An annual cat-costume parade and event centered on bakeneko — supernatural or “monster cats” in Japanese folklore.
It’s held in mid-October in the Kagurazaka neighborhood of Tokyo.
The concept is tied to folklore about cats acquiring magical or supernatural powers (bakeneko).
12oct25
11oct25
Kathmandu moves in a time zone of its own—one that can’t be measured in minutes or hours, but in pauses and detours. They call it “Nepali time.” A bus scheduled for ten might leave at noon.
At first, it’s so maddening. Coming from what most people might call “real world time,” I am now in the habit of asking for clarification. “When you say ‘5 minutes,’ do you mean 5 Nepali minutes or 5 real minutes?” And they always smile and laugh because they know. They know exactly what I’m talking about. It could be anywhere from 15 minutes to an hour. But the more I sit here, the more my watch feels unnecessary. Around me, no one else seems rushed. Conversations stretch, and laughter lingers. The city itself seems unconcerned with deadlines.
“Nepali time” isn’t lateness—I’ve figured it out – it’s permission. Permission to breathe, to let go of the timers, to live inside the moment instead of sprinting toward the next. The confusion comes only if I expect it to match the world I came from. But Kathmandu doesn’t match. It resists.
And maybe that’s the lesson: time isn’t something to chase. It’s already here, in the stillness, in the waiting, in the unhurried steps of a city that refuses to be ruled by the clock.
September 2025
I picked up a copy of The Alchemist in a bookshop here in Kathmandu today. It wasn’t my first encounter with Paulo Coelho’s story of a shepherd in search of his destiny. Years ago, when I was living in Orlando, a friend had gifted me the book, telling me it was her favorite. Out of gratitude, I started reading it — but it didn’t land. The words felt distant, the lessons vague, the journey unrelatable. I put it down.
Fast forward four or five years. I was sleeping on a friend’s couch in Massachusetts, the ground shifting beneath me as I prepared to leave for a new life in Tokyo. Something compelled me to pick up the book again. This time, it was like reading another text entirely. The parable that had once seemed flat became profound, each page echoing with truths I hadn’t been ready to hear before. That second reading was life-changing.
And now, in Kathmandu, with two weeks left before I return to Japan after so many years, I found myself carried — almost otherworldly — into a bookstore. My hands landed on The Alchemist again. It wasn’t nostalgia. It wasn’t chance. It felt necessary.
That’s the thing about books: they resonate when we need them to. They wait quietly on shelves until the moment our lives align with their message. Sometimes we’re not ready, sometimes we’re not listening, but when the timing clicks, the words feel as though they were written solely for us.
For me, The Alchemist has become less about Santiago’s treasure and more about the reminder that stories meet us where we are. Orlando. Massachusetts. Tokyo. Kathmandu. Different chapters of my life, the same book, yet never the same reading.
Maybe that’s why I had to buy it again here. Because the story — like my own — is still unfolding.
September 2025
4september25
September 2025
September 2025
September 2025
September 2025
Two Birds at the Window
This afternoon , I noticed two birds outside my window. Just two, perched casually, like they had stopped in mid-flight to remind me of something I had forgotten.
I’ve always believed that when the world pauses long enough for you to notice it, it’s not random. It’s a message, a sign, a gentle omen.
I felt this was some kind of sign, so I researched it more. Birds have always carried symbolism across cultures. They are messengers, travelers, free spirits who cross borders without passports. To see two of them, side by side, is to see companionship, balance, and possibility embodied.
For me, their presence says: the path you are walking is not a solitary one. Opportunities and connections are circling. Blessings are doubled. Whatever weight you carry, it doesn’t have to be carried alone.
But beyond any symbolism, there’s the simple fact that I noticed. That my eyes looked up and rested on something so ordinary that it became extraordinary. That’s what an omen often is—not magic in the sky, but meaning we find in the everyday.
Two birds outside the window, reminding me to stay open, to trust, and to remember that companionship, in all its forms, is already here or just about to arrive.
September 2025
