There is a field beside a tall forest where we plant rows of soybeans. On the other end, we could see fields of golden rice swaying in the wind. Beyond that, a quaint little house nestles snugly between a long row of trees.
Some of my favourite moments occur here during the end of the work day. As the round and fiery globe starts to set, it turns the skies into a rich orange colour. It's farewell glow lights up the grass and leaves, making them seem like lanterns springing up from the ground, coming to life for a brief moment for one last dance in the wind.
On some days, the clouds are thick and voluminous. On others, they resemble a torn cotton candy floating across the sky; a movie of mother nature that never ceased to amaze me. Occasionally, the skies are so empty and vast, that all you can see is the blue sky and the occasional planes that rumble across.
Tommy and I would often sit in silence on the grass after an afternoon of weeding and seeding to watch the sun set. The touch of the evening breeze would cool our bare bodied skin, and a gentle peace would surround us, echoed only by the rustling of trees and sound of insects.
Behind me, Tommy would begin to sing the song 'Sayonara color', and I would close my eyes with my heart full of gratitude.
At that moment, it was as though time herself has stopped, reminding me that there is nowhere else to go but here.
Some of my favourite moments occur here during the end of the work day. As the round and fiery globe starts to set, it turns the skies into a rich orange colour. It's farewell glow lights up the grass and leaves, making them seem like lanterns springing up from the ground, coming to life for a brief moment for one last dance in the wind.
On some days, the clouds are thick and voluminous. On others, they resemble a torn cotton candy floating across the sky; a movie of mother nature that never ceased to amaze me. Occasionally, the skies are so empty and vast, that all you can see is the blue sky and the occasional planes that rumble across.
Tommy and I would often sit in silence on the grass after an afternoon of weeding and seeding to watch the sun set. The touch of the evening breeze would cool our bare bodied skin, and a gentle peace would surround us, echoed only by the rustling of trees and sound of insects.
Behind me, Tommy would begin to sing the song 'Sayonara color', and I would close my eyes with my heart full of gratitude.
At that moment, it was as though time herself has stopped, reminding me that there is nowhere else to go but here.
There were times when I was pulling out weeds at Furuya, I felt my anger built up. The weeds were tall and strong, and so incredibly hard to pull out. They covered the shorter soybean plants and irritated my skin. It was a tedious and tiring task under the hot summer afternoon sun.
But then I thought, these weeds are just surviving, they simply are what they are, just being. They didn't grow specifically to make me angry, or to cause me pain and tiredness.
Sometimes, people are just the way they are and how we react to them is on us. They are not there just to cause us anger and irritation, so is there any point in getting angry at them?
As I carried on, I tried to practice meditation and focused on my breathing.
In time, I realised that the weeds in the earth that I wanted to get rid of, are also similar to the negative emotions in our hearts. And the more hastily I wanted to be rid of them, the more anxiousness, anger, and unhappiness I cultivated.
Perhaps I've been doing it wrong all along. Perhaps the goal isn't to be rid of all these emotions, but how I can live in a certain harmony with them, and to see that they too, are not inherently good nor bad.
As we were taking a break sitting on the grass under the shade of the lorry, Tommy said out of the blue that it will be almost a year since he has gotten here. I asked him how he felt about it, and he said that the feelings were complex. On one hand he felt like there are things he would like to do, and other types of life he would like to try, but on the other, life here is good, and the people here as well. He likes living in this community and doesn't feel like leaving.
I, too, said that my feelings were complex.
Life here is tiring, but simple and good. The people are good, life is slow, and nature is abundant. The values of the people here are good, and so is the existence of this very place. There are opportunities to go to the beach every other week, or try the various lifestyle or activities Japan has to offer.
I didn't say it then, but I was thinking, is this really it?
Wasn't I looking for a simple and slow life? What else more do I want? What else am I chasing? Is it a place, someone, a feeling? Or is it my habit energy that is simply cultivated in me since young.
Over here, some of my deepest, darkest emotions resurfaced, and I touched a familiar loneliness.
I thought about who I was before I left photography, and how fast I used to work. Was it worth it? Did I get what I wanted to? I think in some form, yes, but I also lost intangible things in the process. Chances to savor moments that will not come again, relationships that would not had slowly withered had I given more time, my health, and meaningful things.
I've made the mistake of thinking that there will be a next time. But as far as I know, there is no next life. There is no accomplishing this life and savoring the results in heaven.
Every moment we have, we only experience once in its exact form and shape as who we are at that moment, there will never be another exactly the same.
When we rush, we lose touch of what we have right now, in hopes of a future that may never even arrive.
On the farm, I also came to appreciate and envy how free the children are.
They are always outdoors playing in the dirt or the ocean, climbing trees, catching insects. Their childhood seemed so genuine and unfettered, the freedom to be kids without being forced to grow up too quickly.
I’ve seen a toddler climb over obstacles that I never thought possible, and even when they fall, they would just pick themselves up and carry on without a cry. Children would also often run up to me and show me what they’ve caught in their hands - a dragonfly, grasshopper, or praying mantis, before gently letting them go.
