Nothing to see here but expanses of deep blue water, thick bamboo forests, hillsides of Showa-era homes, deep green valleys, and islands on the horizon. Tourists are out in full force today. The lucky ones snagged window seats adorned in bubble gum colors and a cute, fish-patterned upholstery that celebrates kinmedai, golden-eyed snapper, a local delicacy with bright crimson skin and a mild flavor.

Looking back at an eventful May bookended by two full moons, it’s no wonder that the month flew by – it was basically a roller coaster swooping between two energy peaks. Japan kicked off the month with mild weather for Golden Week – a series of consecutive national holidays that’s one of the year’s busiest travel times – and ended it with a preview of the rain, heat, and humidity ahead. Oh, and there’s a typhoon headed in this direction as I type this . . .

If you’re not based in Japan, you might not know that the fiscal year here starts in April. That means the “year-end” crunch in the corporate world is a springtime thing, followed immediately by more busyness in the name of the “new year”. I juggled my way steadily through spring and didn’t stop to plan a proper Golden week holiday, even though I desperately needed a break and could feel the stress accumulating. Writing newsletters for you was a form of meditation, and maybe even therapy.

The lack of a solid Golden Week plan was actually perfect. So the lesson there is just to let go and enjoy the ride without trying to perfectly engineer every moment of a day off. Lazyness is underrated.

Weather-wise, it’s some of the best times of the year in this part of Japan — no heat needed, no A/C needed, and a glorious breeze coming through the screen windows. I was grateful for open-ended days with no plans other than to sleep in, sip coffee while staring at my garden, take walks to the coast, daydream, read magazines, and cook elaborate meals for fun. And for the first time, I decided to try making my own green tea from the mature tea bush in my Izu garden.

Some neighborhood friends from Tokyo also recently bought a place in nearby Izu-Kogen, so it was nice to catch up with them over a home-cooked meal. Turns out they were going from Izu to Kyoto immediately after Golden Week to see the Kyotographie photo exhibition — that is, after the holiday crowds had subsided — and it seemed like a brilliant timing to book tickets and join them. I’m so glad I went, even if I could have used more time to see it all.

To me, Kyoto is one of those places that always leaves me wishing I had just a little more time to linger.

But no complaints about rare sunny days that weren’t scorching (yet), good food in every direction, and even some special cocktails at the newly opened location of Bar Trench, a old old favorite in Tokyo that just spawned a Kyoto outpost inside a historic building where a proper renovation revealed striking old beams and abundant ceiling space. It had a dark, moody atmosphere, warm hospitality, and elaborate, creative drinks as one would expect from one of Japan’s go-to names in cocktail culture. Back when I lived in Brooklyn, craft cocktail bars were cropping up on almost every block, but in Japan, they’re more of a destination. As such, this one was worth celebrating.

The rest of the month, I was either back in Tokyo or exploring the other side of the country. Work took me to rural Toyama right at the start of rice growing season when the paddies were full of water and beautiful little green rice shoots. And at the very end of the month I managed to squeeze in a short trip to Yamanaka Onsen in Ishikawa prefecture, a tiny mountain town full of marvelous crafts and history. (More about this later in a separate post.)

I’ll leave you with this photo of the best Shinkansen obento I ate in recent memory — not only because it was tasty and visually appealing, but because it felt like a reward at the end of a busy day. Rushing through Toyama station to catch my train, I didn’t have any luck finding decent to-go food because everything was sold out on a Friday night. (In fact, I was lucky to even book a same-day reservation on the train back home.) With a long ride ahead, I was worried I’d have to skip a meal. But in the nick of time, I grabbed the last lunch box at the shop on the Hokuriku Shinkansen platform. In Japan, it’s quite common to see one lone item on otherwise empty shelves — nobody will take the last one.

Well, almost nobody. I paid for the pretty pink cloth-wrapped box and a tiny bottle of sake just moments before the train arrived and didn’t waste a moment to dig in once I found my seat. I quickly settled into a sort of trance, bite by bite, sip by sip, thinking about all the steps that must have gone into creating that meal. It might’ve been convenience food, but it was still a remarkable feast.

Thanks for coming along with me on this ride! I’d love to hear what you thought of this newsletter and what you’d like to see in next month’s Dispatch.

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That trip was right around this time 10 years ago. Decade-old photos from that trip are popping up as “memories” and I’m still in awe that we’ve since built a life here. Honestly, I pinch myself every day – is this real? For anyone considering moving across the world at midlife, I highly recommend it.

We relocated here from Brooklyn the year after that fateful trip and it’s already been nine years in Tokyo. We’ve gone through job changes, toughed out the pandemic years in our metaphorical “desert island” away from our families in the US, bought a second home in Izu, and watched Japan become the world’s hottest tourist destination.

I have so much to share about all that’s transpired since then, but for now I just want to show the glimmers of a life that was yet to come – the magic of a trip that preceeded a major life change.

The itinerary I crafted for that time was a bit of my own Golden Route greatest hits, with a detour added in. We flew in and out of Tokyo, hopped on the then-new Hokuriku Shinkansen to Kanazawa (where I’d been once and wanted to explore more), headed down to Kyoto, and then had a beautiful respite in Hakone before returning to Tokyo. Kamakura was a memorable side trip.

I already had one success of convincing my husband to move somewhere (New York City, where I’d gone to university), so I suppose I had it in the back of my mind that maybe this trip would plant another seed. Maybe showing him some favorite spots and throwing in some new adventures would make him understand my endless fascination with this country.

It worked.

Half a year later, we talked seriously about finding a way to move here. We visited again a few months later to start putting feelers out. And then eventually we found our chance to make the big leap.

Looking back, I can see so many hints of what was to come in the years ahead. I’ll leave you with this last image, which hits home because I always dreamed of having my own Japanese garden. As I write this, my very own little version of this is right outside my window. And I’m still pinching myself.

Washing, wiping, sweeping, scrubbing. Organizing, packing, unboxing, rearranging. It's spring cleaning time in the tea ceremony room.

Show me a tea practitioner who gracefully welcomes guests and calmly whisks a delicious bowl of tea, and I'll show you a person who has also worked incredibly hard behind the scenes to craft a beautiful experience. And it's often much more of a team effort than meets the eye.

In any tea ceremony, the guest’s first sip of tea is the pinnacle, of course. But something important happens just before that.

As a guest, you receive your bowl of tea, excuse yourself for drinking before the second guest, and thank the host for preparing it. Then, you silently lift the bowl in appreciation before drinking.

This quiet, thoughtful moment is kansha. It means gratitude – not only towards the host, but for all that led up to that moment to bring you that tea, from the farmers who grew it, to the makers who prepared it, to all the cleaning and preparation on the day of the event.

Over the years I've learned more and more about what really happens to create that special moment, and it truly does make the tea taste better, especially in this era of mass consumption when matcha has become a commodity. TikTok might make you think matcha is just a trendy beverage, but preparing tea is actually a labor of love.

We don't just study how to whisk matcha for that pinnacle moment. Thorough cleaning and proper organization are a sort of ritual of their own at the beginning and at the end of each tea ceremony event. Seasonally, we do the real deep cleans.

