All The Photos
Gathering the photos…
The jet lag is gone, but editing these photos and writing these posts tugs me right back in. I'm back home now. Back to work, back to familiar roads, and back to autopilot. Since being home I've been trying to integrate the things I learned about myself while out there getting lost in Japan.
The mental rest of solo travel in Japan
Traveling alone was not something I'd given myself much space to do over the last two decades. But 4 weeks was an awakening. Driving without deadlines. Stopping when something caught my eye. Eating when I was hungry, and skipping meals when I wasn't. I slept when I was tired, slept in when it felt right. Yes, I enjoyed the independence, but now I realize that was only half the story.
Since being home, a more textured picture is coming into focus. I'm starting to see that I was enjoying most was a reduced cognitive load. No constant checking in. No negotiating schedules. No background math about other people's needs. Keeping my space organized and ordered. It was always just me and whatever was directly in front of me. For a brain like mine, that's not indulgence, it's oxygen.
My wife Ako and I have a familiar tension in our marriage. I move toward order, Ako leans into ease. I used to think my preference for order was just the predictable fussiness of a designer. In a recent strained conversation, something shifted when I explained that visual noise feels physical to me. As a way to help her understand, I asked her to imagine Metallica at full volume — all the time. She gawked. I could tell she finally understood.
My mind is not just a busy intersection. It's more akin to the infrastructure of planes, people, and luggage moving through every layer of the world's busiest airport. Somehow I've learned to normalize all this. Ideas, chatter, imaginary conversations with thousands of possible versions of myself and other people. So seeking order isn't really preference, its' straight relief. Tiding up can be a fresh blanket of snow over all that noise.
Like tidying, Japan has a way of turning the volume down. Maybe it's the structure. Maybe it's the expectations or shared rules. A cultural emphasis on we over me. My perspective here is still green and colored by novelty. Inevitably it'll change with more time and exposure, but across all three trips, the pattern holds. Something about Japan gives me rest in a way that no other place has.
Ako's arrival to Kamakura
After four weeks alone, I was genuinely ready to see my bride. Ako flew into Haneda. I picked her up and we drove south to Kamakura together. We'd been briefly a few years before, but only for a day, and never really to explore. This time we camped out in an efficient little Airbnb with a series of private bedrooms, each with their own bathroom, all sharing a central kitchen. No extra space to sprawl or accumulate clutter. If you want to travel affordably in Japan, it's definitely possible.
The transition back to shared decisions was harder than I expected. I found myself annoyed at small things—having to negotiate where to eat, when to leave, whose pace we'd move at. Those four weeks had recalibrated something in me, and it took work to move through that friction without letting it fester. But there's also something irreplaceable about navigating a place with someone you love. Ako's curiosities pulled us toward things I would have walked past. Her fluency opened conversations I couldn't have had alone. Neither mode is better.
Solo travel gives me oxygen, shared travel gives me dimension.
In Kamakura everything feels nearby in a way that makes walking or riding a bike the default rather than a virtue. We walked along the beach front to cafes. We walked street-side to dinner, peaking in every window. We rented bikes, riding all the way to the Enoshima and back. Afterward we sat watching the sun go down, drinking matcha and contemplating more time in Kamakura.
Small days, big feelings
With a full week in one place we got to develop a few fun habits. We loved finding a seat at Bread, Espresso &. A place with good coffee, a clean (orderly) space. Ako's natively fluent in Japanese, but still I would ask to order, even as I would make a few mistakes. It felt good to show off what I'd been learning. This place has some of the best pastries I've had in Japan. Some things for a western pallet and some things like shirashu (tiny sardine like fish) on a bun (for breakfast), which is odd for my Colorado-born brain, but worth the risk.
Temples and shrines throughout Kamakura pop up unannounced as they do in the rest of Japan, but the Great Buddha here is really worth seeing. The Enoden line rattles through town along the coast, charming and nostalgic. Kamakura can be touristy, but it doesn’t feel dominated by tourism. People actually live here. You can tell by how little effort is made to impress.
Finding home
Somewhere between the bike rides and morning pastries, I realized I was watching Ako differently. I've spent the last few years trying to convince Ako that living in Japan could work. She usually responded with some version of "that sounds nice for you, I promise I'll visit". I get it though. Her early career in Tokyo was not gentle. She was hired early at Goldman Sachs, one of the most prestigious and strict banks you can work for. Investment banking, long hours, and a work culture that was not kind to women. You can imagine why the idea of living in Japan again wasn't something she was chasing. Kamakura changed that quietly.
The moment I knew something was shifting, wasn't about me at all. It was watching Ako rest. Not crash or disengage, just rest. No sense that she needed to be productive, or impressive, or perform her role correctly as a Japanese woman in a country with a culture of shoulds. She could simply be where she was, as she was. That's when I thought this could work, not just for me, but for us.
We spent time with Ako's college friend Tomo and his wife Miki (and heard a lot about Ku-chan, their pup) who live nearby in Zushi. Fresh fish for lunch one day, dinner at Tomo's favorite izakaya the next. What made it special wasn't just the food—it was getting a window into a version of Ako I'd never seen. I know this woman better than anyone on earth, and yet there are these wide gaps that can't be filled by her stories alone. Hearing Tomo and Ku-chan talk about who she was back then, what she cared about, how she moved through the world—it filled in colors I didn't know were missing. And getting to show up next to her now, as her husband, felt like proof of how far we'd both come.
Tomo's also starting his own sauce company, so we spent time talking shop—the reality of consumer packaged goods, supply chains, margins, all of it. On Instagram, he posts a meal he makes every single day after his 20-mile run. The man is a machine. It was energizing to be around someone building something with that kind of daily commitment.
Another great example of Kamakura hospitality was Ayumi, a sweet lady who cleaned our Airbnb. She has blonde hair and was very casual for a Japanese woman. She and Ako hit it off immediately, yammering on about everything you can imagine. On our last day, she surprised Ako by giving her a sweatshirt from the Katase Small Waves Surfing Club. A small gesture, unremarkable if you don't know Japan very well, and quite meaningful if you do. Most folks don't engage that friendly, that fast here. It was special. If I had paid Kamakura to help convince my wife to dream about Japan, they couldn't have done a better job.
Thinking forward
I still think about places I'd like to visit throughout the world. But no place has ever quite taken me like this country. If we ever move to Japan, I don’t want to just consume it. I want to participate and collaborate. I want to learn and contribute. I want to put down roots. Ako isn’t what you'd call traditional Japanese. I’m not Japanese at all. We’re both a little weird in the best ways. I don't know how we'd fit in, but the smiles and the genuine curiosity across all five weeks of this trip make me believe it's possible. My last days in Kamakura didn't feel like an ending, but more like an invitation, like a date where things stop being hypothetical and you start making plans. Ako and I didn't make any promises on the train ride back to Haneda, but this concept of living here was no longer dismissable. Japan had shifted from dream to our possibility. Next step is possibility, to probability.
All the photos can be seen here.
It's December 28, with only a few days left in the year. I got back from Japan in early October and since then I've been swimming in design work and the decaf coffee business. I'd like to finish my 2025 Japan Journal, so here’s the first of the last three entries.
It was a two day drive from Onomichi to Nagano. That much time driving through fresh terrain on an unfamiliar road system is pretty tiring on this old noggin, but being alone on the road is equally refreshing. Nothing to negotiate. Cleaner calculus. Fewer decisions. Just me and novelty, one hour at a time.
