it’s inconvenient, and trusting that, over time, what we nurture will bloom in ways both visible and unseen.

Rooted in simple, practical, and quietly profound teachings transmitted over more than twenty-six centuries, I feel grateful to be walking this gentle path. In a world that often rewards urgency, certainty, and speed, this practice continues to invite me into patience, humility, and not knowing. It reminds me that slowing down is not a retreat from life, but a deeper way of meeting it.

This season feels less like an ending and more like a quiet turning inward. As I spend these final weeks of the year purging old “stuff” and reorganizing my home, I’m also letting go of what no longer fits — expectations, timelines, and ways of pushing myself that are no longer sustainable.

Winter invites rest, honesty, and trust. I don’t need to force clarity or rush what comes next. Like the light after the solstice, what’s meant to emerge will do so gradually.

For now, it’s enough to tend to what’s right in front of me, to honor how far I’ve come, and to trust — deeply — that my life is unfolding exactly as it should.

This last retreat felt especially poignant. It was peaceful and steady — no big emotional waves, no dramatic revelations. Just calm. In that stillness, I found myself reflecting on 2025: how tumultuous the first few months had felt, and how it all culminated in my beautiful trip to Japan to reconnect with my roots. I sat in meditation with so much gratitude that I often caught myself smiling.

Earlier this year, I tried to take on various projects with every intention of seeing them through, but I found myself sinking into quicksand instead. The struggle only deepened my anxiety and depression. Now I understand — I needed to stop pushing and focus on my own healing so I could take this pilgrimage. I was meant to go. Everything else had to wait. That was the point.

Now that I’m home and settled again, I feel refreshed, grounded, and ready to discern the path ahead — not to change it, but to clarify my Vision and the work I’m truly meant to focus on.

This trip was more than just a visit — it was a pilgrimage of the heart. It allowed me to honor the past, embrace the present, and find peace in the knowledge that, no matter where I live, Japan will always be the place where my story began.

It feels timely that I’ll be returning home next week. This will be my first visit without a place to go see Mom since she passed away four years ago. (!!) Like my father before her, she donated her body to medical science. The urn with her ashes has been waiting at my brother’s apartment for the past two years, ever since I asked him to hold on until I could come. I think it’s taken me this long to finally make the trip because I needed time for healing. That year I not only lost my mother but also three other beloved people in Japan, all within months of one another. Back then, the void felt too raw, the journey too heavy.

On this trip, Kenny and I visited friends from programs who had once been in Los Angeles but had since moved to New Mexico, as well as others we had only ever known virtually. Meeting them in person for the first time was nothing short of magical. The moment we hugged, it felt like embracing family members we had known forever.

And then, of course, there was the land itself. Driving across the high plateaus of the Southwest, under an impossibly vast sky, I was utterly in awe by the reminder that community is not just people—it’s also nature. The landscapes hold us, inspire us, and expand our hearts in ways words can barely capture.

I also just celebrated my 65th birthday — another milestone. When I look at childhood photos of my grandmother, she truly looked like a “grandma”: wrinkled, back bent, and completely grey, even though she was only in her 60s. Two generations later, I feel incredibly fortunate. I’ve lived through peaceful times, in places where my basic needs were always met. Unlike my grandmother’s generation, I haven’t had to carry the weight of war or destruction — and I think that shows in how I’ve aged. I may not look my age, but it feels powerful to claim it. I’ve lived these years as fully as I could, especially since arriving in California from Japan in 1982.

I think I can say summer is here. We’ve had some heat waves — nothing like the one hitting the East Coast right now — but enough to remind us what season we’re in. Even though it’s cooled down again here in SoCal, I’ve been enjoying the outdoors. Now that the piñon pine pollen has finally settled, we’re cooking and eating out on the deck again. I’ve been swimming laps in the community pool a few times a week, and hiking the local trails while the air is still cool and fresh. These are the things I love about summer — simple, grounding routines that nourish me physically and lift my spirits.

I still can’t fully articulate what this discovery means to me. But I do know that I’m finally ready to dig deeper — into the box, into her words, and into myself. Grief, it turns out, is not just about letting go. Sometimes, it’s about holding on — gently, intentionally — to what helps us uncover compassion — for those who came before us, and for the parts of ourselves we’re still learning to love.

It’s finally warming up, and it feels like summer is just around the corner. Since moving to the mountains, I’ve been able to witness the shifting of the seasons up close. The lilacs are just finishing their bloom, and soon my lavender and butterfly bushes will follow. When I was growing up in Japan, I loved seeing and smelling the different blossoms that marked each season. We had fruit trees in our backyard — figs and Fuyu persimmons — and I still remember the joy of picking them. I’m grateful that my family instilled in me a deep appreciation for the natural world.

As I’ve been writing about my journey through shadow work, gooey mess feels like the perfect description of what I’m experiencing. So I’m trusting that I, too, am in the process of reorganizing into a butterfly. Though I’m not quite there yet, as both teachers reminded us about impermanence, I know I’m evolving and growing — just like everyone else. And growing older is inevitable.

Lately, I’ve also been thinking about the fragility of it all. A few friends are battling cancer right now, and their journeys remind me how precious and unpredictable life is. It makes me profoundly grateful — for my own health, for my husband’s, for the simple gift of waking up each morning with a body that allows me to move, learn, and create. But gratitude doesn’t erase the questions: What comes next? Where do we go from here?

I must confess—I’m terrified. This next step requires me to fully step out. The past couple of years have been a deep, internal journey, forcing me to confront the things that held me back. But I’ve reached a point where I can’t ignore the pull to take bold action and actualize my vision.

In many ways, this timing couldn’t be better. While I’m not actively working in the business, I’m immersing myself in the knowledge and skills that will shape what’s ahead.

As I step into this new season — both in nature and in my life — I am reminded that renewal is always possible. While the world’s uncertainties remain, I choose to focus on what I can control: how I live each day, the dreams I continue to nurture, and the wisdom I gain along the way. Life may feel fleeting, but it is also expansive when I stay present, listen deeply, and follow the quiet call of my inner voice. And so, with gratitude and trust, I move forward — embracing the journey, one step at a time.

As life unfolds, I often say, “I believe in Divine Timing.” The little seeds I’ve sown, mixed with the richness of life’s compost, are beginning to sprout. I don’t yet know when the new season will arrive or how it will manifest in the material world — but that, too, is something to look forward to.

Despite my transition into real estate, my artistic side has never faded. Over the past few years, I’ve been fortunate to have several group and solo exhibitions, though I haven’t been as creatively productive as I’d like. Lately, however, I feel a renewed pull toward artistic expression, especially in these uncertain times. Just in the past couple of weeks, I attended an art party where I got to paint (so much fun!) and collaborated with a client on an interior photo shoot — both experiences reigniting my creative spirit.

Currently, I remain engaged in the realm of sustainable, regenerative, and resilient home building and development. Despite its challenges, being a part of this movement has been deeply fulfilling. I anticipate my role evolving further and trust that I’m on the right path. What’s essential, though, is to make sure I take time away for stillness and silence every so often. In the quiet moments, I find the clarity and strength to keep moving forward.

Storm

What a whirlwind this past month has been. The arrival of 2025 brought with it a storm of events and emotions. From various spiritual sources, there's a recurring message about chaos preceding a semblance of order or peace in our world—a notion I find resonant given my belief in Universal energy, currently swirling with intensity.