Just before the Golden Week holidays, a bunch of us got up early to help our teacher change from ro 炉 (sunken hearth) to furo 風炉 (brazier) at the tea house.

We cleaned everything from top to bottom – the tatami, sliding doors, every nook and cranny. We prepared charcoal for the new season ahead (smaller pieces are used for the furo), packed away the cooler-season utensils, and cleaned and arranged the items we'll use from now through October. We scoured the kitchen and the preparation areas, and vacuumed multiple times.

We’ll do another deep clean 6 months from now when we switch back to the ro.

Immersing yourself in wholeheartedly cleaning something, really putting care into it while letting yourself lose track of time, is an incredible way to refresh the mind. Every time I crouch down to wipe tatami mats with clean white towels, I remember the time I visited the legendary Zen temple Eiheiji in Fukui Prefecture, where I caught a glimpse of the monks doing the same thing in a huge hall after their morning prayers. As a form of devotion, cleaning works on the spirit as much as one's environment.

And there's the sense of newness, or reawakening, when we transition to the otemae お点前 (procedures) for the new season. In the tea room, all of your movements change depending on whether you're using the ro or furo – your footwork, sitting position, and handling of utensils. Many of the utensils themselves are different as well.

Switching from one to the other is switching to a different part of your brain.

And so, every half year, we start the new season by practicing the most basic tea ceremony procedure, usucha hirademae 薄茶平点前, before gradually working up to the advanced temae in the coming months.

Usucha is “thin tea,” a single bowl of tea for one person to drink. In the tradition of my school, Urasenke, usucha Is whisked to a creamy froth, while thick tea, koicha 濃茶, is a finer grade of matcha prepared with less water and kneaded into a creamy, deep green elixir that is commonly shared between guests.

Even the most advanced masters start the new season by going over the basics. For shoburo 初風炉, the first furo practice of the season, we all returned to our most elementary practice with the openness of a beginner’s mind and the joy of reuniting with an old friend.

It seems that any chance to infuse the familiar with gratitude can give it a surprising freshness.

There’s a lot to be said for a good nap when you need to refresh yourself, but when that’s not an option, don’t overlook the power of the five senses. There may be no better way to get grounded in your body and calm your nervous system than to just savor the immediate moment through a simple sound, taste, smell, sight, or physical sensation.

Even though I was in the middle of a workweek, this is how I found myself quickly slipping into relaxation mode when I recently arrived at the Shiroiya Hotel in Maebashi, Gunma, for a mini-workation.

It started with a steamy cup of herbal tea blended with hojicha that I received as a welcome refreshment on a chilly spring day. I put down my cellphone intentionally and committed the image to my mind, not my camera. This moment was just for me.

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Holding the cup with both hands to warm myself up, I inhaled its fragrance slowly, just enjoying the deliciousness of it and letting the steam bathe my cheeks and eyelids. Gradually, I took small sips to notice the unique flavor. I followed the heat from my lips to my throat to my belly, letting it melt me into a soft leather sofa in the lobby, where one of Hiroshi Sugimoto’s mesmerizing Seascapes images greets visitors from behind the front desk.

Only a few minutes had passed, but I was already feeling a shift. At least one layer of stress had dissolved.

After that, I felt free to take photos. Inspired, even.

Famed architect Sou Fujimoto led the transformation of the hotel – whose heritage goes back to the 19th century – including a dramatic renovation of the original tower. The entire atrium is a fascinating, open space where twisting staircases and concrete beams intersect with artist Leandro Erlich’s bended tubes of light that shift from soft white into moody colors at night. In the morning, sunshine peeks through the windows and cascades down a large, waterfall-inspired artwork on one wall. There are lots of plants and stylish seating areas and an open kitchen. It’s an atmosphere that feels alive, constantly shifting based on occasion and time of day, whether meditative breakfast, bright midday coffee and work-from-sofa, or convivial happy hour spread.

I told myself a few years ago that I was done with the corporate world. Done with office politics and other people’s dramas. Done with wearing busyness like a badge of honor, as if I had a choice. Done with back-to-back meetings, “sad desk lunches”, long hours, and crowded commutes to an imposing office tower whose sunset Fuji-san views eventually felt as mundane as the gray carpet and fluorescent lighting.

Well, it took a long sabbatical full of offline adventures to clear my system of all that. I dove deep into studying sound healing and meditation. I traveled around Asia, hung out with friends, explored new neighborhoods in Tokyo, journaled, and daydreamed. For the first time in ages, I considered new possibilities for myself.

Eventually, I took a deep breath and jumped back into the workforce for practical reasons as well as genuine intrigue. But I decided to do it differently, and it really helps that I can work remotely. If it can sometimes be from a place like the Shiroiya Hotel, all the better.

This time around, I’m putting a lot more mindfulness into my job, not just to get things done, but also to protect my own energy. That means managing my calendar more closely, not letting the hours slip away, and paying attention to my stress levels. Also, I experiment with my routine a lot more.

I may have a long to-do list, but I won’t become that “too busy” person again. I. Will. Not.

Well, that’s what I tell myself when life starts to feel unbalanced and deadlines creep up. At those times, when there’s just a mountain of work standing between me and anything resembling a vacation, the only sensible response is to Frankenstein that whole situation into a workation, stat.

Besides, it actually takes effort to plan a real vacation and then carve out the time to do it. But in the short term, a short trip somehow creates the conditions for doing more focused work while also building in better rewards, like a memorable change of scenery, special food, the promise of quirky discoveries, and a good night’s sleep.

I visited the Shiroiya Hotel for exactly this reason. Its proximity to Tokyo by regular express train was a bonus (and an incentive to go back again).

In fact, I didn’t know much about the surrounding area beforehand, but the idea of staying in a unique place that bills itself as an “immersive artwork” sounded so appealing. If there was anywhere that would soothe my nerves and boost my creative spark, maybe this was it.

Getting out of your head and bringing your attention to your physical senses in the moment is so stress relieving, as I mentioned earlier. I kept thinking about that throughout my stay at the Shiroiya Hotel because there were so many smells and flavors, sounds and sights that pulled me into the here and now after that initial sip of tea – a few bites of buttery miso-tinged financier (the in-room “welcome” treat), an herbal mist sauna session that bathed my whole being in therapeutic aromas, and interesting art at every turn, even next to my bed.

The promise of an excellent meal at The Restaurant at the Shiroiya Hotel was a big reason for my visit, basically a serious incentive for me to get work out of the way so I could just enjoy the evening. It was so worth it.

Chef Hiro Katayama and his team crafted a beautiful experience that kept me captivated with every bite. Matched with different wines for each course, the luxurious preparations merged classic French technique with the local flavors of Gunma, including an elevated version of okirikomi, a local specialty reinterpreted as edible art. Here, instead of a chunky stew, it was a sculptural white rose made of paper-thin slices of daikon radish perched on creamy udon puree, drenched with a ruby-hued soup and bright-green scallion oil. The delicate roasted river fish was also memorable, fused with a golden layer of bread that was toasted to a buttery crispness.

