Koyo is autumn. While the word simply translates to “red leaves,” it captures the fleeting yet timeless beauty of the season.

Koyo is color woven into festivities and culture; it is families and children lining up at the temple, offering silent prayers for strength, vitality, and good fortune as they grow. Koyo is breathing in the scent of kinmokusei and remembering old memories more than its blooms. It is the season of harvesting what was planted and enjoying its bounty. It is thanksgiving and preserving. It is beauty and abundance. It is the quiet serenity of nature that reassures us to live with hope through both joys and challenges.

In Japan, autumn is celebrated with the fruits and harvests of the season. Grapes, pears, and persimmons arrive in early autumn, while apples, kiwis, and mandarins become plentiful by mid-autumn and continue through winter. It is a time when one’s appetite is awakened by nature’s generous offerings—matsutake mushrooms, shinmai (new rice), sweet potatoes (ishiyaki imo), persimmons, chestnuts, ginkgo nuts, salmon, grilled Pacific saury (sanma), apples, oden, osake, Japanese pumpkins, and wagashi made from these ingredients. These dishes become staples that the Japanese eagerly await each year. Shokuyoku no Aki! Eat to your heart’s content!

Momijigari.
Every autumn, I have watched people sit for hours beneath fiery foliage, motionless, contemplating the beauty before them. I have joined walks and hikes around the mountains of Tokyo and nearby areas to hunt for autumn colors. My children once lay in piles of fallen leaves, embracing the gentle cuddle that Mother Nature gives. Schoolchildren and artisans use these leaves to create wreaths, paintings, baskets, and other long-lasting artwork. Momijigari, or autumn foliage hunting, is closest to the Japanese heart and soul. Often, just a glimpse of these brilliant leaves eases heartaches and leaves only gratitude. They stir warm memories with loved ones and transport us to unforgettable Koyo seasons past.

In this modern age, Tokyoites have become even more passionate about chasing autumn foliage. There is growing appreciation for how the younger generation seamlessly incorporates technology into nature’s beauty. Projection mapping, for instance, has transformed foliage viewing across Tokyo, blending art, light, and sound, using trees and landscapes as canvases. The result is a spectacular, immersive experience—an artform we can almost touch.

Showa Kinen Park in Tachikawa is one place I highly recommend visiting. Immerse yourself in this modern-art-infused visual wonder and feel the vibrant energy of today’s generation. See how the line of ginkgo trees glows like a mountain of gold from afar. Watch tiny lights—like fireflies and snowflakes—flutter through the momiji, turning the leaves into shades of blue, purple, and silver. As you move deeper into the experience, walk along a river where red and white carps seem to brush against your feet, follow drifting moonlight, or chase after a giant dragonfly. I was in such awe that it took several minutes for my jaw to return to its place before I could simply enjoy the cascade of delightful, surprising visuals unfolding one after another.

For a culture deeply rooted in tradition, this is a refreshing breath of air—where modern elegance meets old-world charm in one of the most beloved traditions of all time: Koyo in Tokyo.

Since moving to my beloved city here in Japan, I have been deeply impressed—and even thrilled—to discover, time and again, the hidden natural treasures that reveal themselves whenever I take a walk, explore a park, or wander into quiet corners of nature. These aren’t long-lost treasures, but living gifts of nature that the city has cared for and proudly preserved.

Streams! What’s so special about them?

Growing up in my hometown in the Philippines, streams were part of daily life. Behind our house flowed a large stream, its clear waters rushing toward the Guimaras Strait. It was alive—people fished there, children swam, and locals gathered food: fish, crabs, shrimp, alimango. My mother often bought fresh catches from fishermen passing by. Salt-making, fish ponds, and other small industries thrived around the stream and the surrounding marshlands. Life was simple, close to nature, and abundant.

But three or four decades later, the stream dried up and fell into a sorry state. Another decade passed, and it became just a muddy puddle, swallowed by rows of houses built right on its riverbed. The smell was unpleasant, the beauty gone, and worst of all, there seemed no hope of revival. I once saw a DPWH billboard announcing plans to build an esplanade and relocate the illegal houses—an effort to bring the stream back to life. But that billboard disappeared long ago, and so did the dream. The stream was left to die.

