Canon's Diary

Action without thought is empty; thought without action is blind – Goethe

While living with schizophrenia, I move between Tokyo and Osaka. Through this journal, I hope to quietly share moments from my daily life—and memories from the journey I’ve taken with my illness.

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Recording my Daily Life as a Diary

  • A Small New Beginning, Like Ripples on Water

    Sunday, May 25. The sky was a little overcast, and perhaps because I hadn’t slept well the night before, my mind felt a bit foggy. After breakfast, I spent the entire morning cleaning my room. I finished cutting the floor mats I had left half-done, shaping them to fit the room. I carefully placed a small dish rack and TV board on top of the mats and set up the coffee maker, rice cooker, and electric kettle. On the TV stand, I placed a compact stereo amplifier and small speakers, then connected the audio cables. There’s no CD player, but I can stream music from my smartphone via Bluetooth, which sounds good enough. As long as I keep the volume low enough not to disturb my neighbors, I can enjoy jazz at night. The TV connects to YouTube and Amazon Prime Video, so I’ll be able to quietly watch movies or tennis matches in the evening.

    —Now, I’ve finally finished what I started two weeks ago. Back then, I received a call that my father had fallen unconscious, and I dropped everything to rush to Tokyo.

    By lunchtime, everything in the fridge had spoiled, so I bought a salad and cold basil pasta at the convenience store. After eating, fatigue caught up with me, and I found myself idly sitting, doing nothing. When moments like that come, a quiet and inescapable sadness rises from deep within. I imagine my mother, now left alone, might be feeling the same. I thought about messaging her, but decided against it. It’s hard to explain why. The bond between parent and child, formed over so many years, can’t be captured in simple words.

    Around 3 PM, I went out for groceries and took a short walk around the neighborhood. From my room on the sixth floor, I could see a large library and a pond, so I wanted to visit them. I changed out of my black Nike sweats into a pair of light blue jeans. There was a slight breeze as I opened the door, took the elevator, and stepped out into the open air.

    The sky remained overcast. The weather hasn’t been great lately. I headed east, toward the library. Right next to my building is a small bus terminal, and just beyond that is the library—almost within arm’s reach. The sign read “Takatsuki City Koderaike Library.” Though old, it was a clean and well-maintained facility. The interior was spacious, with books in every genre: philosophy, religion, history, academics, business, self-help, and of course, fiction. Many people sat at tables or on benches, each absorbed in their reading. It might be nice to come here now and then—reading alone at home can feel isolating.

    After leaving the library, I continued east, turned right down a small alley, and after about 50 meters, arrived at Kodera Pond. It’s roughly 100 meters square and covered with lotus leaves. From my sixth-floor window, I’d seen movement on the water—now I knew what it was. Large koi were swimming in the pond. The pond is fenced off, with a walkway surrounding it. As I peeked through the fence, the koi noticed my shadow and gathered at the surface, rippling the water as if asking for food. One particularly large koi rolled on its side, as if looking at me with one eye. The walkway had benches where people could bring lunch and enjoy a peaceful meal. I slowly walked around the pond. The koi followed me.

    After a full circle around the pond, I returned to the street near the station. I crossed the railroad tracks and stopped at the supermarket closest to my apartment, buying vegetables, pork, and eggs. For dinner, I had a retort-pack keema curry and stir-fried spinach and bacon with butter.

    It was a quiet, unhurried day. Tomorrow, I’ll go back to the Osaka headquarters. The ordinary days are beginning again—softly rippling, like waves on the surface of water. I’ve decided to properly restart tennis again. Staying cooped up at home will only weigh me down.

  • The Sound of Cutting Wind – Mt. Fuji, Dark Against the Sky

    Saturday, May 24. I left my family home in Tokyo and boarded a bullet train bound for Osaka. Nozomi No. 391, departing Shin-Yokohama at 2:29 p.m., arrived about five minutes late. Feeling drained, I closed my eyes and sat still. I could hear the train slicing through the wind. The subtle vibrations pulsed through my body. When we entered a tunnel, the sound of the wind grew louder, pressing against my eardrums.