Between that meal and the fantastic onsite bakery to give me sustenance, I might have been content just to lounge in the hotel for the whole trip. But the surrounding town of Maebashi was too charming to miss, starting with the nearby shopping arcade dotted with Showa Retro storefronts. Certainly the hotel is also a magnet that has drawn more visitors to the nearby Arts Maebashi museum and other galleries, cafes, and boutiques. Just a few blocks away, a massive sculpture by Taro Okamoto, Bell of the Sun, creates a stunning scene alongside a flowing river canal lined with lazily swaying willow trees. And a stroll down the river takes you to Rinkokaku, a refined historical property that has served as a resort residence for generations of emperors. You can freely explore the spacious tatami rooms and let your mind wander before heading out into the sprawling garden

It was all a satisfying change of pace that left me craving more. One of the local shopkeepers told me that Maebashi is big with Tokyo creatives who love the slower pace, quality of life, and easy access to the metropolis. That much is evident from the art-world goings-on, including the debut of the Maebashi Biennale, a multifaceted art festival happening this fall, from September 19 to December 20.

I left Maebashi with many more to-dos on my list, including cocktails at the Shiroiya Hotel’s Bar Matcha-tei. The contemporary space, designed by Hiroshi Sugimoto and architect Tomoyuki Sakakida, connects to a traditional tea room. It sounds like my kind of place.

Next time, I’ll leave the work at home.

When I started practicing Japanese tea ceremony 20 years ago, I had no idea I was building a lifestyle centered on digital detox. And I certainly didn’t realize how much I needed it.

Back then, it seemed like a logical hobby for someone who’d been fascinated with Japan since childhood. I thought, “Finally I have a place where I can actually put my university degree to good use.” Japanese literature, art, aesthetics, history – all those “impractical” things that interested me were suddenly relevant knowledge in an art form where whisking a bowl of tea is just an entry point to a deep universe of stories and poetic references.

Over time, I saw that my growing devotion to chanoyu had tangible benefits. At first, I was preoccupied with learning manners, how to wear kimono, and how to endure sitting in seiza. Then, once things started to feel familiar, I got into a groove with being more present. I could sense my own serenity emerge through the course of a lesson, noticing the difference in how I felt before and after. It didn’t matter if I was tired, stressed, or just not in the mood beforehand – I’d go anyway, and I never regretted it.

Digital detox doesn’t require a hardcore, monastic retreat from daily life. You can even find “peacefulness in a bowl of tea.” This philosophy, promoted by the late Dr. Sen Genshitsu – 15-generation Grandmaster of the Urasenke school of tea and UNESCO Goodwill Ambassador, who passed away at 102 last year – shows how peace starts within ourselves and can be shared from person to person, one bowl at a time.

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Sometimes managing stress requires a radical shift in behavior. People have written books about ditching tech for extended stretches, going on retreats for weeks or months. There’s an entire industry built around it. I’m all for it if it makes you feel good.

But ritual is also a remedy. What I love about that is how subtle it is – carving out time to prioritize your direct experience of something meaningful, free of digital distraction. By allowing ourselves to focus and participate with intention, the experience is much richer than one mediated by a screen.

You don’t even need to study chado to get the immediate benefits of tea and mindfulness. Start with tuning into your senses and taking in the uniqueness of the present moment. Slow down and appreciate the smallest sensory details.

For me, I always notice the bright green hue of the matcha powder and its subtle, chocolatey aroma. The soft trickling sounds of hot water slowly pouring into the tea bowl from the bamboo ladle, followed by the soft swishes of a whisk, and then the richer, grassy smell of tea that’s ready to drink – it all builds anticipation before the first sip.

What I just described is only one part of a full ceremony that has an entire symphony of tastes, smells, and sounds – the delicate flavor of a seasonal omogashi sweet, the hint of incense in the air, the quiet crackling of charcoal being arranged in the hearth. Every moment is an expression of hospitality from the host, something that can never truly be repeated.

This is all a long explanation for why I have lots of tea-related photos, but very few of actual tea ceremonies in progress. (Of course, it’s also considered impolite to whip out your phone or camera in the middle of all of this.) Nowadays, I look forward to times like these when I can step away from the daily routine and become rejuvenated by the tea room’s simple pleasures.

Even if I still think in Fahrenheit, life in Tokyo has reworked my thinking about a lot of things that used to be a given.

For example, lately I’ve been thinking about how the old English proverb about the weather this month – “March comes in like a lion, and out like a lamb” – doesn’t really match my experience of the season anymore.

When I lived in New York City, I always thought of this saying when the deep-freeze of February mellowed into the balmier days of late March, those days when bodegas started stocking their bins with fresh tulips and layers of sidewalk ice started to thaw . . . revealing dog poo and the occasional dead rat that had frozen months before. Ha!

Back then, March meant spring break and Easter candy. Nowadays, it means work deadlines, tax season, seasonal allergies, and more rainy weather. The clear blue skies of plum season dissolve into blurry gray days where cherry blossoms bring consolation. If you’re lucky, you’ll get sun on a Saturday for a hanami picnic.

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I started working on this newsletter a couple of weeks ago, leading up to the spring equinox. But I couldn’t find time to finish, and I started over. Same thing happened. And again. I longed for a stretch of time to just let the thoughts roll, uninterrupted. Every day, too many things competed for my attention.

And now, dammit, it’s the last day of March and I’m starting yet again because life has already shifted so much in a few weeks, and this writing simply wants to be written.

It says something about the state of my life when a time of year that’s supposed to be about “balance”– daylight and darkness in equal amounts – has felt nothing like equilibrium.

But it’s a good goal. When life feels out of whack, the thing you ‘have no time for’ is the thing you need most. Why? Because creativity is an antidote. It’s resistance. It’s rebellion against the things that might bring us down and hold us back.

Have you ever felt helpless after a doomscrolling bender or simply getting overwhelmed by world news? I think my desire to do something and take back my power is exactly what’s been fueling my repeated attempts to write. If I want to see positivity in the world, if I want to see more beauty and poetry and thoughtful interactions, what am I contributing to that? When the world seems to be burning, I’m compelled to improvise my own little rain dance. Or maybe it’s a lion dance. Sometimes I want to roar.

Dear reader, I’m sure you have your own version of this – maybe a project or a song or a gathering – so I’m asking you to contribute, too. We need you. What is the rain dance you’ve been putting off?

Can you visit a 1200-year-old spiritual landmark during peak tourist season and still experience some kind of inner peace?

In Japan, this would be a fair question even if international tourists weren’t visiting in record numbers. Certain places have been attracting crowds for generations, if only for seasonal moments such as the New Year, festivals, and natural marvels.

Plum blossom season kicks off the spring spirit in many parts of the country, so the timing was intentional for my recent visit to Dazaifu Tenmangu. It’s a legendary Fukuoka shrine that’s famous for a tapestry of plum trees covering its grounds in every shade of pink, from the deepest raspberry to softer, paler hues that sometimes confuse people for sakura. Some of the flowers are a crisp, pure white reminiscent of fluffy snow on the branches.

