They say figs are the sweetest fruit, and perhaps it was the fig, not the apple, that tempted Eve. It was fig leaves, after all, she chose to cover herself. I too would be more tempted by a sultry fig.

In Japan’s seasonal almanac, this is a sacred hinge.
 A turning inward. 
A breath held before the descent. Insects burrow underground. 
Fields are drained for harvest. The world quiets, and so do we.

When I met Koga-san — a teacher whose sensibility, reverence, and rhythm mirror my own — something opened. With her, tea became not just a study, but a language. A conversation. A devotion. The one I had longed for.

The salon is a home for many homages: my mother’s table, Hanako’s pottery, cherry and camphor woods. And there, in the heart of it all, hangs Yuki’s noren curtain woven from local vines.

Last summer, I stood in a covered alcove of a barn in rural Vermont, holding a block of cherry wood, watching my mother work. Seventy-five years old, her hands weathered and strong — shaped by a lifetime.

We cross cultures not to dilute, but to deepen. We travel not to borrow — but to belong. More fully to ourselves. More gently to each other. More completely to the moment at hand.

In Japanese, dokudami is also called jūyaku — “ten medicines.” Not a literal count, but a poetic truth. For generations, it has been used to cleanse, soothe, and restore — brewed as tea, steeped into baths, or applied to skin.

June arrives soft and swollen with rain. Tsuyu season — plum rains — breaks open with claps of thunder and settles into a steady thrum. The air hangs heavy with the scent of something ancient.

Tuesdays are now my favorite day because each Tuesday, Hana Greer and Héctor Barrantes Montes, the architects who designed the Mirukashi salon building, make a site visit to track progress and take photos.

The priest chanted, requesting permission to build, and we each approached the altar to pray. Then I, Hanako, one of our architects Hana, and the contractor all took turns enacting breaking ground.