    As we neared Shin-Fuji, I heard the clicks of passengers taking photos with their smartphones. I opened my eyes to find Mt. Fuji floating darkly against a sky of thin clouds. The snow on the summit seemed to have melted. A man in a suit, young women scrolling on their phones, schoolkids absorbed in their games, and a foreign couple in T-shirts with large suitcases stowed above—the car was filled with all kinds of lives.

    I wasn’t thinking about anything in particular. Just letting the train’s sway carry me along. The scenes inside the car, and those slipping past the window, stirred no emotion in me. I simply stared at them, absentmindedly. No, that’s not quite right. I was thinking—about two Sundays ago, when I received a LINE message from my wife on another bullet train, on my way to a Tokyo hospital. She told me that my father had just passed away. That moment came back to me.

    By the time we reached Nagoya, raindrops had begun to strike the window. The droplets traced horizontal lines along the glass, flowing backward with the train’s motion. As the speed increased, the flow of water diminished and eventually disappeared, likely swept away by the wind pressure. A haze covered the outside world. We arrived at Kyoto Station, and the rain was still falling. I stepped off the platform and transferred to the JR Kyoto Line, heading for Settsu-Tonda Station.

    A woman sat across from me, holding a newborn in her arms while gently chatting with a little boy, about three years old, who was in a stroller. The boy was full of energy, gleefully swinging around a toy in his hands. His voice echoed through the train, but no one seemed bothered. Suddenly, he dropped his toy. The mother, cradling her baby and steadying the stroller, struggled to pick it up. I reached out and retrieved it for her.
    “Thank you so much,” she said with a small bow.
    I didn’t reply, just smiled quietly.

    At Settsu-Tonda Station, I bought a large vinyl umbrella. I walked through the rain-streaked shopping street. The new umbrella repelled the rain well. Bicycles and scooters zipped by, people crossed paths on either side, cautious cars moved through the crowd, and the sound of the crossing bell rang out. Though I had only moved here a month ago, it already felt like I had walked this route many times.

    I returned to the apartment. The room was still in disarray—I had rushed out after a sudden call from my mother in the middle of cleaning. For now, I decided to leave things as they were. I would resume the cleanup tomorrow.

  • What We Began After Father’s Passing—The Sound of the Wind, the Voice of the Heart

    Friday, May 23rd. Overcast skies. I dropped the documents for changing the names on the gas, electricity, and water utilities, as well as the bank account for automatic withdrawals, into the mailbox. I’m working remotely from Tokyo again today, but work has settled down for now. It was on May 11th that I received the call about my father’s unconscious state. I rushed out of my apartment in Osaka, went to the hospital in Tokyo, confirmed his death, arranged the funeral, consulted about inheritance, and handled various name change procedures. It has been a hectic time. The necessary documents and procedures are mostly organized, so my sister and I can now handle them as we prepare. I plan to return to Osaka tomorrow morning. The apartment is still in disarray, and I’m concerned about the vegetables and pork I bought for cooking—whether they’ve spoiled in the fridge. My sister has been thoughtful, occasionally traveling from Kita Ward to Machida, but leaving my mother and wife alone at the family home in Tokyo worries me.

    With work calming down, I took a moment to gaze out the window. My desk, facing a westward window, has a wood-grain L-shaped design, large enough to accommodate a 32-inch monitor. This is a quiet residential area, so there’s little traffic noise, but occasionally, I hear the sound of airplanes passing overhead or children talking on their way home from school. The greenery is relatively abundant, and from the south-facing window, I can see Tendai Park, where a towering tree, about 30 meters tall, sways its lush green leaves in the wind.

    Sitting at my desk, I straighten my back and try a bit of meditation. It’s so quiet that I can hear the cool air flowing from the air conditioner’s vent. I focus my consciousness inward, attuning to my heartbeat and sensing the flow of blood. I pay attention to the nerves extending from my body’s center to my hands and feet, feeling a slight warmth in my palms. I sense the passage of time. Outside the window, the wind whispers—it feels as if it’s resonating with the voice of my heart. Memories of recent events begin to replay in my mind.

