Most travelers visit Hiroshima to witness the scars of history—an essential pilgrimage for anyone visiting Japan. Walking through the city is an experience beyond “emotional”; it is difficult to pin down a single feeling when the mood shifts like a tide. Yet, as a practitioner of Budo, I found that a single day here offers something deeper: a profound lesson in Resilience (see my post on Fudōshin) and the evolution from the “Sword that Kills” to the “Sword that Gives Life.” If you have 24 hours in this rebuilt metropolis, here is how to navigate its complex emotional and historical layers.
If you have 24 hours in this rebuilt metropolis, here is how to navigate the emotional and historical layers of Hiroshima.
1. The Genbaku Dome: A Frozen Moment in Time
I started my journey at the A-Bomb Dome. It is a heavy, visceral sight. This structure—the former Prefectural Industrial Promotion Hall—was nearly at the epicenter of the 1945 explosion. Though the rest of Hiroshima was flattened, these columns refused to fall. Eighty years later, the Dome remains frozen in time: a stark reminder of total destruction and an icon of human resilience.
My Tip: Arrive early (before 8:30 AM). The morning light hitting the exposed red bricks against the quiet flow of the Motoyasu River creates a space for silent contemplation before the crowds arrive.
2. The Peace Memorial Park: The Heart of Remembrance
Crossing the bridge from the Dome, you enter the Peace Memorial Park. This isn’t just a park; it’s a sacred space designed by the legendary architect Kenzo Tange.
The Cenotaph and the Flame of Peace
I spent a long time at the Cenotaph for the A-Bomb Victims. Its saddle-like shape is designed to shield the souls of the deceased. If you stand at the center, you can look through the arch to see the Flame of Peace.
The Vow: This flame will burn until every nuclear weapon on earth has been dismantled.
As a martial artist, this site resonates with the concept of Katsujinken (活人剣)—the “Life-Giving Sword.” It reminds us that the ultimate goal of mastery is not conflict, but the preservation of peace.
3. Lunch: Hiroshima-style Okonomiyaki
You cannot visit Hiroshima without trying their soul food. Unlike the Osaka version, Hiroshima Okonomiyaki is layered, featuring noodles (soba or udon) and a generous portion of cabbage.
My Tip: Head to Okonomimura (Okonomi Village), a building with three floors of small stalls. It’s the perfect “Ha” (break) in your day to refuel.
4. Hiroshima Castle: The Return of the Carp
After the emotional weight of the morning, I walked 15 minutes north to Hiroshima Castle (Rijō or “Carp Castle”).
Originally built in 1589, the castle was a total loss in 1945. However, its 1958 reconstruction is a stunning tribute to the city’s samurai origins.
What to Look For:
The Survival Trees (A-Bombed Trees): Inside the castle walls, look for the Eucalyptus and Willow trees. Despite being charred by the heat of the blast, they survived and continue to grow today. They are living symbols of the samurai spirit—unyielding and rooted.
The Museum: The interior of the keep houses an excellent collection of Edo-period armor and katanas. For an Iaidoka, seeing the local craftsmanship and the history of the Asano clan is a must.
The View: Climb to the 5th floor for a panoramic view of the city. Seeing the modern skyline from a traditional fortress gives you a true sense of Japan’s ability to honor the past while embracing the future.
Practical Information for Your Visit
Location
Suggested Time
Entry Fee
Genbaku Dome
30 mins
Free
Peace Museum
2 hours
200 JPY
Hiroshima Castle
1.5 hours
370 JPY
How to get around: Use the Hiroden (the iconic streetcars). They are a living piece of history—some of the trams running today actually survived the 1945 bombing and were back on the tracks just three days later.
My day in Hiroshima followed the rhythm of Jo-Ha-Kyū:
Jo (Begin): The somber, slow realization at the Dome.
Ha (Break): The movement through the park and the vibrant energy of the city streets.
Kyū (Fast/End): The ascent to the top of the Castle, looking out over a city that refused to die.
If you are intreseted in the Budo Jo Ha Kyū concept, please have a look on my dedicated post.
Hiroshima is more than a tragic history; it is a vibrant, green, and welcoming city that embodies the very essence of Budo: the strength to remain calm and kind, no matter what storms have passed.
If you have ever watched a Mugai-ryū master perform a kata, or if you have attended a tea ceremony (Chanoyu), you have likely sensed an invisible progression. It isn’t a constant speed, but rather a wave that builds, breaks, and stops dead.
