—
朝の風、
まだ見ぬ今日を、
迎えに行く。
morning wind—
walking out to greet
a day I haven’t met yet
—
Most of my days don’t begin with declarations.
They begin with water.
I wake up before the sky makes up its mind.
There’s that soft moment between sleep and intention where the world hasn’t chosen a rhythm yet.
In that silence, I drink a glass of water. Cold. Tap. No lemon. No rituals.
Just water.
And then, coffee.
Always coffee.
Not because I’m tired—though I often am.
But because it anchors me.
The way the smell moves through the room.
The way the steam curls against the window.
The way the first sip reminds me:
you’re here. again. still.
—
After that, movement.
Sometimes a run.
Sometimes a bike ride.
Sometimes just a walk, slow and loose, like I’m searching for something I haven’t named.
People ask me why I’m consistent.
It’s not discipline. Not really.
It’s more like brushing teeth.
Or flossing.
But for the soul.
Because something clogs in me when I don’t move.
A kind of static.
And motion clears it.
Not always joyfully. But steadily.
Like cleaning a window, not because someone will see through it,
but because you do.
—
I work in silence when I can.
Some days I fail.
There are distractions, pings, scrolls, flashes of noise that steal entire hours.
But I try to return to silence.
Silence, like coffee, is not just absence.
It’s presence without adornment.
It’s a space where thoughts can land.
And when I can’t think—when the fog won’t lift—I lie down.
Fifteen minutes. Sometimes twenty.
Just a nap.
No shame.
Like closing a book halfway through and letting the ink settle.
I always wake up clearer.
Not faster.
But clearer.
—
Later, often without planning, I’ll speak to someone I love.
A friend. A sibling.
A voice that knows my voice.
Even a message will do.
But if I’m lucky, it’s a call.
Something with breath in it.
You can hear when someone smiles.
It’s good for the soul.
Like good bread.
—
In the evening, I try not to race.
I’ve already done that.
For too many years.
Now, I cook when I can.
Simple things. The same things.
But made slowly.
There’s something about cutting onions without rushing.
Something about stirring rice with both hands.
That reminds you the day is ending and you still made something.
—
And then, the quiet again.
Sometimes I write.
Not always well.
But writing, for me, is like putting my mind through a sieve.
I pour the chaos in, and something comes out.
Even if it’s just a sentence.
Even if it’s bad.
Even if I throw it away the next morning.
It’s the act that matters.
The ritual.
The doing.
The choosing of stillness.
—
These are my habits.
They don’t look impressive.
You wouldn’t see them and say, he’s got it figured out.
But they hold me.
And that’s more than enough.
Because life isn’t changed by grand reinventions.
It’s carved, slowly, by what we repeat.
What we show up for.
Daily.
—
Wabi-sabi Lesson
Daily habits are not about becoming better.
They’re about staying close to what matters.
A sip of coffee.
A stretch.
A laugh with a friend.
A nap that helps your body forgive the weight of modern hours.
These are not routines.
They’re reminders.
Of who we are when we’re not trying to prove anything.
—
In the end, the best parts of me are made not in sudden bursts of willpower,
but in the tiny, nearly invisible choices I return to, again and again.
A cup of water.
A run through the cold.
A joke exchanged between friends.
A page scribbled before bed.
This is the shape of my life.
Soft at the edges.
But firm enough to hold me.
life 