Here in Japan, though, the contrast is striking. Streams—no matter how small—are protected, cleaned, and nurtured. They are seen as valuable gifts of nature, never allowed to gather trash or stagnate. Some even have thoughtful structures built around them so the water can be enjoyed safely, where children and animals play freely. Parks grow along these waterways, with trees planted for shade, creating spaces where people and nature thrive together.

When my niece and her family visited last month, I brought them to one such stream just a few minutes’ walk from my home. The place is simply called The Water Park. There, we met Haru, a black golden retriever who adores children. My family instantly made a new friend, tossing a ball for Haru, laughing and shouting with joy: “Haru, catch!” “Haru, come here!” It was a scene so full of life that I realized—this is exactly why the Japanese care so deeply for their environment. They protect nature because they know it gives back joy, comfort, and life itself.

Like the song Islands in the Stream, streams connect land, life, and people. They nourish and protect us, and in return, ask only for our care. Let us not take them for granted. Protecting nature is not just our responsibility—it is our privilege.

Oh Shucks!

Imagine an ordinary day riding your battery-operated bicycle, just exploring the city on your way to the farmers market to pick up some fresh produce. You peek through the automated doors and feel a jolt of excitement at the sight of just-harvested vegetables. You name it—the shelves have it!

These are the proud offerings of the local farmers. You can even see them carrying their produce to the displays, gently arranging each item like fragile little babies a mother wouldn’t dare disturb in sleep. In fact, they make sure everything is nestled comfortably in long wooden beds. Their faces beam with so much pride. Each product is etched with the farmer’s name and details, leaving no doubt about who grew the food we’re lucky enough to enjoy.

The market is bursting with vibrant colors, shapes, and sizes—freshly picked cucumbers, eggplants, tomatoes of all varieties, new potatoes, sweet corn, juicy blueberries so crisp you’ll never look at supermarket ones the same way again. There are striped and plain zucchinis, green papayas still dripping with milky sap, organic eggs, homemade fruit wines, local ice cream, powdered ginger and ginseng, lemons, moroheya, alogbati, lettuce, freshly baked scones, plum jam, plum juice—even vegetables and fruits I’d never seen before. I couldn’t help but thank God for this abundance. Nature, the Creator, truly provides what we need.

But the day was still young. I decided to buy my veggies later and strolled across the market to the lotus pond nearby.

This pond is a source of deep pride for the city. It honors a local hero, Dr. Ichiro Oga, who discovered an ancient variety of lotus flower called the Oga Lotus—believed to be over 2,000 years old. During an archaeological dig by the Hanamigawa River in Chiba, Japan in 1951, Dr. Oga found three lotus seeds. He successfully germinated one, and thus, the Oga Lotus bloomed once more.

Near the pond stands a statue of Dr. Oga, with a plaque honoring his contribution. I felt incredibly moved, realizing that we are a privileged generation, able to enjoy a flower that bloomed when Jesus walked the earth. These enormous, bowl-like blossoms connect us to ancient times, and I could gaze at them for hours, lost in history and wonder.

Next, I wandered into the park behind the farmers market. By ten in the morning, the place was already vibrant with life. Gigantic zelkova trees lined the entrance, providing shade over a small makeshift stage. Children and their parents hurried to find seats under the trees, eager for the day’s show. In autumn, it might be a Japanese wadaiko drum performance. In winter, I’ve watched kamishibai—Japanese storytelling using beautifully illustrated cards pulled from wooden frames.

Today, a trained monkey and its expert trainer entertained the crowd with comedy and acrobatics, bringing laughter not only from children but also adults and passersby. My little ones would’ve loved this.

A short walk to the eastern side of the park brought me to a bustling wading pool. Families cooled off from the hot, humid summer as water cascaded down gently and fountains sprayed playful streams. Mist floated from the edges, and nearby were smaller colorful pools, cozy tents, and people sunbathing or relaxing under the shade. There was a sense of freedom and peace here—people just being themselves, enjoying nature. I felt deeply relaxed and in awe. The Japanese truly protect their environment, and they’re rewarded manyfold by nature’s generous gifts.

Right beside the tents that resembled giant mushrooms was the sweetest spot of all—Annabelle Hill! Imagine all of us, like butterflies flitting from bloom to bloom, accidentally bumping into fellow flower lovers busy snapping selfies. Everyone—young and old—was mesmerized by the stunning white hydrangeas. So fluffy, so pure, so heavenly.

