When I think back to my time in Japan, a comforting feeling rises within me – like the scent of warm wood wafting from the house at dawn, gently mingling with the warm, humid air. It was a time removed from everyday life, detached from the rhythm of the world.

I remember the first moment I entered the house. Outside lay the warmth of the late day, inside a cool breeze greeted me – accompanied by the subtle nuances of natural materials: the warm wood, the straw-clay walls, a living breath – the soul of the house. Shadows danced across the smooth concrete floor, as if the sun had written a silent poem with the lines of the architecture. The walls breathed stories, whispering softly of generations that came and went – yet somehow remained.

In the first light of morning, with jet lag enveloping me like a delicate veil, I wandered through the still-sleeping neighborhood. It was as if I were moving through an in-between realm—not quite here, no longer there. The world was silent, and every sound—the distant call of a gong, the soft crunch of my footsteps on the gravel—became music.

I remember the lotus pond. The shallow water, still as if holding its breath. Drops trickled over the enormous leaves, glittering in the early sun like small, fleeting universes. I imagined myself as a mouse, floating on a leaf—a tiny boat in the green ocean, among plants that towered like cathedrals. A world in miniature— mysterious, peaceful. An adventure in silence.

The contrast between the quiet, almost empty alleys in the evening and the hustle and bustle of the day was vibrant—as if I were dancing between two worlds. And I, like a feather in the rhythm of both, lived in them simultaneously.

The houses, museums, temples—they were like revelations: clean lines, spaces that breathe, light that is welcomed. Every detail—a fold in the paper, the grain of a wooden beam—seemed to carry meaning. Everything spoke. And everything was silent.

I lost myself in the lines of the silk paintings, in figures that spoke loudly from their silence. Their outlines, barely more than a hint of color—and yet they carried entire landscapes within them. The pigments, dense yet almost transparent, shimmered like deep memories. In such moments, it seemed as if time held its breath. Outside, the leaves began to change color, and inside, everything was silent—a silence so penetrating that it drowned out the noise of the world.

It was a journey that led me not only through another land—but through myself. Between bamboo and lotus pond, shadow and light, ancient stillness and vibrant presence.

A temporary home—and yet eternal.