This ternary rhythm is Jo-Ha-Kyū (序破急).
Far more than a simple technical instruction, it is an aesthetic and spiritual law that governs almost all traditional Japanese arts. Let’s dive into this essential concept to understand the dynamics of the sword and Japanese culture.
What is Jo-Ha-Kyū?
The term is composed of three kanji that define the phases of a movement or an event:
Jo (序) – The Introduction: Begin slowly, with restraint. This is the moment of concentration, setting the posture, and grounding the breath.
Ha (破) – The Rupture: The movement develops and accelerates. One “breaks” the initial calm. This is where the action takes shape and unfolds.
Kyū (急) – The Culmination: A sudden, lightning-fast acceleration—the peak of the movement that ends sharply and decisively.
Did you know? This concept was theorized by Zeami Motokiyo, the founder of Noh theater, in the 14th century. He believed that everything in the universe—from a bird’s song to an entire play—followed this natural rhythm.
Jo-Ha-Kyū in Mugai-ryū Iaihyōdō
In Iaido, and particularly in the minimalist style of Mugai-ryū, Jo-Ha-Kyū is what distinguishes a mechanical execution from a demonstration of life (Sei).
The Art of Nukitsuke (Drawing the Sword)
Watch a Nukitsuke closely:
Jo: The hand grasps the Tsuka, the thumb releases the Tsuba (Koiguchi no kirikata). It is an internal movement, almost invisible.
Ha: The sword exits the scabbard (Saza-muchi), speed increasing as the blade glides.
Kyū: The tip clears the scabbard and strikes in a flash. The stop is instantaneous, charged with energy (Zanshin).
If you maintain the same speed from start to finish, your movement becomes predictable. Jo-Ha-Kyū allows you to surprise your opponent by shattering their own rhythm.
A Universal Aesthetic: From Noh Theater to the Tea Ceremony
The genius of this concept is that it applies to fields that seem polar opposites to combat.
In Noh Theater
A Noh play begins with slow, solemn gestures. Gradually, the movements become more complex, the music intensifies, finally ending in a fast, percussive dance before the final silence. Without this rhythm, the audience would lose focus; with it, they are transported into a trance.
In the Way of Tea (Sado)
Even when serving a bowl of matcha, the master follows this curve:
Jo: The slow and meticulous cleaning of the utensils.
Ha: The preparation of the tea, with more fluid and dynamic movements.
Kyū: The final gesture of presenting the bowl, precise and without hesitation.
Why is it important for your practice?
Mastering Jo-Ha-Kyū means learning to manage your energy.
In our modern lives, we are often in permanent “Kyū” mode (urgency, speed). Practicing Iaido forces us to rediscover “Jo” (preparation, conscious slowness).
Dojo Tips:
Don’t rush: A start that is too fast often ruins the end of the movement.
Breathe: Use the inhale for Jo, the breath-hold or controlled exhale for Ha, and the explosive exhale for Kyū.
Observe nature: Think of a water droplet gathering on a leaf (Jo), beginning to slide (Ha), and falling abruptly (Kyū).
Jo-Ha-Kyū is the heartbeat of Budo. By seeking this rhythm in your katas, you are no longer just working your muscles, but your presence in the world. The sword then becomes an extension of this universal pulse.
Whenever I visit my Japanese family’s hometown near Mount Fuji, there’s one place I always try to go back to. It’s not a big city, not a famous temple, and not one of the crowded viewpoints of Fuji.
It’s a quiet waterfall hidden in the forest called Shiraito Falls.
The first time my family took me there, I didn’t really know what to expect. Japan has many waterfalls, after all. But as we walked down the forest path and I heard the sound of water echoing through the trees, I realized this place felt different.
Shiraito Falls isn’t dramatic or overwhelming. Instead, it’s peaceful, delicate, and strangely mesmerizing—the kind of place where you end up standing still for a long time without even noticing.
The Short Walk to the Falls
Getting to Shiraito Falls is part of the experience.
From the parking area, you follow a small path that slowly winds downhill through the trees. It’s not a long walk, but the atmosphere gradually changes as you go.
The air becomes cooler. The forest feels thicker. And the sound of water begins to grow louder with every step.
My family always walks slowly here, pointing out little things along the way—moss growing on rocks, small streams crossing the path, and sometimes the distant shape of Mount Fuji visible between the trees.