    This situation has given me time to talk with my sister again. Among the photos my father took during his lifetime, there’s one from when I had just entered elementary school, showing me looking sheepish after making my sister cry. I remembered a time when I used to tease her and decided to apologize, but she said, “I only remember playing with you. You really played with me a lot.” I recalled how I used to use a stuffed rabbit to mimic Kenji Sawada’s songs in a puppet show style, making her laugh uncontrollably. It was also nice to talk a bit with my two nieces. The older one is attending Waseda University, and the younger is studying for the University of Tokyo entrance exams. The older niece mentioned that her university club is planning to visit a sewage treatment facility in Indonesia. Both of them have made studying an integral part of their lives, and they said they feel uneasy when they can’t find time to study, which was quite surprising to hear.

    As for my wife, after our beloved dog Kanon passed away, she lost her emotional anchor. We had arguments about my mother and didn’t speak for about six months. She only prepared meals during that time. However, we’ve gradually started to talk again, and I feel that we’re slowly building a relationship where we respect each other’s positions. Also, many members of the Soka Gakkai came to the funeral and spoke about my father. I was able to express my feelings about leaving the organization and my current sentiments towards it in my greeting speech. This made me feel as if something that had been smoldering inside me for years had slightly cleared.

    My father’s death has brought changes to our lives. However, time flows equally for those who remain. My mother, sister, and wife each have their own allotted time and are being drawn back into their respective lives. It was a very painful experience, but we must begin to look forward and move on. I feel that this process has already begun for me. I think some support is needed to fill the time my mother now spends alone. Since I can return to Tokyo for half of each month, I plan to consider how best to use that time.

  • Part-Time Job Stories – Episode 1: A Waiter in Kabukichō

    May 22nd. The sky is lightly overcast, but now and then, rays of the setting sun break through. I was working remotely today. I currently work in project management for a pump manufacturer. It’s a position I requested and was fortunate to transfer into last year. My job involves coordinating between clients and internal departments, playing the role of a facilitator to keep projects moving smoothly. In a sense, I serve as a bridge for information flow, and the work suits my nature well. Perhaps this is heavily influenced by a part-time job I had during my university years. Today, I’d like to share a story from that time.

    I believe I got my motorcycle license not long after entering university—so I must’ve been around 19. I sold the 50cc moped I had been using and bought a 400cc bike. It was a used VFR400R (NC21), and if I remember correctly, it cost about 400,000 yen. To pay off the loan, I had to start working a part-time job. Back then, there was a magazine called Nikkan Arubaito News (Daily Part-Time Job News). With the economy booming during the bubble era, there were plenty of job opportunities, and choosing one was actually fun. I had heard that my cousin, who was two years older than me, was working as a bartender, so following a similar vibe, I decided to become a restaurant waiter.

    The location was right by the East Exit of Odakyu Machida Station, in a building surrounding the main plaza. On the ground floor was the Kumido Bookstore, and in the basement was a newly opening restaurant with a cake shop attached. They were recruiting opening staff. For some reason, the phrase “opening staff” had a nice ring to it back then. It gave me a sense of excitement, like maybe I’d make new friends. However, the restaurant was still under construction, so I had to work at another location for two weeks as part of my training. That place was the Kabukicho branch. I was 19, and just hearing the name “Kabukicho” made me feel uneasy.

    On my first day, I did customer service for the very first time. The customers included intimidating-looking men and women with overly thick makeup—honestly, I was scared stiff. The supervisor told me, “Go take that table’s order,” and when I approached the customer—very much the “stereotypical” type of tough guy—I asked, “May I take your order?” He simply said, “Reikō.” There didn’t seem to be anything by that name on the menu, so I hesitantly asked, “Um… what’s reikō?” He flared up and shouted, “When I say reikō, I mean iced coffee, you idiot!!” I remember bowing and apologizing over and over, totally flustered. That moment became a kind of trauma for me, and I was afraid to take orders after that. But there were normal customers too, so I somehow managed to get by.