The plum blossoms here have long been associated with Sugawara no Michizane, the Heian period poet, politician, and scholar who was exiled from Kyoto to Dazaifu in the year 901. After his death – and following a series of disasters that were attributed to his vengeful spirit – he was eventually deified at Kyoto’s Kitano Tenmangu shrine as Tenjin-sama, the kami of scholarship. Students still pray to him there, at Dazaifu, and at other Tenjin shrines to pass their entrance exams.

I knew that there would be plenty of other visitors vying to see the same spectacular sights, and I had to gear myself up for dealing with the crowds. Because let’s face it – if solitude and silence were the only way to find tranquility, then we’d all be stuck at home a lot more.

For me, the answer to finding peace amid the chaos is mindful travel.

That means slowing down on purpose. Paying attention. Going with the flow even when that means joining the stream of people spilling out of the trains and buses, filling up the streets, and queueing for famous sights.

Escape is actually a state of mind. The first step to get there is acceptance. Expect to encounter the obvious things that might annoy you about a busy place and then find some way to be entertained by it all, perhaps to find solidarity with everyone else who’s waiting in line with you.

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It helps to have a sense of humor and an eye for beauty. Dare yourself to find something to smile about, like catching a glimpse of a little kid taking her first bite of a hot umegae mochi, a chewy, grilled rice dumpling filled with sweet, molten red bean paste and seared with a tiny plum flower emblem. Countless vendors sell these treats along the main road here.

At Dazaifu, I took my time noticing the details of the place itself, like the main shrine where people lined up to say a prayer. Before it was my turn to wish for world peace, I looked up and found it fascinating that trees were growing on the roof above the altar.

In fact, awe-inspiring trees were everywhere across the grounds, from the grove of impeccably pruned plums to the ancient twin camphors entwined at the base of their massive trunks, referred to as “husband and wife.” Another huge tree struck an unforgettable impression with its thick, gnarled branches covered in ferns like shaggy fur, a heavy wooden support holding it horizontally as it reached towards a sacred bridge painted with glossy red lacquer.

Further beyond, the crowds thinned out by about 90 percent for those who continued up the wooded mountain. The reward for this was a noticeable drop in decibels – human voices swapped for bird calls and the faint sound of the breeze blowing. A long row of crimson torii gates beckoned visitors to keep going further up the hill.

Before reaching the small upper shrine, there was a steep stone staircase as a final challenge (I considered it a shortcut over the less-steep but longer path nearby). Instead of a hundred people waiting to pray, there were maybe ten. Persistence had a payoff.

It wasn’t a remote power spot, shrouded in mystery, and it wasn’t even quite quiet. Nearby, just after I turned to head back down the hill, I saw a group of happy young women posing for a photo, all dressed in pastel kimono. They took the time to come here too – making their way up that mountain, admiring the plum blossoms, trekking through the torii in their traditional zori sandals.

Seeing their joy was enough to make me smile, too.

Konbanwa from Fukuoka in southern Japan, where spring has already sprung in the form of gorgeous plum blossoms, mild breezes, and (unfortunately) a dose of pollen that has everybody sneezing from the onset of allergies. I heard that you have to live in Japan for about five years for kafunsho 花粉症 to kick in, and mine struck like clockwork four years ago. 

So the last time I visited this city, I was still blissfully sneeze-free. It was exactly six years ago, in February 2020, right on the cusp of the pandemic – just as the news was getting intense but before it really sunk in that something radically different was about to happen in our lives. As soon as I got back to Tokyo from that trip, I realized that all the convenience stores were sold out of face masks. Within a week or two my office closed. I had no idea it wouldn't open its doors for a couple of years.

So I've been craving a return to Fukuoka for a while. The appeal of this city is a combination of young energy, a compact and walkable layout, and the friendly, laid-back vibe. It's urban enough for a city fix, but in comparison to Tokyo, the literal change of pace feels rejuvenating. Sure, there are crowds, but nothing too pushy. 

I came here to revisit some familiar spots, explore new streets, and venture out to the legendary Dazaifu shrine, famous for plum trees and a deep history. I'll share a full report on that next week. 

This week I'm working remotely from a hotel called The Royal Park Canvas Fukuoka Nakasu. The name reveals the location in the heart of the city but nothing about the hotel's aesthetic, which celebrates the natural abundance of Kyushu. My room is a cozy, well-designed space with an earthy feel – woodgrain walls, charming works by regional artists, a chaise longue stretched alongside a massive window where I can stare out at the cityscape. I also appreciate the queen-sized bed, which isn't always an option in Japanese hotels. 

The nature theme extends to a soundtrack of bird song echoing through the hallways and a communal bath inspired by Kyushu’s volcanic geography. Its illuminated mist shower pours down from a circular ceiling port with an otherworldly glow, creating a soothing view over the steaming hot waters. Coming here for a soak is the obvious remedy for the day's fatigue.

There are lots of comfy places to sit around here, not only in the lobby but also on two outdoor terraces and in the lounge outside the public bath. And there are so many trees – every lounge window and terrace corner is lined with varieties transplanted from locations around Kyushu, creating a lush, green, peaceful expanse that compliments the riverside views just beyond the property. 

My husband and I were lucky to time the trip with excellent weather over the three-day holiday weekend – nothing but blue skies and sunshine. Today, I'm working remotely from the lounge, sipping a smoky, fragrant infusion of hojicha (roasted tea) and rosemary. Never had anything quite like this but I think I will crave it again. It's pouring down rain and everything has a dreamy glow outside as the daylight is fading. This kind of coziness makes me feel like doing nothing at all (in the best way). 

I'm so glad we had the ideal weather for a yatai 屋台 dining experience the other night. Fukuoka’s open-air food hawker stalls are clustered in different areas around the city and they're a big reason why this is such a foodie destination. Expect to wait in line for the popular offerings, but know that scrumptious eats are your reward. 

My strategy was to go before I was too hungry, because smelling the incredible sizzling meats, steamy stewed dishes and piping hot Hakata ramen – the signature noodle soup of Fukuoka with a milky, rich pork bone broth – was enough to make me ravenous by the time I finally got to sit down. 

There were more than half a dozen people waiting ahead in line at Yatai Kitaro, the food stall we visited, but by the time we finished eating, there were triple the number of people waiting. Of course we had the ramen, along with tiny bite-sized gyoza with crispy fried edges and slow-simmered oden goodies steeped in hot broth with a dab of hot mustard on the edge of the bowl. 

Another night we feasted at the counter at Kappo Sushi Hanaaza, which combined sushi with seasonal Japanese dishes in a seafood-laden course menu that paired well with Japanese sake. I loved the namasaba 生鯖, which is not available in Tokyo. After the catch, every minute counts if you want to eat it raw, and shipping to Tokyo takes too long. This has not been cured with salt and vinegar like the mackerel you'll find elsewhere in Japan. But here you're so close to the coasts where they harvest it that you can eat it in its natural state.

I usually keep lunch pretty casual, but the day we arrived, we were ravenous because we woke up before dawn and really didn't have a proper breakfast before the flight. We ended up splurging on a multi-course lunch at The Lively Kitchen, which seemed to be popular with groups of dressed-up women digging into fancy chawanmushi and downing glasses of white wine. It was nice to spend a leisurely hour or two being pampered and getting our energy back. The atmosphere combined sleek contemporary design with some hipster nods to nostalgia (curved moldings on the walls, mosaic tile). There was a well-stocked bar cart near the middle of the space, but if I really wanted to get my drink on, next time I’d go to the funky bar right inside the entrance. 

