Part 5: Absorbing What the Journey Has Offered

There’s always a moment near the end of a long trip when the pace finally shifts. The urgency to see and do begins to soften, the novelty becomes familiar, and I start to feel the weight of everything I’ve taken in. That’s where I found myself during the last stretch of this visit to Japan—somewhere between the final workshops and the quiet recognition that soon I’d be heading home.

This trip carried two distinct chapters: twelve days of moving through Japan completely on my own, and then ten days of the sashiko retreat surrounded by people who love this craft as deeply as I do. They were different kinds of experiences, but they have begun to braid themselves together in ways I’m only now starting to understand.

During the solo part of the journey, I felt myself becoming more capable day by day. My first trip in 2017 was guided—I was with people who knew the train systems, the neighborhoods, the unwritten rules. This time, I was the one navigating unfamiliar train transfers, figuring out bus routes, choosing which side streets to follow just because they looked interesting. Some days I walked miles simply because my instincts said, “Go a little farther this way.”

I found myself drawn back to memories from previous trips in unexpected ways. I thought about our first Tokyo stay near the Meguro River, how that path imprinted itself on me and still surfaces at random moments. I thought about cherry blossom season in 2023, that feeling of being part of something delicate and fleeting, and how that sense of impermanence has shaped the way I see travel. This time, there were echoes of those earlier visits everywhere—familiar sounds, familiar colors, familiar sensations—but layered with a new confidence that felt earned.

And then everything shifted again once the sashiko retreat began. The independence of the first twelve days made room for a different kind of learning—collaborative, shared, and rooted in community. Sitting in workshops across Chuo City, Shinjuku, Takayama, and Omiya, I realized that the lessons weren’t just in the stitching. They were in the conversations that drifted across tables, the ways people compared notes or held up their work for feedback, the collective patience that naturally settles into a room full of stitchers.

There were small moments that stayed with me: the gentle guidance from teachers who have spent decades refining their craft; the look of concentration on someone’s face as they started a new pattern; the laughter that bubbled up when we miscounted, misread, or misunderstood something together. Even something as simple as watching how someone else held their needle or arranged their fabric gave me new ways of thinking about my own practice.

By the time we reached Takayama—the quieter mountain chapter of the retreat—I felt like the pace of the trip and the pace of sashiko had synced up. The days were slower, but fuller. Learning about boro with Keiko Futatsaya, hearing the history of kogin from a historian who has spent years documenting it, standing in front of a roomful of furoshiki pieces created by artists who stitch with intention and heart—each experience added another layer to what I was carrying.

And then there was the part I didn’t expect: realizing that others were genuinely moved by the work I brought with me. It’s one thing to stitch alone in Oregon, and another thing entirely to share your work with people in the place where this tradition has been nurtured for generations. Their reactions were a reminder that connection is not always verbal—it often happens in the quiet exchanges that need no translation.

As the retreat days blended into travel days again, I found myself replaying the small details: the way morning light hit the mountains in Takayama, the steady hum of Shinjuku Station, the softness of old textiles in the workshops, the conversations over meals, the moment I realized I felt at home navigating a city I once found overwhelming.

Absorbing all of this has required its own kind of slowness. On the train rides between cities, I would scroll through photos or flip through my notes, trying not to lean too quickly into “what does all of this mean?” but simply letting the impressions settle. I’m still doing that now. Everything I’ve learned—about sashiko, about travel, about myself—feels like it needs room to breathe before it becomes anything else.

This trip wasn’t just about learning new techniques or visiting new places. It was about noticing the threads that connect those experiences: the independence of exploring alone, the collective energy of stitching with others, the deep cultural roots of the craft, and the personal stories that inevitably surface when I give myself time to reflect.

Part 6 will explore the return home—how all of these lessons begin to take shape once I’m back in Oregon, and how I hope to carry them into my practice and into Parallel Threads. But for now, I’m staying inside that soft space where the journey is still unfolding, trusting that the understanding will come in its own time, stitch by stitch.