Then suddenly the path opens up.
And there it is.
Waterfall Made of “White Threads”
The first time you see Shiraito Falls, the shape of it might surprise you.
Most waterfalls crash down from a single point. This one doesn’t. Instead, water flows out from hundreds of small openings along a curved cliff face.
The streams fall gently down the dark rock, forming thin white lines across the entire wall. From a distance, it really does look like hundreds of threads hanging in the air.
That’s exactly where the name comes from—“Shiraito” means “white threads.”
The waterfall stretches about 150 meters wide, but it’s not especially tall. The beauty isn’t in its height or power. It’s in the delicate way the water flows.
Every stream moves slightly differently, creating a constantly shifting pattern.
I remember standing there the first time and thinking it almost looked like nature was quietly weaving something.
Water From Mount Fuji
Another thing that makes Shiraito Falls special is where the water comes from.
The water actually starts its journey on Mount Fuji. Rain and snow on the mountain slowly seep into the volcanic layers of rock and soil. Over time—sometimes years—it travels underground before finally emerging from the cliff at Shiraito.
So when you’re standing there watching the water fall, you’re really seeing water that has been slowly filtered through the mountain itself.
It’s incredibly clear and pure. When the sunlight hits the mist rising from the basin, you can sometimes see faint rainbows forming in the air.
In Shinto, the traditional belief system of Japan, natural places like mountains, forests, rivers, and waterfalls are believed to be inhabited by spiritual presences called kami.
These aren’t “gods” in the way many Western religions think of them. They’re more like sacred energies or spirits connected to the natural world.
Waterfalls are especially meaningful because flowing water represents purification.
For centuries, people practiced a ritual called misogi, where they stood under cold waterfalls or in rivers to cleanse their body and spirit. The rushing water symbolically washes away impurities.
Shiraito Falls has long been connected to spiritual practices linked to Mount Fuji. Pilgrims and mountain ascetics would visit places like this as part of their training before climbing the sacred mountain.
Whenever friends ask me what they should see around Mount Fuji, they usually expect recommendations for famous viewpoints or big tourist attractions.
I always recommend them to go to walk around the Tanuki Lake and to visit Shiraito Falls.
In my Japanese family, the falls are a place of deep significance, visited to honor life’s most important moments. These pilgrimages are more than just trips; they are key milestones that connect our generations. My own martial path—from my teenage years in Goju-ryu to my current role as a Uechi-ryu teacher—is deeply tied to this imagery. I often recall the legendary Gogen Yamaguchi practicing misogi under the cascade, a powerful symbol of the discipline I strive to follow.
A Walk Through Arigatayama, the Mountain of Gratitude
Recently, I was in Gotemba in Shizuoka. Most travelers passing there have one of two goals in mind. Some come to shop at the vast Gotemba Premium Outlets, one of the largest outlet complexes in Japan, while others arrive to begin their ascent of the legendary Mount Fuji (in summer).
Yet just beyond the busy roads and shopping crowds, on the quiet southeastern slopes of the mountain, lies a place that offers something far more meaningful than a luxury bargain or a summit photograph.
Hidden among forests and gentle hills is Arigatayama, literally translated as the “Mountain of Gratitude.” It is not a typical tourist attraction, nor is it widely known outside Japan. Instead, it is a sanctuary—a place built around reflection, humility, and thankfulness. Walking through its sacred grounds is less like visiting a temple complex and more like entering a different state of mind.
During my recent walk there, I discovered that Arigatayama is the kind of place that quietly reshapes your perspective long after you’ve left the foothills of Shizuoka Prefecture.
The Spirit of “Arigato”
Arigatayama serves as the headquarters of Nenpoushinkyou, a modern Japanese religious movement founded in the early twentieth century. While it has an organized spiritual framework, visitors do not need to be followers to appreciate the philosophy that defines the site.
At the heart of everything here lies one simple word: Arigato.
In Japanese, arigato means “thank you,” but its deeper meaning suggests something even more profound—gratitude for life itself. The teachings associated with Arigatayama emphasize expressing thankfulness for nature, for the wisdom of ancestors, and even for hardships that shape us into stronger people.