A spontaneous long-weekend trip to Fukuoka has turned up so many surprising new gems and fun chats with locals that I can't wait to continue the discovery. Stay tuned for more next week, and thank you for reading. 

As the last moments of the Year of the Snake slip away, shedding the skins of who we used to be, the Year of the Horse prepares us for a new rhythm. Recorded here in my Tokyo sound healing space during the February New Moon, this 21-minute meditation and sound healing journey was created to help you find calm as you honor the past year and find strength for the months ahead.

This is the first time I’ve shared my practice widely. I recommend finding a quiet space to sit and listen. Please share it with a friend if you like it!

Lately I’ve been thinking about how to apply the common wisdom that if you want a different result, you need to do things differently.

There have been times in my life when I wanted radical change and I had to figure out how to make it happen – like when I committed to the idea of moving to Japan at midlife, a solid two decades later than expected. That was a complete uprooting of my life that forced me to jump through endless hoops. (Sometimes I’m still jumping.)

Nowadays, though, it’s a more subtle change that I’m seeking – an approach to living that becomes a new layer on top of what exists.

How can I cultivate more presence and calm even as the world delivers a fresh batch of daily drama? How can I find tranquility while managing stress and complexity? And how can I share this with my readers (you!) in a way that hopefully delivers positivity and inspiration?

I’m starting with small things, like taking a longer look at the familiar, or tweaking the routine. This week, that meant turning a predictable business trip into an opportunity for slow, solitary reflection. Since I work remotely most of the time, I can choose between my Tokyo apartment and Izu house – or I can bring the laptop somewhere else entirely.

My latest work project took me to Aichi Prefecture, a manufacturing hub in central Japan. Instead of taking a late train home and just passing through Nagoya – Aichi’s capital and the fourth-largest city in the country – I decided to linger a bit. I’m so glad I did.

Decompressing from a busy schedule and getting a sense of place was top of mind, so I took a tiny detour just a couple train stops away from the city center to visit Atsuta Jingu. This grand shrine is one of Japan’s oldest and most esteemed, dating back 1900 years. It’s home to one of Japan’s Three Imperial Regalia, a sacred sword called Kusanagi no Tsurugi said to be a gift from Amaterasu, the Sun Goddess herself. (Good to note, the legendary sword is not on public view, but the shrine’s treasure hall is a museum full of other historical treasures.)

Stepping into the grounds, situated just across from a train station, the world becomes hushed and calm, as soaring old trees mute the city sounds just outside.

But Atsuta Jingu isn’t silent – it’s alive with the wind fluttering through the leaves, crows calling to each other from treetops, and a gentle ebb of passersby, a muffled crunch of footsteps on pale gray gravel.

Here, we take a break from the constructed human world of concrete and steel to remember that we’re just small components in a grander ecosystem.

Here, the forest breathes and the air feels fresher, sweeter. Currently plum trees are in bloom with different shades of pink, a momentary show alongside solemn old evergreens.

Passing through giant wooden torii that signify the approach to sacred space, the journey to the heart of the shrine feels like a magnet pulling you towards prayer. And just before you arrive at the center of it all, there she is – a massive, ancient camphor tree, Ōkusu.

This awe-inspiring tree has been here for more than a millennium – supposedly planted by the Buddhist master Kūkai – but regardless, its presence is undeniable. Sometimes it feels good to compare oneself to such a grand living thing that has endured for so long. Being reminded of how small and insignificant we are simultaneously frees me from mundane worries and connects me to something vast and profound. Trees like this are often found at the heart of Japan’s “power spots,” and to encounter them is always magical.

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Rejuvenated by the forest-bathing vibes of a good shrine visit, I headed to my hotel. Lamp Light Books Hotel turned out to be a fun choice for a spontaneous stay – I’d say it’s ideal for solo travelers like me who are looking for boutique style without committing the whole budget to lodging. Given my itinerary, the central location was a big factor for my choice. I took a bus there from Nagoya Station but decided to walk an easy 15 minutes back at the end of my stay.

The name gives it all away, but bookworms are welcome here. Guests can check out items to take back to their room or just hang out and read in the lobby cafe area, where shelves are lined with the latest hip magazines and books (mostly in Japanese with some English selections mixed in). The chill, intimate vibe was easy to like – no scene, just a handful of people deeply absorbed in words.

I redeemed the “welcome drink” ticket as soon as I checked in and snagged a decent matcha latte from the barista. Up in my room, I plopped down on a lounge chair and put my feet up on a giant gray ottoman, sipping my latte while figuring out where to go before dinner. The room was compact (hello, Japan), but the details were more stylish than the typical business hotel – skinny black reading lamps and a black humidifier (crucial tech in winter) to match the black mini-fridge, hot pot, and digital clock. With a crisp white duvet and button-down nightshirt on the bed and a big rain shower head in the bathroom, I was well set up for a cozy night in.

But first I ventured out to the Osu shopping district to check out some vintage clothing and secondhand kimono shops. Sifting through neat old stuff always lights up my imagination and has inspired me since I was a kid hitting up central Pennsylvania flea markets. Here, everything is tucked away in a covered-arcade grid of old and new retail (clothing, electronics, knickknacks) and restaurants that stretches out from the majestic Osu Kannon temple, which has been here since 1612.

I could explore this quirky place for hours, but I ended up only making a few extended stops, thanks to friendly chats with store owners. I struck gold at The Other, a jewel box shrine devoted to all things mod ‘60s and funky ‘70s – the kinds of vintage clothing I used to live in, 24-7, back when it was still cheap and plentiful. Owner Suzuki-san turned out to be a friend of a friend from back in the ‘90s, so the visit was worth it just for the conversation, but I also snagged a groovy colorblock dress, a jade-hued blouse and a cheetah-patterned sweater from Yves Saint Laurent.

Likewise, I learned a little bit more about wine from a friendly chat with another woman dining alongside me that evening. She’s a wine importer, she explained, and the South African chenin blanc my server had just poured was one of many different natural wines from her portfolio. What an interesting job.

I’d stopped by Portrait, a bistro in the Fushimi neighborhood, for an impromptu dinner after eyeing the scrumptious-looking coq au vin on their Instagram account. As soon as I sat down at the bar, I noticed that the woman was digging into a plate of it. Smothered in dark, shimmering sauce, it looked just as good as the IG photo.

I knew I was in the right place. Moody lighting, soft music, and stylish wood shelves lined with liquor bottles made it feel cozy in a treat-myself way – elevated but unpretentious. I filled up on a bubbling dish of crab gratin and a large piece of roasted amadai (tilefish), a plump delicacy with sweet white meat and scales that crisp up to a marvelous crunchy contrast. It all made me feel welcome and content to just unwind, sip a few glasses, and lose track of time.

