Every now and then, I find myself looking back at this house. It no longer belongs to our family, but it remains one of the places that quietly shaped who I am.
My parents spent most of their lives in the middle of Tokyo, yet long before retirement they dreamed of living somewhere surrounded by trees, in a traditional Japanese home where the changing seasons could be felt every day. When they turned fifty-five, they moved to Yamanashi Prefecture and finally made that dream a reality.
Rather than building a new home, they searched for old ones. The main house was a farmhouse from Niigata that was already more than one hundred years old, while the OKURA (an old Japanese storehouse) — my father’s atelier—was over 110 years old and had been relocated from Fukushima. Piece by piece, both buildings were carefully dismantled, transported across Japan, and lovingly rebuilt in the woods of Kobuchizawa. Both structures were joined together using traditional wooden joinery alone—NO NAILS. It’s the kind of craftsmanship that’s rarely seen anymore.
Only much later did I realize this move didn’t come out of nowhere. In many ways, it was the natural continuation of the life they had already been living. My father was an artist whose work celebrated the beauty of traditional Japan, while my mother spent many years running a shop devoted to Japanese craftsmanship. Japan wasn’t simply something they admired—it was the thread that quietly ran through their lives. Moving into a century-old farmhouse in the woods wasn’t a change of direction. It was simply where that journey led them.
I sometimes regret that I never went to see the reconstruction while it was happening. At the time I was busy with work and simply assumed I’d see the finished house once everything was complete. Only later did I hear the incredible stories behind the move. The beams were so enormous that they couldn’t simply be driven to Yamanashi. The delivery trucks couldn’t just take any random route — they had to plan, well in advance, exactly which roads to take and which corners they could physically turn. Almost like moving a Shinkansen train over land. That’s how big it was.
When I finally visited after everything was finished, I was speechless. I still remember standing there, completely stunned. I couldn’t believe this was real, that this was theirs now, that this enormous, quiet, beautiful thing was where my parents lived.
The property was spacious, surrounded by trees, and filled with the peaceful silence that only nature can offer. Over the years, I brought many friends there simply because I wanted them to experience what it felt like to step inside a genuine old Japanese home. Later, after I had children, it became a place where our own family memories were made.
Summers were wonderfully cool, a welcome escape from Tokyo’s heat. Winters, however, were another story. The cold found its way into every corner of the house, and somehow my husband managed to catch a cold almost every single time we visited.
My children still vividly remember the old pendulum clock that echoed through the house every hour. They were convinced it was haunted.
One night, my daughter, still very little, sleepily wandered towards the toilet in the dark and fell straight into the irori (traditional Japanese hearth), emerged covered with soft grey ash. This became one of those family stories we still laugh about today.
My father always hung a hammock between the trees whenever we visited, and the children would climb in and sing the little song they had invented, asking Grandpa to push them higher. He always did.
Those simple moments are the ones they remember most.
My parents lived there for more than twenty years. Eventually, after they were well-past 75, the heavy snow became too much to manage, and they made the difficult decision to leave. The house now belongs to someone else, but I often wonder if it is still standing quietly among the trees. One day, I’d love to take my mother back to see it again.
Looking back now, I realize that this house wasn’t simply where my parents lived. It was the culmination of the life they had been creating for decades. Two people who spent most of their lives in one of the busiest cities on earth, yet quietly built a life rooted in the beauty of Japan. When the time finally came, they chose to spend their later years surrounded by century-old timber, four distinct seasons, and everything they had longed for. That is why moving to this house wasn’t the beginning of their story—it was its culmination.
It wasn’t nostalgia. It was a philosophy. A life that cherished Japanese beauty, and a life that simply accepted what nature had to offer, and found richness in living with the seasons.
All those years, I never really thought much about any of it. It was simply normal. Only now do I realize how quietly those values became part of me.
And I think those values were always there, even before I knew it. I didn’t choose this path so much as inherit it—the same instinct my parents followed when they left the city for the mountains. I’m simply living it in my own way now, through food instead of a house built of wood, paper, and clay.
Today, I realize that what I share through Wa + Sabi is much more than recipes. It’s the quiet wisdom I grew up with—the joy of listening to the seasons, cooking with what nature offers, gathering around the table, and finding beauty in everyday life.
These are the gifts my parents passed on to me.
And now, in my own way, I hope to pass them on—not only to my own children, but also to those who feel drawn to Japanese culture and its traditions. Through the food we cook, the seasons we celebrate, and the quiet wisdom behind it, that has been passed from one generation to the next.
My father and their life in Kobuchizawa featured in a magazine