    Still, talking with customers was hard for me, so I remember focusing desperately on refilling water for tables—something I could do without speaking. I also delivered cakes. The Kabukicho streets at night were truly terrifying for me at the time, and delivering cakes to hostesses’ apartments felt like stepping into an entirely different world. All I felt back then was fear. But one time, a cigarette-in-mouth, hostess-type woman said to me, “Thanks for coming all this way,” and from deep within, I felt a strange new sense of fulfillment. Looking back, that may have been my first real experience of participating in society. Even though it was scary, there was an undeniable thrill.

    Now that I reflect on it, I was just a clueless kid. But those two weeks of training in Kabukicho breathed into me a first taste of the real world. And then, finally, the Machida restaurant was completed. The real work was about to begin—(To be continued.)

  • College Life Stories – Episode 1: Hakusan Campus

    Wednesday, May 21.
    Last night, for the first time in two weeks, I attended a tennis lesson. Since I had left my racket in Osaka, I had to use an old one I found at home—but it turned out to be a great way to refresh myself. Tennis is a full-body sport. To swing the racket properly, you need to plant your weight firmly on the ball of your pivot foot, twist your upper body from the waist, and transfer that energy through your shoulders, elbows, and arms using centrifugal force. Maintaining a stable core is also essential. The motion is reminiscent of ballet or dance. Each joint and muscle has to move delicately. That’s why professional players’ strokes look so refined and beautiful.

    In April 1987, I entered Chuo University.
    The Faculty of Science and Engineering was located at the Hakusan Campus, which could be reached by getting off at Korakuen Station on the Marunouchi Line, walking through Isogawa Park in Bunkyo Ward, climbing a staircase, and then heading up a slope on Kasuga Street. The campus had a gate known as Hakumon. During the entrance ceremony, flyers for clubs and circles were handed out as you passed through it—so many that my bag was quickly filled. At the time, Tokyo Dome was still under construction. From the pedestrian bridge near Korakuen Station, you could see the changing shape of the old Korakuen Stadium, later nicknamed BOGEGG. In contrast, the liveliness of the Korakuen amusement park was slowly fading away, and for some reason, that left a slightly lonely impression on me.

    I had already decided to join a tennis circle. I wanted to overcome my poor communication skills. But honestly, my vocabulary was terrible back then. After a grueling year of studying for entrance exams, during which I barely spoke at all, I had no idea how to hold a normal conversation. My mind had been consumed entirely by studying, so being expected to suddenly become talkative was a tall order.

    After the festive entrance ceremony, the campus quickly settled into a more subdued atmosphere once classes began. I was extremely nervous. While others were making friends with ease, I remember going nearly two weeks without speaking to anyone. Still, I eventually managed to connect with a few classmates, and that’s how my university life started.

    The school cafeteria was located in a semi-basement of Building 6, and I had lunch there every day. I still remember how delicious Set C was—it came with croquettes and teriyaki chicken.

    Keeping up with the classes was tough. Looking back, I realize I had overestimated myself in choosing this university. My classmates were far quicker thinkers than I was, and they seemed to breeze through lectures. I, on the other hand, often couldn’t even grasp what the professors were talking about. Luckily, my experience from my exam prep days gave me the habit of reviewing lessons at home, and that helped me survive.

    From the pile of flyers stuffed into my bag, I chose one tennis circle to join. It was called “Tennis Circle Palo Palo.” At first, I didn’t know how to pronounce it. When I asked an upperclassman, “How do you read this name?” he teased me:
    “Huh? Who knows? Pau Pau? Puff Puff? Something like that?”
    Later, I learned that typing “palo palo” in romaji produces “Pao Pao” which seemed to be the origin. Still, by the time I joined, everyone was pronouncing it “Paro Paro.” I must admit—it sounded kind of flashy. But I think I was drawn to that atmosphere. To be honest, I probably wanted to be popular. Yeah, no doubt about it. But allow me to make an excuse: I was also genuinely curious to explore worlds I had never experienced before.