As soon as I stepped onto the wide stone paths, the atmosphere felt different from other temple grounds I had visited in Japan. The air seemed quieter, softer somehow. Tall cedar trees formed natural corridors along the walkways, their trunks rising like pillars into the sky. Sunlight filtered through the branches in scattered patterns across the ground, and the only sounds were distant bells, rustling leaves, and the occasional call of birds.
The sense of gratitude the site promotes isn’t loudly preached—it’s felt in the stillness.
Walking in the Shadow of a Deity
postcards, usually as a distant and iconic silhouette.
At Arigatayama, however, Fuji is not just a backdrop.
Because the sanctuary sits directly on the mountain’s slope, the presence of the volcano feels immense and immediate. The landscape rises toward the peak with quiet authority, reminding visitors that this sacred mountain has shaped Japanese spirituality for centuries.
Within the traditions of Shinto, Fuji is often regarded as a shintai—the physical body of a deity. In other words, the mountain itself is divine. Standing here beneath it, that idea suddenly feels less symbolic and more tangible.
On clear mornings the view is extraordinary. The perfect symmetry of Fuji’s snow-capped summit appears above the trees like a painting suspended in the sky. The most striking visual pairing is with the complex’s five-story pagoda, whose brilliant red structure rises above the surrounding forest.
The contrast is breathtaking:
deep green cedar forests
vivid red temple architecture
the brilliant white peak of Fuji above
For photographers it is a dream composition. But even without a camera, the scene offers something more valuable: a moment of perspective. Under a mountain that has stood for hundreds of thousands of years, everyday worries suddenly feel small and temporary.
On the way to Arigatayama (Photo Liomugai)
The Silent Crowd: 1,800 Jizo Statues
The most powerful moment of the walk comes gradually, as the path begins to fill with rows upon rows of stone statues.
Nearly 1,800 figures of Jizo line the trails of Arigatayama.
These statues represent Jizo Bosatsu, one of the most beloved protective figures in Japanese Buddhism. Jizo is traditionally considered the guardian of travelers, children, and souls moving through the afterlife. Throughout Japan, small Jizo statues often stand beside roads, rivers, and temple gates.
But seeing so many together is something entirely different.
At Arigatayama, the statues form what feels like a silent congregation, stretching along pathways and terraces among the trees. Each figure has its own posture and expression. Some appear peaceful, others contemplative. A few even seem to smile gently.
Walking among them feels like moving through a gathering of patient watchers.
Jizo Crowd
One detail immediately catches the eye: almost every statue wears a bright red knitted bib or cap.
These garments are not decorative. They are offerings placed by families and devotees as acts of care and devotion. In Japanese folk belief, the color red is associated with protection—it is thought to ward off illness, misfortune, and harmful spirits.
Traditionally, parents who have lost a child or who pray for a child’s safety may dress a Jizo statue in red clothing. By doing so, they symbolically entrust their love and concern to the compassionate protection of Jizo.
Seeing hundreds of these small hand-knitted garments is deeply moving. Each one represents a story—someone’s grief, hope, gratitude, or prayer.
The result is both quiet and powerful: a visual reminder that even anonymous statues can carry human emotion.
Praying Jizo
Another remarkable detail becomes clear when you look closely at the statues: no two faces are exactly the same.
Many of the Jizo figures here were donated by families or individuals as expressions of thanks. A recovered illness, a safe journey, a prayer answered—each statue can represent a moment of gratitude made permanent in stone.
The statues are often hand-carved and intentionally simple. Their material—stone from the earth—symbolizes the “Womb of the Earth,” a concept representing nature’s nurturing and enduring presence.
Over time, rain, moss, and mountain weather slowly soften the features of the statues. Instead of diminishing them, the aging process seems to deepen their presence, allowing them to blend naturally with the mountain landscape.
It is as if the mountain itself gradually adopts them.
Arigatayama is not simply a temple complex—it is a place intentionally designed to slow you down and shift your perspective.
By the time I finished my walk and began descending toward Gotemba, the noise of the modern world felt distant. The experience had quietly changed the rhythm of my thoughts.
In a world often defined by speed and achievement, Arigatayama offers a different message: pause, breathe, and be grateful.
And perhaps that is why the “Mountain of Gratitude” lingers in memory long after the journey ends. When you leave its cedar paths, you carry something small but meaningful with you—a little more arigato in every step.
The word Kamon translates literally to “house mark.” Unlike European heraldry, which is often complex and colorful, Kamon are almost always circular and designed in a single color (usually white on black or vice versa).
