Study No. 1: Destruction and Devotion
Recorded in the underground passages of New York City, this piece captures a quiet moment between sound and silence.
With only a guitar, voice, and harmonica, the song is carried more through feeling than performance. The melody exists somewhere between being sung and remembered — a small offering to the movement and noise of the city around it.
Taken on the same day, these photographs document the aftermath of the performance. The guitar that carried the song was broken apart, transforming the instrument from something used to create sound into something that holds the memory of it.
A reflection on creation, attachment, and release.
Ny, New York 2023 filmed by, Paule Merle
Two Days Beneath the Cherry Blossoms
My dear friend Malcolm and his wife Anya came to visit me in Tokyo during cherry blossom season.
There was something quietly profound about seeing Malcolm here for the first time—in the city that has slowly become home. Some friendships travel across years and borders without ever losing their shape. They simply wait for the right place to bloom again.
We met in the early morning, before the city had fully awakened, and wandered wherever our feet carried us. There was no destination, only the joy of sharing the day together. The cherry blossoms drifted through the air like passing thoughts, covering familiar streets in a softness that made everything feel new again.
Their visit lasted only two days, yet those days seemed to exist outside of time. We walked, talked, laughed, and allowed the city to reveal itself at its own pace. Seeing Tokyo through their eyes reminded me that wonder is never lost—it simply waits to be shared.
I found myself reaching for my camera often, not to document the trip, but to preserve the quiet poetry unfolding before me. The way Malcolm looked toward the blossoms. The gentle conversations between him and Anya. Hands intertwined. Shared smiles. Fleeting moments that would have disappeared with the wind had they not been noticed.
Living far from where I grew up has taught me that home is not a fixed place on a map. It is something we carry within us, something that appears in the company of people who know us deeply. To welcome dear friends into the life we've built here felt like watching two worlds gently meet.
For a brief moment, beneath the falling sakura, the distance between past and present disappeared. New York, Tokyo, memory, and now—all of it seemed to exist in the same breath.
Some visits end when the train departs or the plane takes off.
The best ones never really leave. They become another season we carry with us, blooming quietly whenever we remember them.
Naeme Farm
I had the joy of spending a day at Naeme Farm, where time seemed to move with the rhythm of the land.
We planted rice, learned about herbs and the quiet wisdom of agriculture, shared a meal grown from the very soil beneath our feet, and ended the day creating a tea blend called ホドホド alongside Naeme's wonderful herb specialists.
What stayed with me most wasn't only what we did, but how we did it—slowly, with care, surrounded by kind people, fresh air, children's laughter, and a deep respect for the earth.
I left with a gentle reminder that a meaningful life is often found in the simplest moments: tending the soil, sharing food, listening well, and living in harmony with nature.
Thank you, Naeme Farm, for opening your hearts and reminding me of the beauty of slowing down.
Aso
Sometimes we spend years searching for something we don't yet have words for.
My wife and I had been looking for a place where our souls could settle—a place that asked nothing of us except that we be present. We didn't know exactly what we were searching for, only that we would recognize it when we found it.
That place became Aso.
It was our dear friend Shingo-san who first brought us there. Though he now lives in Tokyo, Aso had long been a home to him, and through his eyes we were introduced to a way of life rooted in patience, simplicity, and deep respect for the land. In many ways, he wasn't just taking us somewhere new—he was inviting us into a place that had already shaped his own heart.
There we met Hiro-san and his family.
From the moment we arrived, there was no need to perform or explain ourselves. We were welcomed with a generosity that felt effortless, as if we had been expected all along. Time slowed. The days became measured not by schedules but by the changing light, shared meals, quiet conversations, the sound of the wind through the fields, and the presence of Mount Aso watching over everything.
Coming from Tokyo, where life moves with such relentless momentum, Aso reminded us of another rhythm—one that had always existed beneath the noise. It became a place where we could hear ourselves again.
The songs that would become Hajimari were not written only in rooms with instruments. They were written in long walks, in silence, in the kindness of strangers who became family, in mornings that began with birdsong, and in evenings filled with gratitude. They were written in the feeling of finally arriving somewhere our hearts had already known.
I often think that we went to Aso looking for a place to rest, only to discover that peace had been waiting for us there all along—in the landscape, in Hiro-san and his family, and in the friendships that led us there.
No matter where life takes us, Aso will always feel like home. It is a place that quietly changed the course of our lives, and a part of its spirit continues to live within every note of Hajimari.
Hands of Clay
Clay has a way of teaching patience. It yields only to gentle hands, asking you to slow down and pay attention. Sitting beside my wife, shaping something from the earth, I realized that love asks for much of the same.
We spent the day turning earth into something that could be held. The pieces weren't perfect, but neither was the process, and somehow that made them even more beautiful.
They became little reminders that the best things in life are shaped slowly, together.
