As the title proclaims, the voids experienced through the lens of grief were “loud, apparent, and jarring,” much like a bare plot that was once filled with blooms.

Since writing that piece, I’ve had the pleasure of glimpsing what a full bloom could feel and look like in the very places that had been bare. While the blooms didn’t quite survive as I had hoped, I learned something invaluable: just because the trees are bare doesn’t mean they’re dead, and there’s a season for everything.

Back in February, as I walked through Sengan-en Garden in Kagoshima, Japan, in awe of the early blooms, I came to appreciate the bareness of the trees. I witnessed and acknowledged the kind of effort, energy, and nutrients it takes to bloom and flourish.

My voids are still here; some plots remain bare, but what feels different at this juncture is that I’m blossoming in ways I never thought possible. And as I continue to blossom, I’m seeing how that’s becoming far more significant than the voids others have left behind. With this blossoming, I can only imagine how much more fulfilling it will be when those who, one day, fill the voids I can’t fill myself, arrive.

The answer was never you. The answer was always…me.

Towards the end of my time in Kobe, Japan, I scribbled in my notebook about creating a section on this blog to house my photography—something that could capture a place or an experience through my lens in a way that felt succinct and evocative. The idea was akin to summing up a thought or a feeling in just a few words, but instead, through images. I figuratively tucked this idea into my back pocket and flew to Kagoshima City on Kyushu Island the very next day.

Sometime later, on a quiet, peaceful Saturday morning, I was attempting to work through my writer’s block while engaged in parallel play. I paused, realizing just how much I wanted to encapsulate this moment forever—to revisit it when life inevitably became loud and busy again. And, of course, for the sake of nostalgia.

What triggered this was a profound, resounding sense of peace, security, and the quiet knowing that I was exactly where I needed to be. After months of giving everything I had to make things fall into place—only to see no results and feel directionless because of it—I found myself in a moment so effortless, so right, in the presence of someone who had always felt like home. But more than anything, it was how life had quietly led me here. For once, I wasn’t just convincing myself of that or using it as a means of self-soothing—I was living it. Seeing it play out in real time. Clarity like that is rare for me; I usually only find it in hindsight, after sitting with something for some time. And all of this—every feeling, every realization—was a defining moment.

At one point, I suggested to this person that we start a “memory capsule”—a place to document these tender moments, mostly in notes, something we could hold onto and carry forward. Later, once I returned home and finally broke through my writer’s block, it dawned on me: I wanted to evolve my photography project into something more intentional and meaningful. Something that didn’t just capture places and experiences visually, but also reflected the thoughts and emotions tied to them. That way, it would remain in alignment with my blog’s narrative-driven style—more than just images, but personal stories woven into them.

I don’t foresee myself producing these posts on a rigid schedule. Instead, I imagine them unfolding naturally—especially when I’m inspired or emotionally moved by revisiting a photo, a note, or a memory that sparks something worth sharing and carefully curating.

Of course, some moments will remain private for now. But maybe, one day, in a different time and place, I’ll be ready to share even those most intimate ones. In the meantime, I hope you’ll enjoy seeing the world through my eyes during this sabbatical.

For my first post, I look forward to bringing you the early blooms of Sengan-en—one of Japan’s most famous gardens, located in Kagoshima. I’ll also share what’s happening to the bare plots in my own garden, which, until recently, had remained unfilled for many, many years. Stay tuned.