Along the way, somewhere in Gifu, I pulled over to search for the nearest coffee shop — a place to break and refresh. While browsing, I spotted a little gem of a Kissaten that immediately jogged a memory that wasn't mine. A tiny midcentury place called the Canadian Coffee House that was also featured in Craig Mod’s book Things Become Other Things. So I couldn't not drop in and see what it was all about.
First seeing the CCH feels like taking a midcentury, Swiss, geographic, time sandwich, except it’s in Japan, and it’s called Canadian. A little confusing, but charming as hell. Dark wood interiors. A little patina’d with time. I used my best Japanese to order burakku kōhī o hitotsu to piza tōsuto onegaishimasu (a Black Coffee and Pizza Toast) and then I sat there admiring old men nursing cups and smoking. I imagined them swapping old stories about their work, some gossip about their wives, and asking which of their friends were still alive. The tenshu (owner) behind the counter quietly shuffled around doing side work. I imagined the place growing like a plant around him as he worked. In the end, I paid, bowed, and got back in the car to continue my journey. The rest of the drive to Nagano through Gifu was beautiful. The whole region is really special, farmland giving way to foothills.
Landing in Iijima
Iijima sits in a wide valley in southern Nagano, fields opening out toward the mountains. I stayed at a small place run by Muir Japan. It didn’t feel like an Airbnb so much as staying inside someone's good design decisions.
The house was the kind of simple that's not achieved easily. Everything thoughtful. Everything where it should be. Windows that opened to fields and sky. At night, enveloped in the darkness you only get in the country. Crossing bells chime. A local train slides through. Its interior lights flickering past like a zoetrope.
On my first afternoon, I walked the tight roads that bisected farm fields. Apple orchards heavy with fruit on one side. Rice fields cut and tidy on the other. Narrow canals moving water with quiet purpose throughout it all.
My nervous system recognized Iijima immediately. Oh, we're in the mountains again. that place where we chill out, immediately. Yes, now I remember. Maybe it's being from Colorado that makes that happen? Maybe it’s being neurospicy? I'm not sure, but the mountains are medicine.
Days in Iijima were unstructured in the best way. Morning light. Cool air. Decaf at the house. Talking with the owners at Muir who quickly became favorites. Walking to the grocery store. Eating simply.
At night, I walked a kilometer to dinner. Italian food with a Japanese accent. A Napoli-style pizza surrounded by an early Halloween-theme. Decorations everywhere. Ghost noises echoing through the restaurant at random intervals. A couple at the next table laughed with me (maybe at me) every time I jumped.
Atera Valley
On my last day in Iijima, I drove out and up to Atera Valley. The shift was immediate. The farm valleys gave way to something a lot older. Maybe it's the moss. I think if I were covered in moss I might seem really old and wise too. The water in Atera Valley is impossibly clear, tinted green from minerals and depth. Boulders the size of small houses curate the river into lines and pools. Foam blooms and disappears. The trees play the morning mist like a silent flute. I stood for a long time just watching, breathing.
I’ve heard that rivers are never the same twice. New water, same path. Somehow here it's not that it's a different river, but that it's a ribbon of un-ending water, an eternal dragon of rapids.
The geography of Japan pulls back the curtain on the timelines that exceed a human life, maybe all human life. Water without deadlines. Mountains with stories about the beginnings of all things.
At the end of my hike, I swam in the raw cold tributaries of the Kiso River. The chill wakes up every part of me that loves to play. I can’t not whoop when I’m alone in a river. It feels a little risky in the politeness of Japan, but full Matthew finds his way out.
Matsumoto
Only my last day in Nagano, I spent a short stretch in Matsumoto before leaving Nagano. A ski town in late summer, between identities. Shops open but unhurried. Walking paths between city buildings and temples. People moving, but without urgency. I wandered, ate, watched, and wrote. Looking forward to seeing more of it again soon.
Leaving Nagano
Eventually I packed the car again and headed south toward Kamakura. That’s the next entry. Thanks for following along.
The full edited photo set can be seen here.
A note: I'm already home from Japan, and have been for the last 24 days! It's been busy and hard to get time to get the last of these letters out, but I want to make sure to finish the story. There are two more left in me after this one. Stay tuned!
Onomichi sits along the Seto Inland Sea, a long, thin city scrunched against the hillside like a favorite scarf lost in the corner of the room behind the chairs. Homes like shuffled puzzle pieces, alleys crossing upward and down, occasionally opening to views of the harbor below. It’s the starting point for the Shimanami Kaidō (a 70-kilometer island-hopping cycling route I would love to come back and do). Onomichi is two-wheel friendly. Pedals. I chose Onomichi based on a few recommendations and youtube videos. It's not nearly as hidden as Tsuwano, but it's got character for days, and it's not my last time here.
Accidental Ramen
On my arrival night, I set out for pizza. I love road-tripping more than most, but after hours behind the wheel I was craving simple and familiar: in other words, cheese on triangle shaped bread. Google Maps search. Cheese located. Digital miracles. I left my Airbnb on foot, camera in tow, ready to chow down.
In the fade of dusk, I followed Google's blue line through narrow streets dappled with vending machines, hungrier at every step. Every memory of pizza I’d ever had stacked like rungs on a ladder I was about to leap from... into melted cheese, but then I arrived to disappointment: a locked door and a dark window.
Exhausted and hungry I began just walking to think. Around the next bend I spotted a what looked like a tiny ramen shop. Eight stools. A fogged-up window. A handwritten sign. I stepped inside to find one empty seat. Mine o mine.
The owner handed me a “menu” if you could call it that. It was a one-ring scrapbook of collaged photos, torn magazine pages, and washi tape; more art project than restaurant document. I ordered tonkotsu (pork-bone broth). Deep, rich flavor. Noodles with just the right bite. It came with a free side of OMG-I-love-this-place.
A German couple sat to my left, and a young Japanese architect to my right. They were the first Westerners I’d spoken to since leaving the States in August. We talked travel, language, and a few handy phrases for getting by in Japan—like gochisōsama deshita (a thank you at the end of the meal). When they left, I got talking with Fumiya-san, the architect. He’d studied in Norway. His English was architected, deliberate, precise as I began to suspect his designs probably were. We talked about how cultures build helpful containers and how fast we modern humans find ways lose those containers like discarded tupperware. He sympathized about the political circus back home. We exchanged info. Hope to bump into him again.
I left that night full in more ways than one. The ramen was perfect, but the company was better. Every good thing about the day had come from the disappointment of not getting what I thought I wanted.
Quiet lessons in polite business at Sen Coffee
The next morning I found Sen Coffee, a minimalist café tucked inside the bottom floor a designer hotel. It’s run by Yusuke, a former latte art world champion, which might explain the precision and detail of the setting.
I ordered a pour-over, Decafe kōhī, buraku, onegaishimasu (Decaf coffee please), and sat in the lobby while about twenty suited Japanese folks drifted into the open space. At the far end of the room, two men took a seat facing the window. The rest of the group arranged themselves neatly around the edges of the room, hands folded, deferential, like an audience of very serious business penguins. Everyone spoke in whispers. Nothing moved. It was quiet enough that I was careful how I put my coffee cup down each time I sipped.
A woman—probably the hotel manager—approached to apologize for the “noise.”
I blinked. “Excuse me? The what?”
For a moment I wondered if she was politely suggesting I leave, but a quick check with Google Translate cleared it up. She really was apologizing for the disturbance—this perfectly silent crowd was, in her view, a disruption.