    If I could talk to my younger self, I’d say:
    Take your time. Whether it’s building relationships or mastering your tennis form, it all comes together with time.

    Since university life has many stories to tell, I’ll pause here for now.

    Today marked the end of my bereavement leave. I resumed work remotely from home. My supervisor gave me a brief overview of the project that was handled in my absence, and I will be taking over starting with the kickoff meeting with the design department.

    Suddenly being pulled back into reality after the funeral made me feel a bit rushed.
    Still, I managed to finish my piled-up tasks, had dinner prepared by my wife, and took a relaxing bath. Now, I’m enjoying a quiet moment in my room, sipping a Scotch and soda.

    My remote work from Tokyo ends this weekend, and I plan to return to Osaka on Saturday.

    When I was younger, I believed everything could be mastered quickly. But just as it took me years to make the tennis swing feel natural, I’ve come to understand that building human relationships also takes time—little by little.

  • That Chaos Still Lives Within Me

    May 20, 2025 – Yesterday, I took a long soak in the bath and made sure to get plenty of sleep. Thanks to that, I seem to have recovered from my fatigue. Today, the sun is out, and pleasant light is streaming into my west-facing desk. I have a tennis lesson scheduled tonight, so I’m planning to work up a good sweat for the first time in a while.

    Now, I’d like to share a bit about my university days.

    It was 1987 when I passed the university entrance exam. In that moment, I fell into the illusion that I had somehow become someone special. I wanted to build a bright future, to stop living in the shadows like I always had, to change myself. I had a strong resolve. Having been raised under the strict teachings of Buddhism since childhood, my ego was suppressed and cloaked in the bindings of compassion and prayer. I wanted to break free from that shell. So, I decided—regardless of the fine details—that I would throw myself fully into whatever I did. That was the mindset I had.

    But reality didn’t align with my intentions. My college life became a chaotic mix of various social activities I tried to juggle all at once. In the end, I think I was often just spinning my wheels. Although I had made it into university, I was still an incomplete person—someone who knew nothing of society’s norms and couldn’t properly express his own self.

    My time in university felt as though I were living in three completely different worlds at once.
    The first was academics. The faculty of science and engineering offered few courses where just showing up would earn you credit. You had to perform reasonably well on exams, so a solid amount of study was required.
    The second was the university tennis club. I joined as a challenge to overcome my communication issues. I thought it would be good practice in learning how to express my thoughts aloud and connect with others.
    The third was my part-time job as a waiter at a restaurant. After entering university, I got a license to ride mid-sized motorcycles and bought a 400cc VFR400R (NC21) on a loan. To pay it off, working part-time was essential.

    There was one more thing that deeply affected my university life: family matters. After my grandfather—the master carpenter—passed away, talk of inheritance arose among my father and his siblings regarding our family home. The Kazane family was pulled into a whirlwind of disputes. This happened at the start of my first year in university. Our family home in Higashigaoka, Meguro Ward, where multiple relatives lived together, was sold during the peak of the real estate bubble—for a staggering 1.1 billion yen.

    Describing how I felt during those university years is incredibly difficult. In some ways, it was the busiest four years of my life. I intend to carefully piece together those scattered fragments of memory, one by one. I hope you’ll stay with me just a little longer.

    It’s been 34 years since I graduated from university. The tennis school I attend now is about a five-minute walk from Tsukushino Station, nestled in a residential area atop a hill. There’s a simple roof made of a retractable white canopy, and on sunny days, you can play in the gentle light filtering through it. I stayed away from tennis for a while after graduating, but I picked it back up around 1997—so this year marks 28 years since my return. As long as my body allows it, I plan to keep going.

    And that chaos from my university days… I still feel it quietly breathing somewhere within me.