In them, I saw courage, spirit, strength, independence, resilience, unbounded creativity and an organic bond with nature.
We often hear that it takes a village to raise a child, and I witnessed how they took care of the children as a community. The kids could roam free from their parents to play. It doesn't matter whose child it was, there would always be someone watching over them. Over there, everybody looks after everybody.
When we enter this world, everything to us is new and fresh.
There are no labels on anything and anyone; such as who grandpa is, what is a scissor, a leaf, or the sky. Everything is simply a shape, smell, sound or color. Our minds are creative and innovative, unafraid and bold.
Yet, as we grow up, we started to label things. We were told what we can or cannot do. Rules were imposed upon us and we in turn impose rules upon others. We started to play less, and frown more, we laugh less and stifle our happiness, so that we can fit into society and act like an adult.
How much will it take for us to realize that adulthood is just another game that we are being forced to play, and what is the cost we are paying?
When we were kids, perhaps we once said defiantly - I will never grow up, I will never become an adult. But as time went by, we slowly became who we said we would never be.
Having a child is another chance at seeing and experiencing life, to let go of all the labels and restrictions that has boxed us in.
Isn't it a precious chance of beginning anew?
They are always outdoors playing in the dirt or the ocean, climbing trees, catching insects. Their childhood seemed so genuine and unfettered, the freedom to be kids without being forced to grow up too quickly.
I’ve seen a toddler climb over obstacles that I never thought possible, and even when they fall, they would just pick themselves up and carry on without a cry. Children would also often run up to me and show me what they’ve caught in their hands - a dragonfly, grasshopper, or praying mantis, before gently letting them go.
In them, I saw courage, spirit, strength, independence, resilience, unbounded creativity and an organic bond with nature.
We often hear that it takes a village to raise a child, and I witnessed how they took care of the children as a community. The kids could roam free from their parents to play. It doesn't matter whose child it was, there would always be someone watching over them. Over there, everybody looks after everybody.
When we enter this world, everything to us is new and fresh.
There are no labels on anything and anyone; such as who grandpa is, what is a scissor, a leaf, or the sky. Everything is simply a shape, smell, sound or color. Our minds are creative and innovative, unafraid and bold.
Yet, as we grow up, we started to label things. We were told what we can or cannot do. Rules were imposed upon us and we in turn impose rules upon others. We started to play less, and frown more, we laugh less and stifle our happiness, so that we can fit into society and act like an adult.
How much will it take for us to realize that adulthood is just another game that we are being forced to play, and what is the cost we are paying?
When we were kids, perhaps we once said defiantly - I will never grow up, I will never become an adult. But as time went by, we slowly became who we said we would never be.
Having a child is another chance at seeing and experiencing life, to let go of all the labels and restrictions that has boxed us in.
Isn't it a precious chance of beginning anew?
There was a day I was tasked to take photographs of Jiji No Ie, the ryokan that was also run by them.
Breakfast was already beyond my expectations, and when preparations for dinner came around, I could start to see why Sen chan and Kuma chan both said the food here is amazing, wide eyed.
Sen chan was preparing a deep fried breadcrumbed eggplant cut in half vertically, while Kuma chan was making vegan samosas. Sachi was the head chef, roasting red and green peppers, making handmade glass noodles from a block of jelly, soba topped with a green sauce, fresh fig mixed with vegan cheese made of soybean curd and sesame and shoyu. There were also pickled carrots and corn soup and lastly, creme brulee made from soybean and chickpea flour.
The first taste of corn soup blew me away. I had never tasted such sweet tasting and full bodied corn soup in my entire life. The freshness and balance of sweet and savoury was out of this world that words fail to describe what I felt. The nasu katsu was also soft on the inside but crunchy on the outside, topped with homemade okonomiyaki ginger sauce, it was heavenly.
I took my time with that meal, and I remembered shaking my head so much in disbelief. Every mouth was unbelievable, and we all just kept saying ‘Yabbai Yabbai’, like every mouthful is ridiculously amazing.
What made the meal better was rounds after rounds of umeshu - homemade plum wine. If you haven’t tasted plum juice from Brown's Field, you haven’t truly lived.
It was THAT good.
In between clearing the customer’s dishes and rounds of feverish washing, Sachi brought out three to four jars of different umeshu. The last one though, was one that she added a little too much spice to and apologised for.
I said it tasted a little spicy, a little cinnamon-y, like Christmas! And they all agreed in unison.
I checked my watch, and the date was 25th August, exactly four months before Christmas. In a moment of spontaneity, we cheered each other Merry Christmas, and the girls started swaying with their eyes closed with smiles on their faces.
There was so much laughter in the air, just so much happiness and laughing.
‘All I want for Christmas’, followed by ‘Last Christmas’ started playing on my phone, and the girls started dancing in the kitchen, while Sachiko served out the last two creme brulees. Our hearts were full and It was just like how Christmas would be.
I’m not sure if I will ever be in Japan during winter to experience Christmas, but I’m so glad that I got to celebrate the most wonderful spontaneous Christmas in August.