At home, silence is something you go to sleep to. In Japan, it’s the baseline.
Mountain Man
I met Yama-san, the clerk of a tiny ramen shop a few blocks from the harbor. Big guy, short beard (very rare to have one in Japan), a few tattoos running up his arms short stories. His English was patchy but enthusiastic. “Cool tattoos, man,” he said in English, pointing at mine. I grinned and said kochirakoso! (likewise).
We fell into the kind of easy exchange that doesn’t need grammar, just smiles, gestures, a few stories and laughter filling the gaps while I waited for my meal. I snapped some photos. We exchanged info. Yama-san. Mountain man.
There’s a generosity in small encounters like that. They don’t need to mean much, yet they are the art that shapes the day.
Biking into the unexpected
Like I did in Fukuoka, I rented a bicycle in Onomichi. You don’t chain bikes to anything. You just flip a small piece of metal, that pretends to be a lock, across the back tire and walk away. The idea that your bike will still be there isn’t naive, it’s statistically accurate. No one takes what isn’t theirs. Both because it would be impolite and because there is such a high conviction rate for offenders that there's a strong back-stop not to be a dick.
Riding along Onomichi I caught whiffs of soy, sea-side, and cooking sea-weed. Cats lounged in the shade like locals. Very glad for the electric bike option, I followed streets uphill and down. Every wrong turn came with a small reward: a view of the harbor, a pastry shop I’d have missed otherwise. Oishii! (delicious).
Across the lane, a letterpress studio caught my eye. Drawers of metal type lined the walls, including kanji so tiny they looked hand-etched with needles. These were totemo chiisai (very small). I bought a few cards and managed a halting conversation with the owner about being a designer. We stumbled through English and Japanese, smiling more than talking. She swore my Japanese was great, and I waved her off politely. This is is how Japan saves face. It's an art. I'm sure I blundered it many times, but it's fun to try.
Patterns and asymmetry.
Onomichi, like much of Japan, has a clever trick of balancing opposites. It’s both chaotic and orderly, humble and precise. The ramen bars are packed and playful as adults loosen their ties, but outside and across the way a shinto shrine painted with moss quietly meditates.
I started noticing how the best moments of my time in Japan came from flexibility. Pizza shop is closed? Fuck it. What's next?. Following the smell of broth instead of always hunting for a 5 star review. Riding until the road turned into stairs, and then deciding to walk your bike up the stairs like an idiot, because why not?! None of it planned, all of it worth it.
There’s a word in Japanese—en 縁 (like fate or mysterious connection). Onomichi feels like that a city built on a lot of 縁.
By my last night, I was exhausted in the best way. My clothes stuck to me but I didn't care. My camera card was full. I’d had more small conversations in two days than I’d expected in weeks. I felt full and proud of myself for the courage to stay open. To choose motion instead of certainty. Cycling. Walking. Sweating. Talking to strangers. Ordering food I couldn’t read. Hoping I'd like it. Okay if I didn't.
Serendipity isn’t magic. It’s a reward for participation.
More photos from the journey will keep showing up here.
A little man wearing a gentle smile, shuffling through his morning, making tea for his neighbor, sweeping the porch, seeding the bird feeder. A pair of school-aged girls venturing out into their village with a few saved up coins, and a wealth of gumption. Authentic Meiji era homes with a few generations of families next to abandoned and vacated structures whose children took one-way trains to Tokyo long ago. Tsuwano is special.
The scale is the first thing you notice. Two-story homes with traditional Japanese tiled roofs, horizontal wood slatting, and sliding doors. The houses are pressed neatly together in rows organized by narrow roads. My first morning here was so quiet and calm I wondered if I'd found a village of about 5 people. Walking around orienting myself I found waterways on the side of the main road holding koi (colorful carp) fish. A small local
densha (train) rumbles through every hour or so and I hear the train signal as the barriers are slowly lowered. I wonder if you could get the whole village on one of these trains... probably not, but maybe if you tried hard.
Tsuwano is small, but somehow complete. The proportion, like the pace, is an invitation.
A Village of Surfaces
Entranced with the novelty of textures and their forms, I document them in shot after shot, collecting like a boy finding bugs in his backyard. Itabei plank siding in diagonal patterns. Modern corrugated metal painted to mimic woodgrain. Vertical kōshi lattices. Plaster expiring to show weathered cedar beneath. Rust blooming, time's signature on his artwork. Not blemishes, a vocabulary of form.
I learned much of this is the lineage of machiya craftsmanship from the 1800s to very early 1900s. Slatted kōshi-do doors to let light breathe, hand-carved ranma panels above entrances, kawara roof tiles crowned with decorative onigawara. Decay is understood, it's allowed, it's patina. The philosophical soil that grew this culture understands and embraces impermanence. Moss softens stone, wood fades in gradients under sun and weather. I'm curious if it's these patterns that make a kind of nest of calm that I'm able to rest in when I'm here.
I imagine that most locals probably walk past all this without seeing it, as I also do at home. These surfaces are of fingerprint of Tsuwano—and Japan. I have an idea of making a small book, one of two, of the textures of Tsuwano. I plan to send one to my new friends there, and one I'll keep for me.
Hospitality
The people in Tsuwano are textured as well. At Fukuzushi, a family sushi shop, the son in his fifties worked beside his father. He asked about my Japanese, smiled when I stumbled, as he did with his English, but we both encouraged each other with appreciation. Iie, iie, jozu jozu! (no no, it's good!)
At a soba shop, a grandmother greeted me like I’d wandered into her living room. After a delicious meal I also requested quite a generous helping of chestnut snacks, kuri yōkan (seaweed agar, sugar, with chestnut pieces). She checked my order several times, making sure I knew what I was spending in yen. I left full of soba, and her gentleness. She apologized constantly with bows and sumimasen for nothing in particular. It actually gave me more understanding of my wife, Ako, and how I tell her not to apologize so much! In Tsuwano I think I finally understood it. Apology here is less about fault and more about smoothing the edges of connection.
Listening wide open
My favorite hours were spent learning. A calligraphy class with a tiny little master calligrapher with the heart of a bear. Gruff, but kind, she taught me to write kumo (cloud). A tea workshop at Komien Tea House, where Adrien guided me through blends of sencha, hōjicha, zaracha, ginger, and yuzu—all grown and roasted locally.
Komien is a family business, started 130 years ago. Now inherited by Rumi and shared with her French husband Adrien. These two linger in my mind weeks after leaving Tsuwano. Warmth, craft, presence. I stayed in the little guest house above their business. Their story, French and Japanese, raising their daughter in this slow village. It feels like a metaphor for Tsuwano: old and new, rooted and open.
Lingering
Some places you pass through. Some places imprint. There's a scale in Tsuwano that makes human connection inevitable, and a pace that allows for it to open as it will, on its own. Being an outsider sharpens the details; the sound of crickets speaking Japanese, the smell of woodsmoke, the feel of moss hugging the wall.
I’ve told Ako that we're coming back. Tsuwano is where work and reflection sit together for tea. A place to write from, or to remember what your hands can still make. That's my souvenir; to return.
More photos from the journey will keep showing up here.
I left Fukuoka in the early morning after I slipped into a little laundromat to clean my sweat-drenched clothing, and do a little writing. As I entered the laundromat, a very little and very old man, took one look at my foreign self, and bustled over saying “service, service!” and poured detergent into my machine for me (they sold it for a fee also). No charge, no tricks, just kindness from father-time's little Japanese brother.