  • In the Twilight

    I woke up at four in the morning. A dim light was seeping through the gap in the curtains. Birds had begun their morning song.
    I sat down in the reclining chair and had a glass of whisky. I had been tense all day yesterday. Though I should have been exhausted, I couldn’t sleep well.
    Feeling a bit tipsy, I crawled into bed, and when I next opened my eyes, it was already past ten.

    Monday, May 19th. The sky was faintly overcast. My mother had gone out to the hospital, but she seemed to have returned and was doing the dishes in the kitchen. I’ve taken leave from work until tomorrow, and after that, I plan to work remotely from Tokyo.

    My father’s funeral was held yesterday, and with the paperwork mostly settled, there was nothing urgent I had to attend to today.
    After lunch, I sat in a chair, staring blankly. When I do nothing, waves of fatigue and deep sadness hit me.
    I made a reservation for a tennis lesson as a way to lift my spirits, but I canceled it shortly after. I wasn’t feeling well, and I’m not yet in the mood to play tennis.

    A pendant for holding ashes, which I had bought for my mother, arrived. In front of her, I placed some of my father’s ashes into it and handed it to her.
    Documents related to hospital bills, the application for survivor’s pension, and the NHK name transfer also arrived by mail. My sister Ayaka is coming tomorrow, so I plan to take care of them together.

    My apologies to my readers—
    I’m a little tired today, so I’ll leave it here for now.

  • Words in Farewell to My Father

    Sunday, May 18. I woke at 6 a.m. Today is my father’s funeral.
    I had stayed up late last night sorting through documents for name changes and inheritance procedures. I still felt the weight of fatigue.

    As we drove to the funeral home, I looked out at the zelkova trees lining the road. Their fresh green leaves shimmered with life.
    I felt the breath of “life” in them.
    What, I wondered, is life? Perhaps it is something that is “passed on.”
    My father’s will, I believe, has been passed on to me. I have no children, and the Kazane family line ends with me.
    But I am confident that my thoughts, my spirit, will live on little by little through those I have been fortunate to connect with.

    In front of my father’s casket, a member of Soka Gakkai led us in chanting.
    It had been decades since I had last recited the sutra. My hands trembled as I brought them together in prayer.

    When the farewell ceremony came to an end, I, as the chief mourner, expressed my gratitude to those in attendance.

    Thank you all for joining us today to honor my father, hiderou Kazane, despite your busy schedules.
    Originally, it would have been my mother offering these words of thanks. However, I, as the eldest son, will say a few words on her behalf.

    Though this was announced as a simple “farewell gathering,” eleven visitors came on May 15, another seven yesterday, and today as well, many of you have come to bid farewell to my father.
    Through your presence, I deeply felt once again how my father was supported by the members of the Gakkai.
    My family and I are truly grateful for your warmth and kindness.

    Last March, my father was diagnosed with ampullary cancer and was hospitalized unexpectedly, missing the chance to see that year’s cherry blossoms.
    After consulting with doctors, he chose not to undergo surgery, and instead spent his remaining time at home.
    This April, he was able to see the cherry blossoms blooming near our home. That brief moment became a priceless memory for him, and for all of us.

    On May 11, surrounded by his family, he passed away peacefully.
    Even throughout his year-long battle with illness, I believe that being able to spend that time with my mother was a great source of comfort to him.

    On a personal note, I must confess that I had long felt a deep unease about the religion my mother believed in, ever since I was a child.
    In the midst of that struggle, I believe I suppressed many of my emotions and left something important behind.

    But now, at long last, I’ve come to understand what the teachings of Soka Gakkai truly aim for—
    To believe in the inherent Buddha-nature within all people, and to strengthen the heart to face adversity.
    These are not harmful teachings. I now see that clearly.

    To ignite the Buddha within, to let one’s soul resonate through chanting, to purify the malice within oneself—
    Such acts of prayer now make sense to me in a way they never did before.
    And yet, for the child I was, these teachings were not a “salvation,” but rather a form of pain.
    That is why I once chose to distance myself from religion and to walk a path of healing my own heart and body.

