Letters from Higo 📮🇯🇵

Dear Moon,

Almost three weeks ago, I was in Tokyo. Orientation was a relentless – workshops, endless introductions, and a constant buzz of energy that made everything feel overwhelming and exciting. We wore business suits in the August heat, shuffling between conference rooms and icebreakers, laughing with strangers who already felt like friends. It was exhausting, but also strangely comforting – a small reminder that none of us were stepping into this alone. Three days of pure chaos, yet somehow we still managed to slip out into the city. Between late nights and early mornings, we explored just enough to feel like we were really here.

And then, just as quickly as it began, it was over. Everyone scattered to their prefectures, and I landed in Kumamoto.

Since then, I’ve moved into my apartment – very slowly. Unpacking felt surreal: dragging suitcases up unfamiliar stairs, staring at bare walls that were supposed to become “home.” For a while, it didn’t feel like mine at all. But little by little, with each trip to the 100-yen store, each small purchase of soap, curtains, or snacks, the apartment began to soften. It started to take on my shape. I also discovered that rural Japan isn’t always quiet at night.

I was given a week of “special leave,” a strange pause between arrival and the true beginning. I thought I’d spend it being productive, but instead it became a week of quiet wandering. Supermarkets. Side streets. The little things that catch you off guard — how to sort garbage properly, how to get warm water from the faucet, how to find the nearest store without getting lost. I learned how to read a washing machine I couldn’t understand, that cicadas are louder than any alarm clock, and that Japanese summer nights can be very still.

That stillness broke with my first summer festival. Lanterns hung low, painting the evening in warm light. Food stalls lined the streets, filling the air with the smell of yakitori, sweet shaved ice, and something frying that I never managed to identify. Drums thundered, dancers moved in circles, and children darted through the crowd clutching candy apples. I didn’t understand the words, but I understood the rhythm. For one night, I wasn’t just watching, I was swept into the current. Quite literally, too, when the festival was cut short by heavy rain, leaving sand and water everywhere. Still, standing under those lanterns with new friends – some ALTs, some not – it felt like a beginning.

And now, I find myself here: at my desk in school. My desk. It feels odd to even write that. Right now it’s covered with neatly stacked papers and supplies, but it feels more like a symbol than a workspace. For now, it’s a lot of paperwork, introductions, and watching. I’m not teaching yet – just observing, introducing myself, trying to learn about the place where I’ll spend the next year. It feels like easing into hot water, testing the warmth before diving in. The students peek curiously as they pass by. Some wave shyly, some whisper. And I wonder what they’ll think of me when I finally step to the front of the classroom.

I’ve realized I’m caught in a strange in-between. I’m not completely new anymore, but I’m not settled either. This “in-between” is part excitement, part hesitation. But maybe that’s how it’s supposed to be: a slow warming, a gentle transition instead of a leap.

And that’s okay. Because growth takes time.

with cicadas still buzzing in the background,

Ari