—
夏の朝、
シャツを干す音、
静けさの中。
summer morning—
the sound of shirts drying
in all that silence
—
It’s never the grand gestures that change me.
It’s the quiet ones.
The things that seem too small to matter, until they shape your entire day.
I don’t own much. Haven’t for a long time.
Part of it was necessity—when you move often, you learn to pack light.
But some of it became a philosophy.
The kind you don’t read in books, but feel in your fingertips each time you reach for something and pause.
“Do I really need this?”
—
There’s a shirt I wear almost every other day.
Natural linen. Loose collar.
Bought it second-hand in Bern, from a small shop tucked behind the university.
The woman folded it carefully, like it was still something to be respected.
It had a faint scent of cedar and detergent—some other life I’ll never know.
But now it’s mine. Washed dozens of times. Threadbare near the shoulder.
Still beautiful.
I mend it when it tears.
Badly, at first. My stitching looked like a drunk spider’s sketch.
Now I’m better. It’s not seamless—but that’s not the point.
Each stitch says: You were worth saving.
—
I ride more than I drive.
Always have, especially since those long bike rides through the Berner Oberland.
There’s something about letting the road pass beneath you, wind against your face, sweat along your back—
It reminds you that movement doesn’t need noise to be meaningful.
The body is an old engine, and if you treat it right, it carries you far.
—
Food is quieter, too.
I eat what’s around. What’s simple.
When I lived in Birmingham, I’d buy eggs from the back market because the supermarkets felt sterile, too lit, and too lifeless.
Now, I cook what I can.
Rice. Leftover vegetables. The polenta I learned to make from memory, with milk and coffee and that secret touch of butter I didn’t notice until much later in life.
I waste little.
Leftovers are a kind of gratitude.
Even peels and rinds go into broth.
It’s not a rule. It’s a rhythm.
—
I unplug more often now.
Not out of moral pride.
Out of necessity.
There are days when my thoughts feel like tabs in a browser I never meant to open.
That’s when I know: go outside.
Touch the earth.
Watch a crow land on a fence.
Let the phone die.
Let silence charge you instead.
—
Plastic still sneaks in.
I’m not perfect.
Sometimes I buy something wrapped three times in a layer of marketing.
But I notice it now.
And noticing is already a form of resistance.
—
The older I get, the more I understand: sustainability isn’t just about what we consume.
It’s about what we carry.
And how lightly.
Do I wear things that last?
Do I keep objects that age well with me?
Do I honor the labor that made the things I own?
These are not questions to answer once.
They’re questions to live inside, daily.
—
I keep a cup by my desk.
It’s a handmade piece from Arita.
Slight crack near the rim, from travel or time—I’m not sure.
But I still use it. Every morning.
It fits my hand.
It reminds me: even the chipped can hold warmth.
—
Wabi-sabi Lesson
Sustainability isn’t a trend.
It’s remembering.
That less isn’t lack.
That the broken can be mended.
That use is more sacred than shine.
A shirt can be worn for years.
A jacket repaired.
A habit reshaped.
Not because we must.
But because it’s beautiful to do so.
—
So yes, I try.
Each day, in small ways.
I try to live gently in a world that rushes.
Sometimes that means line-drying clothes under a summer sun.
Sometimes it means patching the same hole twice.
Sometimes it just means walking instead of scrolling.
Quiet choices.
Soft steps.
A smaller footprint.
And a bigger presence.
life 
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