These little gestures keep catching me off guard. They don’t look like much from the outside, but they stick and I'm gathering them like stamps in my passport. Kansha de ippai (feelin' grateful).
I set off from Fukuoka with the map set to avoid tolls and highways. The slower routes and backroads force you into a place. They ask you to slow down and get lost. It feels more real, wherever you are. Here in Japan, it's the small neighborhoods between farmland, the shuttered storefronts, and the ivy and moss covering what once was a many-generation-run ryokan (traditional Japanese Inn). I prefer this to auto-pilot, unless I'm exhausted, then fuck that, get me to my bed.
Kissaten Misadventures
Halfway through the drive I had time to stop off for a little bite to eat. I usually poke around Google Maps until I find something that appeals to my design sensibilities or my curiosities. In this case it was a bit of both. I saw a tiny old-school kissaten (old word for café, probably a lot like we say "diner" and it infers nostalgia). The photos looked like something from a 1970s Colorado cabin. Kanpeki (perfect).
I pulled up a precarious drive, parked, and poked my nose inside. The owner, a sweet round-faced older woman, gestured me to a booth with a polite dozo (please). I wanted to compliment the place, so I said kawaii desu ne (it’s cute, isn’t it). Except I botched the vowel. She heard kowaii desu ne (it’s scary, isn’t it).
So basically, I walked in smiling and told her, “Your café is terrifying.”
Her face froze, alerting me to the possibility of what I'd just done. I quickly corrected, and we both got a good laugh about it. I hope she gets some mileage out of that story with her regulars for a few years. Silly Gaijin (outsiders). That’s how you make friends in Japan: embarrass yourself, recover quickly, then let everyone laugh with you.
I ordered an iced coffee and my first pizza toast. Craig Mod writes about pizza toast all the time, but this was my first. It’s exactly what it sounds like—thick white cloudy bread, a thin bed of red sauce, mozzarella cheese, and pepperoni or green peppers if your luck is strong, and your kissaten is well chosen.
While I ate, a couple of regulars stumbled in and sat near me. We chatted. My broken Japanese. Their scattered English. Somehow it worked. Like pizza toast. We even took a photo together. When I hesitated to hand my camera over, assuming she wouldn’t know how to use it, the owner waved me off. She’d once run a camera shop. Everyone is full of surprises.
Into the Mountains
The road into Aso-Kuju wound through a lush canyon. Straight cedar trunks shooting skyward. A river braiding around boulders. Silver between green.
Japan is mostly mountains (75%), with little land left to live on. That geography shapes a society. In a tight valley, where you’ll see the same neighbors for life, you learn how to keep things calm—even if only on the surface. In the U.S., if you don’t like your neighbor, you move. Geography bakes culture. Which makes it easier to understand the need for honne (true feelings) and tatemae (public face), interesting Japanese concepts. Pair them with the proverbs below and you start to get a feel for some of what informs the Japanese ethic.
出る釘は打たれる (Deru kugi wa utareru)
The nail that sticks out gets hammered down.
能ある鷹は爪を隠す (Nō aru taka wa tsume o kakusu)
The talented hawk hides its claws.
雉も鳴かずば撃たれまい (Kiji mo nakazuba utaremai)
Even a pheasant won’t be shot if it keeps quiet.
On paper, they sound like calls for conformity. And sometimes they are. But on the ground, I'm surprised. The old man with the detergent didn’t have to help. The café owner didn’t have to laugh at my mistake. The “talented hawk” pulled out her skill the second she picked up my camera. Reality feels looser, more textured, than the proverbs suggest. The tatemae mask cracks open for flashes of honne warmth. Ako would also remind me that the mask can wear you down, like sandpaper on skin. Maybe that's just because I'm not Japanese though? Ako would tell you that these things can wear you down like slow sandpaper.
A moment of meditation with this ephemeral little character. This is a short video, but he was on my arm for a good ten minutes. I've never experienced anything like it.
Aso-Kuju & Kikuchi Falls
The Aso-Kuju range feels like it’s holding you inside a great green bowl. Steep walls of cedar and cypress frame rivers that roll like songs. Kudzu (or it's Japanese cousin) drapes the hillsides like back home in the Blue Ridge. There's more moss here, and the timber is more serious. Probably their bosses are watching.
Kikuchi Falls is a centerpiece. The water is weirdly clear. The kind of thing that makes you want to just lay down in it and float away forever. It's as eery as it is beautiful. Everywhere in this big park, there are layers. Surface and depth. Seems like a theme here.
More photos from the journey will keep showing up here.
Leaving Fukuoka, and the city pace, was an exhale I was looking for. It was well worth the minor anxieties of renting and driving a car in a foreign country. There’s a rhythm you only find when the scenery flips from dense city blocks to farmland, seaside, and open space.
Farms, Roads, and Minecraft Trees
I struck out for Itoshima, about an hours drive from Fukuoka. I set the map to avoid tolls and keep me off highways, always one of my favorite ways to get lost and find the backroads where all interesting things are kept. Along the way there were
high tunnels (plastic-covered greenhouses). Some filled with strawberries, some with shiso leaves maybe? Tractors, culverts, irrigation ditches. All of it felt familiar, reminders of where I come from, growing up in Colorado. My sister still runs a permaculture vegetable farm, so snapping photos of culverts and tractors to send back home made me feel close to them, even halfway across the world.
One minute I'm hedged in by farms stacked up beside pockets of homes, the next—pop!—the road spat me out at the ocean’s edge. Boats, ferries, families fishing. Farms and sea life cheek-to-cheek.
Shiraito Falls
By late morning I climbed toward Shiraito no Taki (Shiraito Falls). The air turned cooler, but the crowds thickened. I lucked out, only waiting twenty minutes for parking. By the time I left, the line of cars stretched for several miles. I wandered the base of the falls, enjoying watching families family. We all had the same idea to get out of the heat.
I sat down near a young Japanese couple with a toddler, who playfully knocked over his water bottle. Free of kids, I jumped up, grabbed it, handed it back. Dozo (here you go). Arigatō gozaimasu (thank you), they said bowing multiple times. I replied iie iie (it's nothing) and added kodomo wa kawaii desu ne (your child is cute isn't he!), followed with a parting, yoi ichinichi o (have a good day). They surprised me by finding me later, introducing me to their son, and replying in kind, wishing me a good day. It was a tender thing. That kind of small connection cuts through any cultural distance. Fellow parents, figuring it out.
A BBQ Burger with Orange
Around four o’clock I was starving. What I really wanted was a cheeseburger or something equivalent. The Japanese have a habit of taking any food and making it better. I was confident I could find something that would not disappoint. Oh My Goodness, was just the place. The owner and his wife had built the place themselves, proud of Kyushu, proud of what they'd made. He and his wife were charming hosts.
The burger? Pulled pork with a slice of orange. No barbecue sauce, just the citrus. I don’t normally like barbecue much, but this hit the spot. The orange gave it a brightness and moisture that was somehow better than the original idea of a cheeseburger. Ako would hate it (she’s anti fruit-in-savory), but I loved it. Ha!
Couple’s Rock
Toward sunset I reached Sakurai-futamigaura (Couple’s Rock). Two stones, standing in the surf, bound by a thick braided shinto rope, symbolizing marriage. I took a deep breath thinking of my bride in South Carolina, and then set up my camera to play with reflections, and see what I could make of the scenery.