And mind you, we’d only explored one side of the park.

There’s so much more to discover here. My heart brimmaed with gratitude, wonder, and awe—and yes, a little bit of sweat too! This is how locals live closely with nature, understanding the rhythms of the seasons and the purpose behind every flower and fruit. But more than feeding their bodies, they feed their souls through this sacred connection to nature. The food, the flowers, the pools, and the gardens nourish the whole city, and families thrive.

The Japanese love nature, and in return, Nature loves them back.

With this reflection in mind, I headed back to the farmers market to buy my produce. But to my dismay, I saw the farmers packing up. The shelves were already empty.

“All sold out!” one of them called cheerfully. “Come back again tomorrow for another fresh harvest. Sore ni, hayaku kite kudasai ne!”

Oh shucks!!!

Riding the shinkansen always gives me a certain thrill. It still boggles my mind how one can travel so comfortably and effortlessly at 285 km/h. (Just imagine a jeepney going 90 km/h—you’d be clutching the rails for dear life, right?) And this time, the excitement was doubled because I was traveling with close friends to a place none of us had ever been before.

We were headed to Yama No Ie, a small lodging nestled deep within the forested mountains of Shizuoka, Japan’s largest green tea-producing region. But tea wasn’t what brought us here. We came in search of sanctuary—a quiet refuge far away from the rush, noise, and endless commotion of city life. It felt like a pilgrimage, a retreat into nature to find silence, stillness, and peace.

We came prepared, carrying food supplies for two days, excited to explore the surrounding forest and visit the meditation spots just downhill from the cottage. But—oh yes!—I forgot to mention: the weather forecast had predicted heavy rain for our entire stay.

The caretaker who greeted us was a cheerful lady who gave us a warm tour of the place. “The house is big,” she said, laughing. “So enjoy yourselves indoors. It’s going to rain until tomorrow.” Then, with a grin, “Too bad you won’t see Mt. Fuji... Oh, and be sure to lock the doors so you don’t get any unexpected visitors—by that, I mean insects.”

Phew.

The lodging house used to be an old school building, later renovated into a summer camp lodge for kids and youth. Our room was spacious enough for the four of us to lay our futons side by side, perfect for late-night whispers, throwback stories, and songs from our younger days. We sang tunes that once inspired us back when we were young, idealistic volunteers fresh out of college—years (or was it decades?) ago.

Eventually, the reminiscing quieted. My three friends drifted off to their own dreamlands, while I stayed up alone, writing in the wide ante-room. Feeling the exhaustion slowly creeping in, I finally stood up to stretch and prepare for bed when—

I saw it.

A fast-moving creature made its way toward me, and I knew instantly what it was—and what it could do. I instinctively raised a slipper. Not to squash it—it was way too huge for that—but to defend myself. It was the biggest I had ever seen. I shouted, “Tomomi! Wake up! Help! It’s heading toward the bedroom!” Without missing a beat, Tomomi jumped up, looked it straight in the eye—if it had one—grabbed a slipper, and swiftly shooed it away. It scurried out through the gap beneath the door. It was a centipede. More than 20 cm long. Red and black, thick, crawling with way too many legs—and way too much confidence.

The next morning, when we told the caretaker about our night-time terror, she brushed it off with a laugh. “Ah, that’s just mountain life! That must’ve been a very impressive centipede—must be the pure water from Mt. Fuji and the rich Shizuoka soil.” I was still traumatized, but I had to admire her cheerfulness. And we were grateful—it could have been a snake!

Expecting another rainy day indoors, we were overjoyed to see bright sunlight pouring through the windows early the next morning. The rain had retreated, perhaps satisfied after its night-long performance. With camera in hand, I explored the grounds, the caretaker happily guiding me along.

Walking under the canopy of white, pink, and dark pink ume blooms just a couple of weeks ago, I couldn’t help but feel a little downhearted at the thought that not many people today are aware of and appreciate these classic blossoms that have long been at the heart and soul of the Japanese psyche. While it’s unsurprising that these flowers have inspired both nobility and ordinary Japanese alike to immortalize them in songs, poetry, novels, and books, somewhere along the eras following the Nara period, the once-revered ume has been overshadowed by the more popular sakura.

But let me share another side of this timeless ume—one that some of us may not have encountered while living in the Land of the Sourest Ume.