Nagoya was a short trip, but a valuable reminder. These moments of serendipity and small-world connections seem to happen more often when I create space for them and am open to receiving them. Every conversation with a stranger is a portal, every step into an unfamiliar place is a mystery about to be revealed. With each new question and consideration, I see change weaving itself into my daily life, shaping me into the person I am becoming.

Have you ever had a serendipity moment during a routine trip? I’d love to hear about what discoveries you’ve made when you decided to linger.

For people who fall in love with Japan and its culture – deeply enough to devote years to studying the language, and maybe even to move here, like me – there’s always some unforgettable hook that started it all.

Maybe it was that first bite of truly good sushi that you popped into your mouth just seconds after the chef shaped it with masterful hands, or the film that fueled your obsession with ramen. Maybe it was the rich storytelling universe of anime. Perhaps a museum visit or even a trip to Tokyo sparked your interest. Or, if you’re lucky, a Japanese friend introduced you to something that simply made you want to know more.

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My entry point was firmly grounded in a childhood when all things Japanese took over popular culture in the U.S. Pretty much everything that fascinated me then has a current-day correspondence: I still love the gorgeous stationery, the artsy fashion sensibilities, and especially the food. Moving to Japan 9 years ago was the result of decades of dreaming about all of it.

But what about staying in Japan (or, for those living elsewhere, staying with Japan through some kind of long-running cultural connection)?

What about keeping up the interest after the initial infatuation fades?

I always credited the popular ‘80s movie The Karate Kid as a big influence on my kid self. I have no shame in saying that at all. Growing up in a super white, conservative, small town in Pennsylvania, movies and books and music were my portals to the world at large, to other cultures and ideas and ways of living.

But while I used to think that Daniel-san’s story of resilience and standing up to bullies was my inspiration – sure, I also had a crush on babyfaced actor Ralph Macchio when I was 9 – it wasn’t until I was a young adult that I realized it was Mr. Miyagi who had a bigger influence on me.

His character was quirky, wise, funny, and quietly powerful – a stealth hero who unexpectedly became a beloved mentor amid a solitary life shaped by loss and heartbreak.

And Mr. Miyagi’s exquisite garden, with its koi fish and bonsai trees, was a living, breathing invitation into something deeper about Japan.

I didn’t realize it then. It took years to form into something lasting. Then one day it dawned on me that I could step into that garden, metaphorically, and never look back. While pop culture got me there, the timelessness of traditional aesthetics made me want to stay.

It remains fresh for me because of Japan’s love of seasonality. It’s woven so tightly into the culture that it’s almost inseparable – not just in obvious milestones like cherry blossom season or New Year’s, but also subtle shifts in flavors, poetic references, and visual motifs that are layered into everyday life in Japan.

(If you want to know more, a dear teacher and advisor from my university, Professor Haruo Shirane, detailed the fascinating history in his book Japan and the Culture of the Four Seasons: Nature, Literature, and the Arts.)

Every year, the year unfolds with its anticipated holidays and rituals, and I can’t help but greet each one as both an old friend and an exciting new acquaintance. Currently, it takes form through small, beautiful shifts in my garden.

Yes, I finally have a Japanese garden of my own.

It’s true that even during the coldest part of winter, something is quietly waiting for spring. Even underneath the snow, dormant grasses are waiting to feel the sunshine.

In Izu, where I have a traditional house with a tea room and garden that serves as an oasis/escape from my other life in Tokyo, the nights are windy and freezing cold (no snow, though). By morning, the skies are calm and steadily grow brighter into a clear, brilliant blue. Gnarled plum tree branches reach out to their cherry tree neighbor, each one already dressed in pink petals. It feels like things are coming to life a bit earlier this year.

Or are they? My kinkan tree – a.k.a. kumquat – is running a bit late. The fruits have been slower to ripen, but this year they’re bigger, sweeter, and generally happier. Maybe the tree liked being pruned back last year.

And after so many weeks of relative silence – after the soft chirps of late-autumn insects were a faded memory and only the stark echo of crows punctuated wintry afternoons – new voices have returned in the form of tiny squeaks from little birds called mejiro. They’re named after the white rings around their eyes, which make their lime-green feathers look even more vivid. These curious guys arrived just in time for those pink blossoms, whose nectar is their favorite snack.

So tonight, on the last full moon of the lunar year, it truly feels like a moment where winter is flirting with spring. Japan has recognized the Gregorian calendar since 1873, but glimmers of the old traditional calendar, called Kyūreki, still resonate. And on February 4th, Risshun, the official beginning of spring according to that old system, marks the beginning of a new cycle of 24 seasonal divisions, known as sekki.

Maybe it was a coincidence that my January resolution to write more regularly for Quiet Calling took a while to take shape. By the Western calendar, I’m already behind.

But here in Japan, I feel right on time.

Thank you for joining me.

I recently had a chance to wander around the sprawling former home and studio of artists James and Anne Hubbell, near Santa Ysabel, California, and it’s given me a new take on my living environment. 

Especially as a city dweller, I am used to unconsciously navigating lots of 90-degree-angles, straight lines, and symmetry in the urban grid. The efficiency of modern life is built upon a template of familiar shapes, textures, and colors. We assume we know what a doorknob or a window looks like. Even among artists and creative types, most of us don’t challenge the makeup of our physical environments beyond decoration or curation. 

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But a doorknob can be a squiggle. A window can be an ornate, bejeweled portal. A roof can soar and undulate, and a ceiling can envelop. If you can dream it, maybe you could also make it. 

In the Hubbells’ world, any surface is fair game for an intricate mosaic. A garden path can simply melt into the landscape, letting Mother Nature’s creations be the canvas for a whimsical archway or a tiny, rough-hewn sculpture.

The Hubbells crafted an incredible property over more than six decades (James passed away at 92, back in May). Currently an art center, nature space, and retreat called the Ilan-Lael Foundation, the historically designated site is truly a magical place. I was fortunate enough to visit at the invitation of a family member.

At every turn, there are creative gestures large and small, incorporating brick, adobe, tile, iron, ceramic, and even molten glass (which evoked an historic forest fire that engulfed the area more than 20 years ago). Eleven unusual structures are scattered amid trees and fragrant white sage bushes at the top of a mountain with dramatic surrounding views. 

The “big studio” at the heart of the property is an impressive metalworking workshop with curved ceilings and shapely framed windows that feel as if you’re inside a living creature. I was reminded of the belly of a whale, if the whale were also a ship sailing over waves of greenery. Nestled up a small staircase is the stained glass studio, where jewel-toned shapes are illuminated by the bright skies outside. 

A meditative chapel space rises like a white nautilus facing a panoramic vista, its mosaic terrace leading visitors to the curved shelter housing a stained-glass window that beckons like hidden treasure.

Certainly this space feels sacred, but even the more mundane corners of the property refuse to be ordinary; I have never seen such an elaborate, joyful, surreal shower room in my life. It’s a swirl of celestial bodies, flowers, animals, and waves splashed from floor to ceiling in intricate shards of glass and inlaid shells. 

I imagine every shower inspires singing in a space like that.