It was also a good chance to take photos for a few people (with their camera), shashin o torimashō ka? (shall I take your photo?). People always say yes and they're so grateful. It's something I love to do at home or when I travel. It's a small gift you can give to anyone anywhere.
Reflection
My time in Itoshima was special. Full stomach (onaka ippai), and full heart. I realized something: I like my own company. I’d been nervous about loneliness on this trip, but it hasn’t come. I miss Ako, I miss my friends, but being by myself here is a gift, from me to me. I'm grateful for it.
Next was two days Aso Kuju National Park. Two nights in the mountains, slower pace, laundry to do, maybe a hike. But today — today was greenhouses and waterfalls, oranges on burgers, rocks bound together by rope, and the steady joy of noticing. More on that soon.
More photos from the journey will keep showing up here.
On my second full day in Fukuoka I sat with my laptop editing photos in the cozy cafe in the downstairs of Mei Hotel, the boutique spot I'd picked. Editing can be enjoyable, adjusting light, trimming edges, making choices. But it's also another place perfectionism can leak in. I see the gap between what I'm creating and what some of my friends (professionals)can do, and the delta between the two is where I can get stuck. I think part of traveling solo is to play with that space, and see if I can soften around it.
Shut the laptop! It's time to move! Lots of Fukuoka to see. It was once again, hot-as-balls™ and I needed some breeze on my face, so I rented a small red electric-assist bike and set google to take me toward the parks, a place I know brings me joy.
The Cyclist
On my way out of the city, waiting for a light to turn. I saw another man on a bicycle, short and handsome, dawning a dapper cap. The kind of person who carries play in his posture. I asked, sumimasen, shashin o totte mo ii desu ka? (excuse me, may I take your photo?). He laughed and replied, watashi mo?! (of me?!). Yes, of you I gestured. He laughed but obliged
I raised the camera, trying to bring him into focus, racing against the light about to switch, why isn't this working, nothing's happening! Too dark, wrong settings? We both leaned in. That’s when he pointed and laughed with me a little. The lens cap was still on. We both cracked up, fumbling with a mix of English and Japanese. I apologized and thanked him. The shot was lost, but the connection was better.
Any city by bicycle is a better city
The coastline path from park to park unfolded like a gift. The path slipped between neighborhoods, commercial blocks, and then opened into little pops of rice fields between houses, and then sudden open views of the sea. In some places it was polished; fresh pavement, benches, families walking together. In others it was deserted; rough and unkempt, just me, a weedy sidewalk and a bit of welcome breeze. I could see islands across the water, and boats passing between them. On the edges of Fukuoka it starts to feel like parts of Malibu; ramshackle, and easygoing. There’s freedom in a bike: fast enough to cover real ground, slow enough to stay connected the world you’re passing through. It's by far my favorite way to see a new city.
By the time I looped back toward the city I felt like Gumby, bow legged and green. Tired and soaked through, I’d seen more of Fukuoka in one afternoon than I could have managed in three days on foot. Turns out I did 35km on that small-wheel goofy-ass little bike. Not bad dude.
Japan keeps reforming for me, shifting from stacks of fantasy into something alive and real that breaks what I thought I knew and shows me something different underneath. Even my limited Japanese adds character to this trip that others didn't have. Being here alone as well, having to rely on myself for my whits and to keep my own company. The more I wander, the more Japan becomes itself, less abstraction and more of a textured present place and people.
These photos and others I'm collecting in an always updating album here.
I'm a bit behind in my writing as it's been one very full day after another, and a stack of stories and experiences I'll never forget. The next few newsletters I'll release in quick succession to catch up a bit. There's too much to tell in just one.
I was leaving Tokyo, early on Thursday morning. Heading to Fukuoka, the capital of Fukuoka Prefecture and the largest city on Kyushu, the southwestern-most of Japan’s four main islands. I started my day early at Tokyo Station where it's the heat of rush hour. Chaos and choreography. For a moment, entranced by the river of black-haired heads moving in every direction toward train tunnels and platforms. I definitely felt more ant-like than human. Somehow no crashes, no pile‑ups, everything just… works. Kind of amazing.
At the bottom of the escalator that would lift me up onto the platform for my train, an older woman stood, in crisp uniform, diligently cleaning the moving handrail. She held a rag in one hand and a stopwatch in the other. Hold, tick, tick, tick, hold....tick, tick, tick, hold. Hygiene measured. I learned later this woman is part of a very respectable troop of mostly older individuals who keep the station and the trains exceptionally clean. A job that was once seen as quite lowly has been elevated to hold some well deserved reverence.
The Shinkansen (bullet train) raced me down Japan in under 6 hours. That's over 1000km, a distance that would take over 13 hours in a vehicle. The train travels between 200-300km/hr. Sleek, smooth, quiet. The future.
Air, Sky, and Sweat
When I stepped off in Fukuoka, the contrast between Tokyo and Fukuoka was clear. Tokyo can feel relentless and stimulating. Fukuoka felt looser, like a city still at work, but it's Friday.
That first night the sky was strange. Probably just unique weather, but it lit the sky like a birthday. Almost everyone I saw was watching, and like the modern people we are, we were all recording.
I didn't have high hopes for change in the humidity, and like a constant companion it did not disappoint. Still mushimushi (sticky, steamy). My shirt clung to me almost instantly. Everyone else? Crisp, unbothered, heading home from work. I felt embarrassed... why am I the only one dripping? Do they have some trick? I figured out later I could, for the first time in my life, try an undershirt, literally under my t-shirt. At least I looked semi-presentable after that.
Main Drags and Back Alleys
The main drag in Fukuoka is bright, awake, and packed with people. Different than Tokyo though I saw and heard more Korean, Chinese, Indian, and Vietnamese. Fukuoka felt like it had more ingredients in the soup.
Step into a side street and things change pace. One-lane tighter alleys stacked with ramen shops, soba houses, and izakaya glowing with paper lanterns. Cafés tucked in corners. Donut shops with the cutest mascots. It feels endless, like I could live here for years and never eat at the same place twice.
Noticing
Triangular stop signs. Ribbed light poles to keep stickers from sticking. The tops of children’s backpacks curved like little arches. Sink faucets that fill the basin or the bathtub — your choice. A slight bow preferred over the intrusion of konnichiwa (hello) when passing a stranger on the street. Lots of contrasts: remarkable attention to design detail in some corners, and then gaudy, noisy signage shouting at you in others. I keep circling this idea of novelty. I've traveled all over, what is it about Japan's novelty that stirs me in ways other places haven't.
These photos and others I'm collecting in an always updating album here.
These photos and others I'm collecting in an always updating album here.
Here in Japan, jetlag has me waking early. On Okutama day my eyes opened at gozen yonji gojuu ppun (4:50 a.m.), probably excitement from the thought of escaping the city heat. Teeth brushed, clothes on, pack checked. I felt like I was off to claim lottery winnings, grin wide as ever.
The plan was Hatonosu Canyon and then Okutama. Technically still Tokyo, but an hour and a half by train and it might as well be another universe.