    Today, I hold no hostility toward religion. On the contrary, I am filled with deep gratitude for the faith that supported both my father and mother.
    Lately, I’ve started to make a habit of putting my hands together in prayer before meals, to express my appreciation for the blessings of food.
    It is through this understanding, I believe, that I can now feel such genuine gratitude to all of you here today.

    My father was a man who lived sincerely and honestly, supporting my mother and protecting our family.
    I wish to center my heart so that I may carry on the way he lived in my own journey through life.

    I would also like to take this moment to express my heartfelt thanks to my sister Ayaka and her family—Shigeyuki, Ayumu, and Kaze—for all the support they gave our parents.
    I know each of you is facing your own challenges, but I hope we can continue to help one another as a family and move forward together, one step at a time.

    Lastly, due to work, I spend about half of each month in Osaka.
    Because of that, I would be deeply grateful if you could continue to lend your support to my mother in the days ahead.
    Thank you once again for being with us until the very end today.

    After the cremation, my father finally returned home.
    Together with my mother, my wife, my sister, and her family, we shared an evening meal.
    It had been a week filled with emotional tension, but I felt that I had finally reached a turning point.
    A small measure of peace returned to my heart.

  • The Quiet of a Rainy Day, and a Day of Preparation

    Saturday, May 17th.
    It had been raining since the morning. I woke up past nine.
    When I went downstairs to the living room, my sister was showing our mother videos of her children taken at her house. My mother and sister appeared in the footage too. There were also clips from their visits to our home, including one where Canon was joyfully hopping around. My mother’s voice grew livelier. My sister knows how to lift her spirits.

    I had a late breakfast, took a shower, and sat back in my reclining chair. I turned on the fan, letting the breeze dry my wet hair. Folding my hands over my abdomen, I stared blankly at a single point in front of me.
    I wasn’t really looking at anything. The only sound was the hum of the fan.
    For a moment, it felt like time had stopped.
    Then I came to, and covered my face with my hands.
    There was still much to do today.

    My mother had been looking for a longer chain for the pendant that holds the ashes. I gave her the chain from the pendant that holds Canon’s ashes. I had already replaced mine with a handmade one.
    With my sister’s help, my mother was filling out the insurance claim paperwork.
    My father’s funeral is tomorrow.
    My wife, my sister’s husband, and her daughters will also be attending.
    Now that I think about it, I need to dye my hair soon. I’ve scheduled an appointment at the salon for tomorrow evening, after the funeral.

    At 1 PM today, a separate group of visitors was expected to see my father.
    At the same time, a member of the Soka Gakkai youth division, who will lead the funeral service, was scheduled to come to our home for a meeting.
    I left that to my mother and sister, both members of the Gakkai, and decided to meet the visitors at the funeral home instead.

    After finishing an early lunch, I got in the car.
    The rain had grown heavier since the morning, with large droplets streaming down the windshield.
    The trees lining Keyaki Street looked as though they were welcoming the rain with open arms.
    But the scent of the rain didn’t reach inside the closed car.

    Time never truly stops.
    But sometimes, it feels as though it does.
    And in those moments, perhaps something truly important quietly reveals itself.

  • Moving Forward, Step by Step

    Last night, I had dinner with a judicial scrivener and was able to discuss some technical matters. After that conversation, I’ve decided to move forward with transferring the ownership of the house to my mother. We’ll separate our household registration into two: my mother as a single household, and my wife and I as another. This should make it easier to receive support for caregiving and medical services in the future.

    I visited a local branch of the city hall to inquire about the paperwork. They told me that my father’s passing will be officially reflected in the family registry around mid-June. Until then, they advised me to list and organize the number and purpose of each document I’ll need in advance.

    By listing all the necessary procedures on my PC, step by step, I finally started to get a clearer picture of what needs to be done. It feels like I can breathe just a little easier now.

    I’m sorry that things have been hectic lately, and I haven’t been able to leave many words here on the blog. I’m truly grateful to everyone who continues to like my posts. I hope there will come a time, once things have settled down, when I can share more about how I’m feeling too.

    That’s all for today.