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On staying present when the world feels unsteady
I was ready to write a Sunday Stroll column.
Then I turned on the TV.
It was Saturday morning, and the news was filled with footage of bombings in Iran — and Iran’s retaliation. Anchors speaking in urgent tones. Maps. Fire. Words like escalation.
The mood for a Sunday Stroll felt … broken.
I wasn’t sure how appropriate it would be to write about a coffee shop in Shinjuku or a walk through Ginza with explosions looping in the background on CNN. Especially when those explosions may continue for weeks.
My nephew is in the Middle East right now as part of a Navy contingent. We are praying for him and his fellow shipmates. News like this always feels heavy, but when someone you love is in the region, it lands differently. It pulls the story closer. It makes it personal. It makes it scarier.
And yet — life doesn’t freeze.
It doesn’t pause itself until the headlines calm down. It keeps moving, whether we are ready or not. We owe it to ourselves to pay attention, to stay informed, to understand how these decisions ripple through real lives. But we also have to keep living our own.
Less than two weeks ago, Steve and I were in Japan at the tail end of our ski trip, wandering through Shinjuku with a couple of friends. No real agenda. Just walking, browsing, eating. Letting the city carry us.
Well — mostly no agenda. Steve insisted we go to a samurai theater show one morning. Loud. Colorful. Dramatic. He loved it. I loved watching him love it. Sometimes partnership is simply that — standing in someone else’s joy and letting it be enough.
We were about to head into Takashimaya — one of my favorite department stores in Asia, mostly for the basement food hall — when we spotted a coffee shop across the street. I needed the coffee. But more than that, I needed the pause.
Japanese coffee shops make me happy. The care. The presentation. The quiet hum of conversation. I had a latte and a slice of crepe cake, but what I really had was a moment to sit still with Steve and breathe.
Sometimes on a trip — much like in life — you need to stop moving long enough to absorb where you are. If I can do that, even briefly, whatever comes next feels more manageable.
Afterward we made our way to Ginza, determined to visit one more shop before seeing Julie and Dan off on their bus to Haneda. I’d forgotten how full Ginza can be — the crowds, the traffic, the constant motion. It is Tokyo’s heartbeat in many ways. Business. Entertainment. Commerce. Energy.
Shinjuku has its own pulse — pedestrian streets lined with restaurants and shops, lights stacked on lights, culture woven into every corner. Even when you’re just passing through, you feel it.
When it was time to leave, I felt that familiar tug — we could have stayed longer. Japan is like that. You never quite get enough. There is always another street, another meal, another moment waiting.
It is hard to believe that less than two weeks ago, that was our world. Coffee and department stores. Samurai shows and crowded sidewalks.
Now the backdrop feels heavier.
But here’s what I keep coming back to: Those lighter days are not frivolous. They are not naive. They are necessary.
We hold both.
We hold the worry for our nephew and the prayer for peace.
And to him, wherever he is tonight — we are thinking of you, and we love you.
We stay aware.
And we keep living.
Because life does not freeze — even when the world shakes.
And maybe the quiet act of taking a Sunday stroll, wherever we are, is its own small declaration of hope.
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