Tokyo trains
I'm leaving early so it's rush hour for the working class. Once on the train I watch salary men (all with dark trousers and white shirts), briefcases and backpacks in hand, making their way to a day full of churn. Uniformed school kids, batteries charged, ready for class. Kids and the older generations untethered, everyone else in a digital bubble. I tried to study a little Hiragana and Katakana (Japanese characters), half distracted and feeling guilty for being just another rat on the wheel of algorithmic stimulus. I put the phone away, and just listen and watch for awhile. I enjoyed eavesdropping on a pair of nine year olds. I understood five percent at best, but that five percent felt golden. Hontōni. Yasui. Gakusei. (Really! Cheap. Student.) Tiny fragments of recognition, but every bit is an absolute joy. At 47 years old to be learning a new language is one of the best gifts I've ever given myself time for.
Here’s a thing: Japanese kids ride trains solo from about six or seven years old. In the U.S., parents would be clutching their hands all the way to the classroom door and interviewing the teacher to see if their precious little bean would be ok. (I'm guilty of this kind of scrutiny as well). Is it that we don't have the same safety in our society? Is it that we don't expect as much from our children? Japan has a 98% conviction rate, so maybe this is the cost of safety? I have questions upon questions.
I switched trains in Ome and ducked into a cute little panya (bakery). Asked the clerk, kōhī ga arimasu ka? Nope. Just the usual boxed and cooled stuff. The Japanese love their sugared pre-milked coffee. I bought one anyway and a curry-pizza bun that defied categorization but made my tastebuds happy. A strange little breakfast, eaten carefully at the bench while I waited for connecting train.
The Japanese have rules for everything. On an empty platform in Ome, eating quietly was fine; in a crowded station it’d be rude. Same on trains — silence is expected. As a gaijin (outsider) I could get away with more, but I’d rather match the rhythm here. Order over preference. Call it rigid if you want, but our freedoms aren’t exactly producing results.
Hatonosu Canyon
Then Hatonosu. I found a tucked away trail that felt like I might end up in season three of stranger things. I walked past what were probably abandoned hotels or apartments, avoiding areas marked "no trespassing". Finally the trail dropped me onto a cliffside and a canyon that felt like a secret. Sheer stone walls, bright clean water, moss clothing rock. I was completely alone. Not another soul in sight. I stripped down (into my swim suit, not my birthday suit). Took a big ass grateful breath in. And marched right into the river. The cold water was a level of refreshing that I'm not sure language was made to describe. I immediately felt reset. Like back to birth. I swam and sunbathed for a couple hours. Meditated on a rock. Whoooped and whistled like a child on his favorite playground.
For a moment I thought: if I slipped and hit my head, if I drifted downriver and was gone, no one would know for days. Being married to a woman who loves true crime puts these weird thoughts in my head.
A few months before Japan, I’d been worried about being lonely here. I've not spent this amount of time alone since going to school in England for two years in my 20s. Instead, it feels like a gift. I’m not missing people. I’m with me. I like this guy — more everyday. We've been through a lot. He's a keeper.
Café Kikori
I reluctantly bowed goodbye to one of the most beautiful natural beauties I've ever experienced, and found Café Kikori waiting for me just beyond the top of the trailhead. Poised on the cliffside, riding on stilts, this cafe had big windows that looked out into the green. The decor inside was kitsch and cute. A small library with vintage fishing lures, books, and cozy collectibles. The owner has made little one-tenth scale miniatures of his café and placed them outside the actual windows. When you look through the glass you see the miniature version of the window you’re looking through. The details were perfectly imperfect—cumbersome in a way that made them charming. Adorable, alive.
I ate a hamu tamago chīzu sando (ham, egg, and cheese) that was just what I needed. Bought a sticker. He slipped me an extra one for free. What a gem.
It’s these small towns and small gestures that get me. People trying to make a living with a café or a craft, probably not raking it in, just subsisting. But doing it with sweetness. I find that deeply attractive. These little places in Japan are disappearing. Craig Mod, a writer I deeply admire and follow, has written extensively on it. His book captures much of it. Read it. It's fascinating.
Shrine trail
Back in town, I found the start of a trail. A steep uphill climb to a shrine. Backpack heavy with my laptop (thinking I would have time to write — I didn't), camera, two bottles of Aquarius. Sweat pouring, legs burning, but my body felt strong. I can do hard things. That thought carried me up the slope (181 cement steps, and probably about 1200 ft of elevation gain) until the shrine came into view.
Onsen bound!
I'd done a little research ahead of time and believed there to be a tattoo friendly Onsen (Onsen are bathhouses) just the other side of the river from Okutama. Heading along the riverside path to the onsen, I stopped on a bridge to photograph the river below. Out of the corner of my lens, something moved across a cable. My brain said it was a squirrel. The biggest squirrel in history. Turned out to be a monkey. My distant cousin.
I navigated the entry reasonably with a hiccup about where to get the towel. Before entering the onsen, you sit on a little stool, bathe yourself with a handheld shower, and then proceed clean into the public bath. Naked, bits dangling, I joined a handful of Japanese men, tea towels perched on our heads, soaking by this steaming pool. Blissful. After a cold rinse, I stepped back into the sauna that is late-summer Japan.
Return to the city
This day goes down in the record books. Rarely have I felt so awake to possibility, both within me, and beyond me. But these elations expire like everything else. The walk back to the station had one more delight for me. A window chock-full of collected bobble-heads , of which Japan has the best in the world. Exhausted but heart-full, I might have looked right at home in that window sill of smiling, rocking faces.
More photos from the journey will keep showing up here.
Welcome. I'm traveling through Japan for 34 days. It's my third trip, and I'm pushing into new territory geographically and personally. Let's get started.
I landed in Tokyo around 4:30pm on Friday, August 29. My body was barely upright after the 14 hour flight from Greenville. I dragged my bags onto the metro, immediately took the wrong train, and had to recalibrate. I blame the flight 🤣. Finally stepping out of the station for the few blocks to my hostel, Tokyo air greeted me like I was walking into actual ramen. Instant soup.
By the time I checked into CITAN Hostel in Nihonbashi, I was running on fumes but forcing myself to stay awake. As any good nerd would do, I created a timeline using AI for how to dominate my body and avoid jet-lag. It worked like magic. Too tired for anything fancy, I got some onigiri (rice balls) for dinner from the konbini (convenience store — which are generally better than many US restaurants). I walked back to my room, kicked on the AC, sat back in bed and enjoyed thinking about what might come tomorrow. Japan was seeping back into my system.
Here’s a thing I’m noticing: I don’t have to make a single decision for anyone but myself for the next 24 days. That’s new. At home, most choices are a negotiation—family, colleagues, schedules, moods. But here? I can do whatever I want, whenever I want, however I want. Even though I'm a veritable preference engine (as anyone who knows me can attest), it's very rare that I actually practice making a decision, rather than editing on one. The muscle is weak. Freedom feels a little like vertigo. This is going to be interesting.
Meeting Brett & Omotesandō
Saturday morning, I took the metro to Omotesandō to meet Brett. We’d only met online until now. In person, Brett looks like a casual triathlete, dawning his cycling cap with brim rolled up, and a sporting a tank top like someone who's lived in Japan for 24 years (which he has). But you can still feel the pacific northwest neo-hippy, dumpster diving liberal oozing out of him. Beard, a few constellations of tattoos, and a backstory about nudist parents, one of whom I think he said was a Unitarian minister. It fits.
We wandered Omotesandō, Harajuku, and Yoyogi Park. Hopped between cafés: Switch Coffee (cozy, tiny, modern), and Mameya Coffee (formal, experimental, detailed), both delightful. Switch even roasted decaf; very little decaf in Japan (yet 😉). Each with its own texture, its own version of ritual.