Refreshing Wine and Healthy Drink

While sakura petals flutter away with the wind, ume blossoms transform into little green plums, ready for harvesting. Many plums fall before they fully mature, as the trees can only sustain so many. This natural process provides the perfect source for making wines and other refreshing beverages.

I recall our early days in Japan when my children’s kindergarten introduced them to ume picking. The school had a vast ume orchard next to a charming chapel, and the kids came home with grocery bags full of green plums—too sour to eat, too young to ripen. I had no idea what to do with them at the time! Looking back, I now realize that, for Japanese mothers, those green plums were gold.

Nowadays, I wish I owned an ume orchard so I could make enough plum wine to last a whole year! I prepare ume wine with alcohol for my husband and a non-alcoholic version for myself and my grandkids. Through this tradition, I’ve discovered the many health benefits of drinking ume wine and its non-alcoholic counterpart daily.

The Umeboshi as a Superfood

Umeboshi, the pickled plums gathered in late spring and early summer, are a staple in traditional Japanese breakfasts. Packed with essential minerals that boost endurance and strength, umeboshi are commonly eaten with rice in the first meal of the day.

Obento boxes are often decorated with umeboshi, either placed on top of rice or as a flavorful filling in onigiri. These pickled plums not only enhance the taste but also prevent food from spoiling and protect the body from dehydration during the hot summer months. They replenish essential salts and minerals, combat fatigue, and boost energy levels.

Whenever flu or sickness strikes at home, okayu (rice porridge) with a large umeboshi is the go-to remedy. Not only does it whet the appetite, but it also revitalizes the body and spirit—often resulting in an instant smile from the patient.

The health benefits of this superfood cannot be overstated. Historical records mention how salt-pickled umeboshi have been used to reduce fever, ease coughing, and counteract nausea. They are also believed to alkalinize the body, aid digestion, eliminate toxins, and process excess sugar and alcohol—making them a well-known hangover cure. While the West swears by the saying, “An apple a day keeps the doctor away,” the Japanese version might as well be, “An umeboshi a day keeps the doctor away.”

Beyond pickling, ume has seamlessly integrated into Japanese cuisine. From ume-flavored udon and soba to ume pasta, jams, spreads, candies, cakes, salts, sauces, and dressings—this fruit has been a treasured part of Japanese culture for centuries.

Gazing at Plum Blooms With Different Eyes

As I admire the plum blossoms this spring, I no longer see just their fleeting beauty. Instead, I look at them with gratitude, hope, and anticipation for all the benefits they bring to both body and soul. Truly, they are a manifestation of the wisdom and artistry of our Creator—a miracle to be appreciated in every form.

One type of bloom that fascinates and sparks curiosity during the coldest months of the year is the mid-winter flowering tree the Japanese call roubai. Its name means “candle-like,” referring to the waxy texture of its petals—plump, shiny, and luminous. These blooms may appear delicate, but they are surprisingly solid and sturdy to the touch.

Belonging to the plum family, roubai stands out not only because of its vibrant yellow hue but, more so, for its sweet, intoxicating fragrance. The scent fills the crisp winter air, guiding you like a compass as you make your way to a roubai orchard.

Close your eyes and imagine holding a scented candle. The fragrance of roubai is akin to the sampaguita, but stronger and more pronounced. It also evokes the richness of ilang-ilang or tropical jasmine varieties.

What’s in a scent? It’s widely believed—and scientifically proven—that aromatherapy can be a powerful path to healing. Essential oils derived from flowers and other parts of plants can uplift the spirit. Floral scents, in particular, create a natural energy that boosts happiness, increases confidence, and reduces feelings of stress, anxiety, and agitation.

Perhaps this is why so many Japanese make it a point to visit roubai orchards in the middle of winter. Amid icy temperatures and snow-covered landscapes, these radiant and fragrant blooms emerge as beacons of beauty and balm for the soul.

This winter, I find myself once again drawn to the roubai blooms at Kyodo Forest Park. As I walk slowly and meditatively along the roubai-lined path, I pass a few couples enjoying the scene. Overhearing a conversation between two of them, I couldn’t help but smile:

The woman said, “We used to travel up north just to see these blooms and savor their lovely scent before spring arrived…”
The man replied, “I’ll never tire of their fragrance. It brings back so many memories.”

How can one not become scentimental?