Part 6: Returning Home & Looking Ahead

Coming home this time felt different, and not only because of the emotional weight of the trip. On my last day in Japan, I felt the first signs of a cold forming—just enough to make me wonder if my body had finally realized how much I had asked of it over the previous three weeks. Once I landed back in Oregon, the fatigue hit fully. I spent the first few days drifting between deep sleep and quiet wakefulness, sleeping half the day without apology. It wasn’t how I imagined the transition home would feel, but in its own strange way, the enforced rest became a kind of buffer—a gentle pause between immersion and reintegration.

Instead of diving straight into stitching or project planning, I found myself moving slowly, letting my mind process while my body healed. The quiet gave me the chance to reconnect digitally with people I had met across Japan, to check on the friends I made in Takachiho and the retreat participants who were scattered across the U.S. and abroad, also landing softly back into their own routines. It gave me time to write these blog posts while the memories were still warm at the edges. And it allowed me to unpack my treasures with intention rather than urgency.

One afternoon, in a rare burst of energy, I opened my suitcase and began sorting the items I had carried home. It felt a little like unrolling a personal archive—each piece layered with history, utility, and human touch. Among the most meaningful finds were the antique garments whose stitching tells the true story of sashiko’s origins. Before sashiko became something admired for its beauty, it existed to strengthen, reinforce, and extend the life of clothing. Ornamentation came later; survival was the first priority. Seeing these garments up close—the worn fibers, the layered thread, the evidence of countless repairs—pulled that history into the present. They are physical reminders of the resilience and resourcefulness that shaped the tradition long before it reached contemporary hands.

I also brought home sashiko-filled furoshiki, some with a family’s name embedded into the stitching—tiny details carrying lineages of care. These pieces feel like stories I’m borrowing but responsible for tending. They make me think about the women and men who once tied and untied them, about how cloth can hold identity as surely as memory does.

As I spread everything out across my worktable—vintage samples, practice cloths from the retreat, new tools, indigo-dyed fabrics, kogin guides—I felt the familiar pull of wanting to start making something immediately. But the slower pace of these days has been its own form of practice. Rest has a way of clarifying things. Ideas rise more gently when there is space between them.

What lingers most strongly isn’t a single technique or lesson, but the cumulative effect of moving through Japan twice on this trip—once on my own terms, and once within a community of stitchers. The solo portion taught me independence, trust, and curiosity. The retreat showed me lineage, connection, and the shared language of craft. Together they form something that feels larger than the sum of their parts.

Now that my energy is returning, I feel myself shifting from reflection into intention. I want to explore how these antique garments can be integrated into future education projects—how they can help me communicate sashiko’s origins in a way that is tangible, not theoretical. I want to experiment more with the grids and pattern concepts I learned in Shinjuku, and to bring the spirit of kogin into my work with respect and clarity. I want to create pieces that hold both tradition and my own emerging voice.

But I don’t feel the urgency I might have felt in years past. The slower reentry has given me a better rhythm. I don’t need to force these ideas into being. They will form as I continue stitching, teaching, sharing, and listening. For now, it’s enough to know that the trip is still unfolding inside me—that the threads I gathered across villages, studios, museums, and conversations are slowly weaving themselves into whatever comes next.

Recovery has been its own unexpected teacher. It reminded me that assimilation takes time, that inspiration settles slowly, and that rest is not the absence of progress but the quiet groundwork for it. As I move forward, I’m holding onto that pace. I’m ready to return to my projects with clearer eyes and a steadier hand, carrying with me the stories—mine and others’—that continue to shape this journey.