Beginning, Gently
Finding rhythm, belonging, and stillness in Kyoto
“What led me here? What am I hoping to find in this next chapter?” These are the questions I've been asking myself lately. This letter is an answer.
A Place That Kept Calling
The plan to move to Kyoto wasn’t a lightning bolt in the night. It was a slow pull. A series of quiet signals that accumulated over the last 9 years. My wife, Chie, grew up here. Her friends and family were always a strong pull and whilst living in Tokyo, we would visit often. Especially around New Years to mark the turning of the year, visit temples and fill our bellies with delicious home-cooked food. It was a time of year that holds many happy memories for us both.
But for years, Kyoto was a place to visit — not settle in. A place to soak up the peaceful atmosphere for a few days before returning to the big smoke. Praying that the calming effect it always had on me would last. Of course the world's busiest train station, awaiting us in Tokyo, quickly diminished that calming effect.
Leaving the City (Again)
I've spent far too many years living in monolithic cities. Seoul, Tokyo, London. Mainly because it always felt like I should. Last year I wrote a letter called Leaving the City which summed up my desire to finally get away from the hustle and bustle and move to the countryside. I wrote that I always felt drawn to cities because "that's where all the jobs are, right?". But in these last few years, I kept dreaming of something simpler, something quieter. A life made of smaller pieces.
I vividly recall cycling through Kyoto last spring, a few months before I wrote Leaving the City, noticing how the light hit the temple roofs. How the air held a softness. How people seemed to move differently. Something clicked, though possibly I wouldn’t have called it that at the time. It wasn't until a few months after that visit that we finally made the decision to do what our hearts had been telling us for many years.
We decided to stop visiting. Kyoto would become home.
It was, in equal measure, about the place itself and who I imagined I could become here.
I should probably take a second here to address the glaring fact that I've spent all that time thinking and writing about Leaving the City and then up and moved to.... yet another city. The irony is certainly not lost on me. However, the thing that draws me to Kyoto is that your relationship with, and how often you need to spend time in, the city city can very much be reduced to almost nothing. You can spend all of your time basking in the backstreets; complete with their tiny gardens, small coffee shops and sleepy rivers running amongst the houses. Also, Kyoto has strict rules on the height of buildings, so you won't find megalithic skyscrapers here thank goodness. It's a city only in name. It feels very different.
A Life with More Texture
Over the years, I came to the realisation that I wanted less noise. Less urgency. More walks and more stillness. I just wasn't going to find that in London.
One thing I didn’t come here for is adventure. I came for routine. I came here to settle, after years of feeling unmoored; drifting between places, always halfway between staying and going. I’m choosing slow walks along the river in the morning, the rustle of leaves and cicadas chirping outside the window. Quiet cycle rides through the neighbourhood in the evening as the light fades. I came for the kind of days that maybe aren't so popular on Instagram. The days that shape you quietly.
Couldn't I do that in the English countryside? Possibly. But living in Kyoto allows me to have as much connection with arts and culture as I want or need; something still really dear to Chie and I. And a train journey from the countryside of the UK into London versus a cycle ride into the centre of Kyoto are two very different experiences indeed.
Right Plant, Right Place
I also recently wrote an article called Pressing Reset: Why I'm Starting Over in Kyoto but looking back I feel that was a strong title. With a bit of time I’ve come to see this move as a replanting. Leaning into the idea of "right plant, right place" — a popular mindset in the gardening world. Introduced by the brilliant gardener and garden designer Beth Chatto.
“We lost too many plants in our impatience to possess them, because we had not achieved the proper growing conditions.”
— Beth Chatto
This move is about finding the right conditions to grow, and to refine. To write. To compose. To build a rhythm that suits me, not the clock. A year from now, I hope I’m still moving slowly and steadily, but with roots a little deeper.
I aim to build a more balanced life which prioritises writing, music, a love of making coffee, and build a web of social connections that build on those pillars.
What I Brought With Me
I brought my notebooks. My curiosity. My love of craftsmanship. I brought all the quiet lessons that came from living on a boat — where space was tight but silence was easy. Those four years taught me that I don’t need much. Just time, attention, and a place where I can put down roots.
I chose not to bring: urgency, comparison, jealousy, a Fear Of Missing Out. I left behind the noise of the algorithm and the creeping feeling that I was late to something.
First Signs I Belonged
It’s not the landmarks that hit me upon arrival — I've yet to even step foot in the grounds of Kinkakuji — but what struck me most is the softness of the air. The quiet crunch of bike tyres over stone. The unmistakable sound of the crosswalks in Kyoto. The scent of breakfast being prepared drifting from open doorways on our morning walks. I’ve finally arrived in a place I already partly knew.
A few days ago I walked over to the local shrine; Koga-jinja. And as I entered I clapped and bowed before I crossed the threshold, as is tradition here in Japan. I thought to myself: “This is it. Not a grand arrival, but a gentle one.”
This doesn't feel like a holiday anymore. The first sign I was in the right place was sitting in one of the cities’ lovely cafes, Cafe Bamboo with its beautiful back garden. A small wooden teahouse structure sits at the back, above a small river with koi calmly floating through. The wind was blowing, shaking the bamboo trees gently. The sun shone down on this quiet scene and I knew this was where I should be.
Back in London, writing about this kind of stillness felt like a dream. Now, I'm living it. And with any luck, this is the kind of soil I’ll grow well in.
Thank You + Support
Thank you for walking with me as this next chapter begins. Does any of this resonate with where you are right now?
If this letter resonates with you and you’d like to support my work here in Kyoto — you can explore my music on Bandcamp.
🍃 SJF
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