Originally, these marks were used by the nobility in the Heian period (794–1185) to identify their ox-carriages. Later, during the bloody warring states period, they became essential on the battlefield to distinguish friend from foe.
Popular Motifs
Most Kamon are derived from nature, geometry, or everyday objects. Each carries a specific “language” or virtue. The most kown :
Motif
Name
Meaning
Chrysanthemum
Kiku
The symbol of the Emperor and the Imperial family.
Hollyhock
Aoi
Famous as the crest of the Tokugawa Shogunate.
Crane
Tsuru
Represents longevity, loyalty, and good fortune.
To continue this post, I propose to detail the more known : The Imperial Kamon and the Tokugawa Kamon.
The Flower of the Sun: The Story of the Japanese Imperial Kamon
In the hierarchy of Japanese family emblems, one stands above all others. It is not owned by a samurai clan or a noble house, but by the oldest continuous hereditary monarchy in the world.
This is the Kiku-mon (菊紋)—the Sixteen-Petal Chrysanthemum—the official crest of the Emperor of Japan.
The Design: The 16-Petal Chrysanthemum
The Imperial Kamon is a stylized chrysanthemum consisting of a central circle surrounded by 16 front petals, with the tips of 16 back petals peeking out from behind.
While the chrysanthemum is a common flower, this specific “double-layered” 16-petal design is reserved exclusively for the Emperor. It is a masterpiece of radial symmetry, designed to resemble a blazing sun, bridging the gap between the flower of the earth and the goddess of the sun, Amaterasu, from whom the Imperial line is said to descend.
Meiji-Jingu Torri with the Imperial Kamon
Why the Chrysanthemum?
The choice of the chrysanthemum dates back to the Heian Period (794–1185).
The “Medicinal” Flower: Originally imported from China, the chrysanthemum was believed to grant longevity and ward off evil spirits.
Emperor Go-Toba: The 82nd Emperor, Go-Toba (reigned 1183–1198), was a great lover of the flower. He began using it as his personal seal, engraving it on his swords and documents.
Formal Adoption: Over time, what started as a personal preference became the official emblem of the Imperial House.
Emperor’s desk in his summer residence in Numazu Imperial Villa (沼津御用邸, Numazu Goyōtei) (Photo: Liomugai)
The “Forbidden” Mark
For centuries, the use of the 16-petal chrysanthemum was strictly regulated. During the Meiji Restoration (1868), when the Emperor was restored to central power, the government passed laws to solidify the Kiku-mon as a national symbol of authority.
Strict Exclusivity: From 1871 until the end of World War II, it was a crime for a commoner to use the Imperial crest.
The “Prince” Variations: Members of the Imperial family branches use a slightly different version (typically a 14-petal chrysanthemum) to distinguish themselves from the reigning Emperor.
Where to find Imperial Kamon today ?
The Imperial Kiku-mon is a living symbol of the Japanese state. You can find it in several significant places:
The Japanese Passport: The gold emblem on the cover of every Japanese passport is a simplified 16-petal chrysanthemum.
Diplomatic Buildings: It serves as the official seal on the gates of Japanese embassies and consulates worldwide.
Shrines: Because the Emperor is the head of Shinto, the Kiku-mon is prominently displayed at major shrines, most notably Ise Jingu and Yasukuni Shrine.
The Diet (Parliament): It appears on the podiums and official documents of the Japanese government.
The Japanese throne itself is often referred to in English as the “Chrysanthemum Throne.”
The Kiku-mon represents more than just royalty; it embodies the essence of Japan:
Immortality: As the flower blooms in the autumn and survives the first frosts, it represents resilience.
Solar Power: The radial lines evoke the Nisshō (the rising sun), reinforcing the Emperor’s role as a descendant of the Sun Goddess.
National Unity: Today, it serves as a symbol of the unity of the Japanese people.
The Power and Legacy of the Tokugawa Kamon
In the history of Japan, few symbols carry as much weight, fear, and prestige as the Mitsuba Aoi (三葉葵)—the Triple Hollyhock crest. For over 250 years, this emblem was the ultimate mark of authority, representing the Tokugawa Shogunate, the military government that unified Japan and maintained an era of unprecedented peace.
The Design: The Triple Hollyhock
The Tokugawa Kamon features three leaves of the wild ginger (often referred to as “hollyhock”) pointing inward within a circle.