Mameya Coffee
Brett and I talked like we'd known each other for years. AI, religions and the absence of them, politics in America (and how disorienting it is right now), and what it was like to be part of the first wave building the modern internet in the early 2000s. Back then you had to be a generalist, figuring out HTML, CSS, and javascript on your own, duct-taping sites together, and using FTP to load it up. We didn’t invent the web (that was Al Gore, remember), but we were there when it started turning into the thing we all move around in now.
It was one of those conversations that’s both energizing and grounding. Finally meeting a friend in real life who already felt known. Brett's married to Maki, raising their daughter Isla. Watching him navigate Tokyo like it was second nature reminded me how long I’ve been just dipping my toes here. He embodies what I wonder about — living in Japan.
Yoyogi Park
Brett took me through one of Tokyo's biggest parks, Yoyogi. Among the joggers and couples, we passed something new to me in Tokyo, a few homeless encampments. These were very Japanese, in that even the homeless seem to have a bit of order in mind. These weren’t flimsy tents, they looked like crafted spaces. One in particular had a curved frame, maybe tent poles bent into shape, scalloped like a seashell. Inside were clothes hanging neatly. Outside, potted plants, a bicycle, and a smoking spiral of insect-repelling incense. It was five feet tall at the highest point, barely enough to crouch inside, but it felt cozy. Intentional.
I felt myself slip into the usual questions. Mental health, poverty, stability. Brett proposed that maybe this was chosen. What if it’s freedom? No screens, no cultural expectations, no optimization treadmill. Just a hut in a park, a bike, some incense, and air.
My time with Brett was unique and special. I walked away buzzing. Curious, unsettled, full of imagination and possibility.
Kuumba incense shop
Later that day I found Kuumba Incense Shop. No photos allowed, which felt on brand. They had more incense than anywhere I've ever seen, they kept huge leather bound journals of it like scrapbooks at the back of the store. When my own Japanese was insufficient, the shopkeeper and I laughed our way through Google Translate — which is abysmal. At one point he suggested a fabric spray, which cracked me up because I was drenched in sweat, but I think it's just because it was a new product they were trying to move. I am bringing home a bunch of new scents. Incense and I get along very well.
Outside, I met Jay, another employee. His dad lives in San Francisco. We swapped stories about tattoos and music, exchanged Instagrams. Nothing earth-shattering, just one of those small cracks of connection that opens up your day. Hey Jay. You're a badass dude. Hope we can reconnect again sometime.
Sunday! Family day with Brett & Co.
Brett and Mika invited me to join them for a day out of the city in the river. I jumped at the opportunity given the heat and a chance to spend more time getting to know my new buddy and his family. When we arrived the river was quite dry from low rainfall, but just enough to dip our legs in while Isla (much smaller at 4 years old) splashed and played like a dream. Her energy is uniquely refreshing. I want to be Isla when I grow up.
Mika told stories about growing up on an island with a single stoplight, and I wanted Brett be at home in both languages, both worlds. It was good to just sit inside the rhythm of their family including sitting for lunch and donuts afterward. A different window into Japan than I could find alone for sure.
I wonder if this trip will be a lot about noticing. Ribbed light poles that maybe exist to keep stickers from sticking. Old metal shacks tucked behind alleys. Is that storage or a home? Faded signage from the 1900s that looks like it's got a story to tell. Every detail is a question mark.
This is my third time in Japan. It's interesting to me to inquire how much of what I love here is simply novelty, and how much is truly something unique to Japan. I chase the pleasure of curiosity. But why does Japan wake me up in a way that no other place ever has? Why does it pull me more than anywhere else I’ve traveled?
Being married to a Japanese woman, I have a first row view into Japan’s beauty and the prices that are paid for it. The adaptations that make a culture what it is. I feel deeply drawn to know Japan like a person, a complex amalgamation of stories, beauties and horrors, cultivated from actions and reactions.
Taking photos
Shinjuku in the afternoon was pretty brutal, but there’s something exhilarating about being forced into the extremes. I'm carrying a Fuji XT50. Fun new lightweight machine. I"m trying to take more chances with what I shoot. Being more experimental. Looking for ways to grow my hobby. A hobby I've chosen not to pollute with monetization. Trying out a neutral density filter, slow shutter speeds, quarter-second smears of people moving under kanji billboards. It felt like college again, when I first learned photography and everything was alive and possible. Somewhere along the way, I got too busy building businesses to play like that. This trip is giving me the margin to see again.
That said, I'm noticing I'm kind of tyrant with myself. Street photography is hard. Safe photos, I can do. Motion, fleeting expressions, moments that vanish? It's humbling to try to capture this. I want to be excellent at this now, and when I’m not, disappointment kicks in. Today I had to keep telling myself: this is supposed to be fun. Play. Fail. Fuck it up. That’s the work. See what happens.
Japan and phones
On the train, nearly every young and middle-aged person stares into a phone. Most of the older riders don’t. They just sit, gazing out. I want to meet their eyes, start a conversation, talk about their lives. I've been studying Japanese now for 18 months, and it's nowhere near the level to be able to have those conversations and I'm not sure that any Japanese man or woman would ever want to have that with me — they're notoriously private, even with one another.
Today, at Tsukiji Market I asked an older man smoking a cigarette, Shashin o totte mo ii desu ka? (May I take your photo?). He nodded, I snapped the shot, bowed in thanks. Small, fleeting, human. That's about all you can ask for really. I've got what it takes for that. Arigato gozaimashita (Thank you for that), and I bowed.
Three days in, Japan is a swirl of dizzying freedom, awakened curiosity, and stretching discomfort. I’m awkwardly practicing choice like a toddler in a wide open field. I’m bumping into my perfectionism. I’m sweating through multiple shirts per day. I'm talking to strangers with the best language skills I have. Nihongo wa jozu ja arimasen (my Japanese is not good), and they often reply: Nihongo ga jōzu desu ne! (Oh no, it's very good!), shooting photos, seeing in new ways, buying incense I don’t need (I do need it!). And it all feels right. Like home.
I asked myself the other day what I would want my 70yr old self to remember about this trip. I'm still thinking through that, but I think he’ll be grateful I chose this. That I took the time to break free for a moment from the traps of work and hustle and urgency. I think he'll remember the oddity of the ribbed light poles, and asking strangers for photos. I want to look back and think of this as a kind of turning point, where I began to be more at ease with myself, more permission to be curious and clumsy in play.
More soon.
Thx for reading. I'm glad you're here. Reply with questions if you have any!
Here's a link to the photo album I'll be updating along the way.
Open open open.
Touch water.
Brush your teeth.
Find your glasses.
Pour coffee. Taste it carefully — it's hot!
Hey monkey.
I'm talking to you silly.
Sit next to me.
Let's watch the sky together.
Ima wa ima. Now is now.
You don't have to do anything more.
Let's hold hands.
Let's be nothing together — without any meaning at all.
We are sparks without names.
We are a forgotten itch.
Every story we know,
Is a cloud, \
Is an ocean, \
Is a falling drop.
How strange it must be to for cells to divide and multiply, organizing into a body, inside your own body. Organize into a new organ with its own organs. All this inside you, without your effort, just a 14 billion year old flywheel of life turning without your permission.
How strange to be compelled by all of nature to divide from this organ. You must release it from an opening in your body. Cut the tie that binds you or you both will die. The organ screams with fire. What is this?! What is this?!