In Bert Hubbell’s Sculpture Garden, I was delighted by tiny ceramic creatures made by James Hubbell’s late brother, who lived in Japan and also celebrated nature in his art. If you walk slowly and look carefully, these small-scale sculptures are tucked in unlikely places near the path. I appreciated how these reminded me of the little devotional statues I come across during my own visits to Japan’s mystical mountain power spots. 

It feels encouraging to know that a place like this exists in this world – a place that celebrates nature and creativity and the joy of existence. I’m inspired by the simple lesson to create beauty wherever and however I want. 

We aren’t limited by the templates that surround us. We don’t have to color between the lines, or keep those lines perfectly straight. We can question it all, reinvent, remold, and build the world we want. 

The only limits are the ones we make for ourselves. 

I’d show that junior version of me that even the biggest disappointments in life can be turned into opportunities for expansion, healing, and sometimes even gratitude. 

Because change is coming for all of us, whether we like it or not. Change is always knocking on the door. 

There were so many times I heard it loud and clear, but tried to ignore it. I hung on to the status quo as if it would help me stay in control. In the past, I’ve stayed in jobs, friendships, relationships, and cities for longer than I should have, simply for fear of allowing change and facing the unknown.

There was self-judgment mixed in there, too – a refusal to “fail.” Little did I know that leaning into the chaos and fiercely loving myself more would inevitably bring a better result than clinging to something that was clearly over.

I’m not sure exactly when I started harnessing change with this kind of confidence; it’s been a gradual learning process. Certainly the biggest leaps of faith led to the best life shifts, and over time I couldn’t help but notice that the more I trusted my intuition, the more insistently it called to me. 

After all, what would lead a person to flat-out quit a dream job when gut instinct prompted a swift exit; to move to New York City and lease an apartment with the raw hope that a job would materialize; or to uproot again to work in a foreign country in the name of evolution? These are just ways I’ve made intuitive leaps, large and small. 

Every time I focused my intentions on becoming a new me, I deeply trusted that it would lead to something better. 

I’m writing this note to you at a moment when my efforts to study new things have brought me to yet another self-reinvention. Along with being a writer, editor, and creative strategist, I can also add certified meditation teacher and sound healer to my resume. It might seem like a different direction, but in fact it’s an entirely different dimension. Somehow all of the parts work together. 

Interestingly, these additions aren’t entirely new to me – they started percolating several years ago – but studying them in earnest and sharing them more broadly are what’s different. It took a lot of introspection to realize that all of my years of doing creative work, writing about creative people, and coaching creative colleagues have led me to a place where I have deeper insights to share about the connections between mindfulness, creativity, and healing.

In this way, starting over is both something fresh and an evolution that builds upon what came before. Nothing goes to waste; everything is either refined, upcycled or composted. 

On any given day, you can do this, too.

Take steps to becoming who you really want to be. Let go of what you don’t need and what’s holding you back. Build upon your best qualities and recognize your small wins. Honor where you came from and celebrate all of your hard work that got you to this very moment. 

Keep your chin up, and keep becoming.

And don’t forget – tomorrow, you can start again, too.

“‘Chele, don’t get upset, but I have some bad news . . . Dad’s missing. He never showed up at the cabin today.”

It was Labor Day weekend, and neither one of us was in Pennsylvania for the end-of-summer family picnic. Aunt Lynda had been expecting my father around lunchtime at the family’s holiday house about a half-hour’s drive from our Pennsylvania hometown. 

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To get there, you take a two-lane mountain road winding through deep forests along a sparkling creek. There’s no cell phone service for many miles. 

Family members had been looking for Dad all afternoon, after he was a no-show and didn’t return phone calls. He wasn’t at home, and neither was his car. There were no clues to his whereabouts. 

John’s neighbor in Las Vegas is an airline pilot who helped him hop on a red-eye within a couple of hours. I booked the first flight out of San Diego the next day. Coincidentally I was visiting California, but I live in Tokyo.

There was a big turnout to find Dad the next day, while I was on an airplane. My brother’s best friends immediately leapt into action – one even came from Pittsburgh to help the search effort. Family and friends scoured the road to the cabin, looking for signs of an accident. They took kayaks up and down the creek, squinting through the trees in hopes of seeing something. Local police put out a missing person alert and sent a drone and a helicopter to investigate. 

But the forest is too dense. There were no signs of an accident. Everything was ominously ordinary, with no hint of what happened. 

I arrived in Philadelphia that afternoon with more than three hours’ drive ahead of me. Emotionally, I felt numb but strangely focused on getting to my destination. The first time I passed a digital road sign displaying the missing person alert, I couldn’t believe I was seeing the description of Dad’s car. By the 6th or 7th time I saw it, it felt like the cruel drumbeat of a truth I didn’t want to hear. 

I’m sure I wasn’t much help once I arrived, aside from moral support. I talked to the police and then spent time looking through Dad’s house for anything unusual. Since I had just visited a month earlier, I could tell at a glance that nothing seemed off. 

The night was punishing. John and I stayed over at Mom’s house, dutifully eating dinner even though we weren’t hungry, dutifully going to bed even though we knew we wouldn’t sleep. We were all on edge after a fruitless day.

Lying in bed, I was fighting the urge to break down in tears. It was a battle between despair and hope. I thought of all the people praying for Dad. I soothed myself by sending him thoughts of comfort instead of dwelling on my own fear. I saw visions of the forest at night, ink-black branches streaked across muted light beams from an occasional car. 

Where are you?

He could have been anywhere, but it felt clear that he was out there, alone, in the dark.

John and his friends were out searching on foot from early the next morning. Others looked on side roads and nearby rural routes. Meanwhile, I made phone calls, talked to neighbors, and stopped by local businesses to inquire about security camera footage. It was Labor Day, and it felt like the whole world was off on vacation.

When John and I regrouped that afternoon, we still had no timeline for Dad after the cell tower last detected his phone around lunchtime on the day he was heading to the cabin. We called the police again and the officer suggested we organize a search party with a different person assigned to each mile of the route. 

If you imagine this kind of manhunt happening, you might assume it would all fall into place. But in reality, if you don’t have the resources to do it yourself, it will not happen. We had already called upon our community, and plenty of folks helped out, but as the day was dwindling, we started to feel more and more alone, more desperate.

John headed out once more, deciding to travel further afar. What if Dad had a mini-stroke, got confused, and kept driving? (Dad had a stroke many years ago.) We started to think of more unusual possibilities. 

Where is he? I need to find him today, safe and sound. I need you to show me where he is today. 

Not knowing whether he had any food, drink, or diabetes medicine in the car, I started to wonder how long a person could survive with nothing. The bright rays of afternoon sun were starting to soften into a golden glow.

Over the years, I’ve done so much work to develop deeper patience and inner strength, but this situation was different. Of course, patience is fine if time is open-ended. When life is on the line and time is running out, it’s impossible to be patient. 

Hang in there, Dad. I’m coming to you. 

I called my husband Jason to talk it out. I had no idea what I should be doing with myself. We chatted about what would be the most boring, obvious thing to happen: Dad missed the turn to the cabin (which is easy to do even when you know where it is) and tried to turn around. 

I felt very strongly that he was closer than we knew, perhaps hidden in plain sight. So many people had already looked along Route 87. Would it be a waste of time to look again?