Unlike many other Kamon that use flowers (like the Imperial Chrysanthemum), the Aoi leaf is humble and hardy. However, when arranged in the Tokugawa style, it becomes a balanced, geometric masterpiece that suggests stability and unwavering strength.
Tokugawa Kamon in Sunpu (Shizuoka)
Origins and Divine Connection
Before they were Shoguns, the Tokugawa were the Matsudaira clan of Mikawa Province. They adopted the hollyhock crest because of its association with the Kamo Shrine in Kyoto.
The Ritual: The hollyhock was used in the Aoi Matsuri, one of Kyoto’s oldest and most sacred festivals.
The Blessing: By adopting this mark, the Tokugawa ancestors claimed the spiritual protection of the Kamo deities, signaling that their lineage was blessed by the gods long before they took political power.
A Symbol of Absolute Authority
During the Edo Period (1603–1868), the Mitsuba Aoi was not just a decoration; it was a legal instrument.
Exclusivity: The Shogunate passed strict laws forbidding anyone outside the Tokugawa family (and a few specific branches like the Mito, Owari, and Kii) from using the hollyhock design.
The “Badge” of Power: In popular Japanese folklore and television (such as the famous show Mito Kōmon), a protagonist often reveals a small lacquer box (inrō) featuring the Tokugawa crest. At the mere sight of it, even the most corrupt officials must bow to the floor in submission, as the crest was equivalent to the presence of the Shogun himself.
Where to find Tokugawa Kamon today ?
Although the Shogunate fell during the Meiji Restoration in 1868, the Tokugawa legacy remains etched into the landscape of Japan:
Nikkō Tōshō-gū: The lavishly decorated shrine and mausoleum of Tokugawa Ieyasu is covered in gold-leafed Aoi crests.
The City of Nagoya: The Nagoya city flag is actually a stylized version of the character “eight” ($八$) inside a circle, but the city remains the spiritual home of the Owari-Tokugawa branch, and the crest is visible throughout the city’s historical sites.
The Tokugawa Art Museum: Located in Nagoya, this museum houses the finest collection of Shogunal treasures, all branded with the triple hollyhock.
Why the Tokugawa Kamon Matters
The Tokugawa Kamon represents the Great Peace (Pax Tokugawa). It reminds us of a time when Japan transitioned from a nation of constant civil war into a unified society with a flourishing culture of arts, poetry, and philosophy.While other Kamon represent individual families, the Mitsuba Aoi represents an entire era of human history.
Why having chosen the Mitsuba Aoi for Liomugai ?
I initially considered using my japanese family crest for Liomugai , but I felt the site needed something with a broader appeal. My decision was finalized during a visit to Kunōzan Tōshō-gū. Seeing the simplified kamon etched into the ancient stones there was a revelation; it was elegant and understated. That place, so quiet and connected to the earth, stayed with me. As I descended from the mountain, it became clear: this simplified emblem was the ideal visual identity for Liomugai.
After the precision of the workshops in Seki and the focus of the Dojo, my journey brought me to a place of profound silence: Arigatayama, near Gotemba.
I spent a few days in this sacred space, located under the watchful presence of Mount Fuji.
In the world of Budo, we often focus on the steel, the technique, and the strength of the cut. But at Arigatayama—the “Mountain of Gratitude”—the practice shifts from the hands to the heart.
The Spirit of the Mountain
Arigatayama is not just a destination; it is a reminder. The air in Gotemba is sharp and clear, stripping away the distractions of modern life. Standing there, the principles of Mugai-ryū feel more alive than ever.
In our style, we seek “One Truth, nothing outside.” At the foot of Fuji, you realize that the “Truth” isn’t found only in the perfect length of a blade or the speed of a draw—it is found in the connection we share with our lineage and with each other.
At the summit of the mountain, I sat for hours in Zazen before the silent majesty of Mount Fuji. Within the walls of the Temple of the Dragon, time seemed to dissolve. It was a rare moment to step back from the world—a spiritual reset to find clarity and reenergize my spirit for the year ahead.
A Personal Message to My Students and Followers
My time at Arigatayama was spent in deep reflection, and my thoughts kept returning to all of you.
I want to take this moment to say thank you (Arigato) to my students and my followers and wish you a fantastic 2026 year for you and your loved ones.
Your continuous support is the “breath” that sustains my own practice.