How strange to call it a child. You are only just larger than it now, but wisdom will hide till later. You are in a body that has a stronger hide, longer bones, and now language that makes you believe you’re a grown-up. The promise is that years themselves are like packaged-adultness, and how often that promise leaves us wanting.
How strange to be the first experience in this child’s life. The first home. The first of every basic sensation. You will use language and emotion only in the measure you have it available to you. You will use and be driven by genetics and the map of your own early experience of life.
How strange that some of you unfold into this relationship like a flower opens in mountain valley. Some of you untether like a lost kite. Some of you can only mimic something you’ve seen once in a movie — because no one ever shared their fragrance with you, or let you feel softness of their pedals while you slowly became a person.
How strange every mother has been mothered, and all people. But how broad an experience to simply call it mothering. How much we are. Each of us. Each a person. A collection of programs, adaptations, and observations. And in there — in all that material — how much of it is from mothers.
As a ten year old, the highlight of my year wasn't my birthday itself but the ritual that preceded it: combing through the three-quarter-inch thick Cabela's or Bass Pro Shops catalogs my dad subscribed to. Each page was a gateway to a life with gear for days.
Ordering was done via the wall-mounted corded phone and speaking with a sales agent. Waiting for these treasures was all-consuming. A four to eight week shipping window was not unusual. That's basically a child-sized prison sentence where patience goes to die.
Fast forward to modern life, an era of sweet, sweet, instant gratification. The protracted package journey has been replaced by digital tracking. Now, you can watch your package pause in a snowstorm in Sheboygan or take a detour through another Denver. This little porthole into the journey sprinkles a pinch of serenity onto what could otherwise be a buffet of uncertainty.
It turns out this shift had a profound impact on FedEx as a business. My friend Zach Buckner, former CEO at Relay Foods, shared a story about his chat with a very important FedEx executive (imagine someone who owns more than one tie). He described that before package tracking, FedEx had Net Promoter Scores (NPS) that were in the dumps, and customer calls were sky-high and expensive. They flipped on the tracking switch, and blammo—customer satisfaction soared, and annoyed calls plummeted. Why? All because people now knew where their shit was. Whether on time or delayed, transparency made all the difference.
This story has stuck with me. It's reshaped my approach to all my communication across life and business. I ended up referring to it as "FedExing" with my teammates. Anyone who's worked with me knows this framework very well. It brings the clarity and predictability of package tracking to our daily tasks.
A 3x weekly check-in might look like:
- What did you just get done?
- What are you doing next, and how long will it take?
- What level of clarity (out of 10) do you have about what needs doing, and how to do it successfully?
- Are there any blockers that might prevent you from finishing?
In conversation it sounds like:
Teammate: "I'm running behind this week because of being sick on Monday"
Me: "Have you fedexed the client that information yet?"
Yes, this routine boosts productivity (yawn). More important to me, it creates ease and some peace in projects that are often anything but. As a pattern, it builds space for collaboration and connection. By transforming the opaque into the transparent, we swap uncertainty for clarity. Instead of fabricating stories to fill gaps, we can share a co-experienced reality.
Delays and disruptions are inevitable—whether by hurricane or buggy software, but communication that that clarifies what's happening and how you're adapting is an absolute superpower. It helps us stay on track toward goals, foster a culture of honesty, and stay relational, but Clarity Man probably couldn't land a deal with Marvel.
I initially adopted the FedEx method to calm my own easily agitated nerves, but it turned out to be something that others deeply appreciated as well. Now, it's a staple in the manual of how to work with Matthew, and what to expect when you're my client. It's shown me how to manage expectations and navigate the chaos of everyday life with a measure of flexibility and predictability.
As children, we could indulge in the thrill of anticipation because our parents handled the worries. Now, we don’t have that luxury. But when I aim at clarity through light frequent communication, it allows folks to return to that place of childlike anticipation — eagerly awaiting a deliverable meant to surprise and delight. That's the playground where I choose to spend my days.
Like this little bit 'o' writing? Read more like it on my whale.fyi.
We call this water oak in our front yard Atticus after the character by the same name in the book To Kill a Mockingbird. This tree has seen me rage, belly laugh, sing (not very well), and in this case weep in grief. My sons weren't going camping with us after all. In their late teens they are making more of their own decisions. Decisions often prioritzing friendships over family. It stings different for me. I haven't seen the kids as much as I'd like over the last 7 years of divorced parenting — and now even less.
Still, I had Lucy coming with Ako and I to see the moon hide the sun somewhere in the fields of Indiana, a place in the path of totality. Lucy is our youngest. She's turning 13 this summer but still presents like a 10 year old with sneaky hugs, playful eyes, and an unstoppable imagination.
Being alone with a child, away from the competition of attention they naturally have with their siblings, is a wonder that always surprises me as a parent — every time. Lucy's personality is like a life-size plush toy freight train. She's cute and cuddly, but can pack a punch. She never disappoints in this way. It's always a kind of opening of a new book to spend time with her. Thank you Lucy. You're my favorite daughter.
When I walk, I take a unique route each time, whether an average walk from my house with Mochi the dog, or if I'm in a new city — always a new route, rarely the same path. Maybe it's the stimulation of novelty? Conversely, I crave order at home and consistency in communication. Always the tug-of-war between a vibrant experience and a relieved nervous system. Welcome to my brain. No vacancy.
It's for that brain I'm in Dover, New Hampshire this weekend for a trauma intensive. It's not exaggerating to say that this kind of thing has become a hobby for me. It's like a reverse knitting, but instead of scarves, I'm unraveling my childhood. Day one, I'm out the door by 6:15 am to poke around Dover before my first session. 10 minutes and a few photos into my walk I discovered Harvey's Bakery and Coffee Shop, a 90-year-institution in Dover. The bakery is the older firstborn, and the diner is a fledgling 50 years old. It's all currently run by three sisters who seem to think age is a flavor best served sweet.
After a light breakfast of over-medium eggs and a kielbasa sausage, I had enough time to take the long way to session one with my trauma-camp counselor (I'm joking — well, mostly). Around the corner from Harvey's is Cocheco Falls Mill. A windowed monolith of brick rising in a uniform grid out of the Cocheco River. The uninterrupted form of arched windows is copy/pasted for what feels like a quarter mile. It annunciates the utilitarian nature of the industrial age that built this mill. Dover itself has softened like the body of a middle-aged man. You can see the chiseled utility underneath, but weariness and some wisdom have softened it. Dover isn’t cozy, it's more like a well-worn shoe that still fits.
Each day of this intensive, compelled by curiosity and an insistent internal clock still set to Southern time, I find myself at Harvey’s. It's unusually cold in the mornings for late April and it's light earlier than I expect for the Eastern timezone. The internet tells me it's because I'm 630 miles further to the East than I am at home.
At Harvey's, every face is a story in an intimate foreign language. This older couple tucked into the corner booth, silently shares a newspaper — talking is apparently not their thing, though I think I catch a knowing glance once or twice. The lumpy barista with a patina'd smile greets regulars by name with coffee in hand. Each "Good morning" he dishes out seems to come with a free side of cheeky commentary, not that anyone's complaining
On my last day, the train to Boston left before Harvey's opened. I never said goodbye and now the sting of even a silly tragedy makes the heart's memory stronger. Chances are slim I'll ever see Dover again, but it'll be a curio on the shelves of my mind, adjacent less appealing memories — like a souvenir from a trip you didn’t plan but deeply needed. All of it adding up to a life I'd choose to live again and again. Just as it is.