The idea of “third time’s the charm” kept popping into my mind. Jason told me that I should follow my intuition and go searching some more if that’s what I wanted to do. I hung up and called my mom to see if she’d ride along with me. 

We drove many miles up the route past our cabin until cell service picked up again. If Dad’s phone had been charged and turned on, it would have been detected up there. But it wasn’t. I was sure he hadn’t gone that far.

At one point, I stopped to look around where we spotted a dead deer on the road, and a farmer came over to ask if I needed help. When I explained the situation, he said there are a lot of sketchy roads around there. Maybe Dad made a wrong turn. 

Heading back to the cabin, the road was lined with guardrails. There were very few places he could have turned off. The sun was getting lower and it was shining in my eyes. I wanted to scream. 

We need to find Dad today! 

We were almost back to the road to the cabin. There had to be something right around there. But where? We didn’t see anything on Google Maps.

We slowed down and saw a short break in the guardrail. Mom, is that a road?

I stopped and backed up. She ran out and looked down over the edge. Yes, it was a road – barely. It was a steep, rocky, private property road. Incredibly, there was a small pullout a few yards away where I could park.

I started walking briskly down the trail, trying not to trip on big rocks. I had no idea where I was heading. There was nothing but deep greenery and dappled sunlight ahead. 

And then: Beep. Beep. Beep.

The sure, steady honks of a car horn blasted out from the forest in the direction of the creek. What was that?

My pulse sped up and I took huge steps downhill, starting to yell.

Hello? Hello? 

A bit later, I heard it again. There is a car down there.

Hello? I put my full power into making my voice cut through the trees. 

At some point, I thought the car beeped back in response.

Hello! I’m coming for you! 

Beep beep!

Oh my god, what is happening? I heard it so close by, but I couldn’t see it.

The trail emptied out at the creek, and I was in disbelief. A dead end — now what?

Hello?!

Beep!

The sound was right there, just yards away, on the other side of a jungle. A wall of dense bushes blocked my view. The only way there is through!

I’m lucky I didn’t get bitten by a snake, shredded by thorns, or tangled in poison ivy. I practically dove into the jungle and clawed my way to the other side, where I almost stumbled into a mud-filled gully. Up the hill on the other side, there was a shiny gray sports car stuck in the mud. 

Dad’s car. With Dad inside – looking utterly shocked.

I scrambled over the gully and up the other side, my face exploding in tears. 

It’s you!

It was the happiest moment of my life. 

Thank you, thank you, thank you! Thank you for beeping that horn!

Due to his physical decline after a stroke he had many years ago, he’d been too shaky to walk all the way back to the main road. He’d hoped that the owners of a nearby cabin would show up for the holiday, but nobody came. When things started to get more desperate, he decided to start honking the horn, revving the engine, and blasting the radio. 

“I was trying to be a nuisance,” he told me.

Multiple people had already searched that area, even going as far as that cabin. His car was stuck just around the corner from it, barely out of sight. Surely nobody imagined that he would have driven further into the woods if he wanted to turn around. It was insane to see how far he’d gotten, and yet how close he was to his original destination.

When I asked him what happened, he could only shake his head and chalk it up to a bad decision.

So, how did he survive?

Dad had been nursing a half-empty Gatorade that his grandkids had left in the car from the 4th of July, and there were some mints in the glovebox. He even had some diabetes pills in his pocket to tide him over. At a nearby cabin, people had left some bottles of soda on the porch. He steadily sipped them over the days to stay hydrated.

“So, did you steal the soda?” my aunt later asked.

“No, I left some money for them,” he replied. “And I was very generous.” Ha!

Things settled down after the initial race to get help. We brought Dad back to the cabin and Aunt Lynda fixed him a sandwich and a big glass of chocolate milk. A neighbor helped Uncle Marc pull Dad’s car out of the mud. John and his friends came back to celebrate with lots of hugs and a hard-earned beer. We got the word out with the police and the community that all was well. 

Later that night, at my mom’s house, I finally got my chance to cry it all out. Tears of happiness mingled with tears of distress as I considered how close we’d come to missing him — or even losing him. 

I still can’t quite describe that feeling, but now I know what it’s like to live through a miracle. 

After nearly three days, we found him!

Your support is giving a sip of water to the seed of intention I’m planting today by hitting publish on my very first Substack post. My hope is that you’ll come back, you’ll share with your friends, and someday you’ll see that many sips of water have helped grow this publication into something wonderful to behold.

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My name is Michele Laudig. I’m not new to the writing world, but I’m new to newsletters. And yes, Substack has become such a behemoth that it’s probably already way too popular. It’s almost overwhelming to consider how anyone finds anything on such a vast platform, but I’m trusting that I will connect with the people who are meant to find my work. 

It starts with putting myself out there. 

That’s easier said than done when social media has made it extremely easy to share passing glimpses of life without holding any of us to sustained attention. I enjoy Instagram a lot, but there’s a kind of satisfaction that’s missing from the quick story or reel.

My career was built on writing and editing, starting with over a decade on the editorial staff at an alt-newsweekly. I had all the cool journalism gigs you could wish for as a 20- and 30-something, covering culture and nightlife, art and entrepreneurship, events and urban revitalization. I was a music editor during the Aughts’ indie renaissance, going out to see live bands most nights of the week. It was as exhausting as you’d imagine, but the perfect job for a music-obsessed poet.

From there, I shifted to food writing, reviewing restaurants and blogging about chef gossip right alongside the rise of celebrity food culture. I considered myself one of the last holdouts of anonymous food critics, keeping my identity under wraps for years. I adored doing this work and put a lot of care into it to gain the trust of my readers. After all, they were spending their hard-earned money on dining out, and I didn’t want to steer them wrong. 

Meanwhile, the newspaper kept upping my writing quota, so I churned out more and more content until my wrists constantly hurt and I had a headache most days. When I quit the job, someone mentioned that I was a “writing machine” and that whoever filled my post would probably struggle to keep up.

Friends, as creative beings, we are not meant to be machines. 

It’s great to be prolific (if you want), and it’s ideal to share your work with other people (if you want), but may we never, ever be compared to machines. Just because we might be capable of it doesn’t mean it’s good for us.

Alas, I did continue with writing and editing, eventually ditching a regular byline in favor of a corporate job where my work was done anonymously under the banner of a tech giant for over a decade. My writing is all over the world on products, websites, articles, and marketing content. I was employed as a resident expert on the “voice” of a certain brand. And all the while, I didn’t push myself to put out my personal writing.

But my writing wanted to exist. I want to write about my journey and the magical things that bring me a sense of awe in life. I care about creativity, healing, and the relationship between the two. And since I’m living my dream in Tokyo — where I moved about 20 years after I expected to — I have a lot to say about life in Japan and the charms of its culture.

I’ve had a persistent feeling that I must not only create but share, just for sharing’s sake. At some point, the notion of creating a Substack prompted the need for a name.

And there it was. Quiet Calling. My answer to that inner urge. My tribute to intuition. And a gesture to celebrate the different kinds of beauty I encounter, just because I want to put more of that out into the world. 

Thank you for being here.