Planting through grief

On September 15th, 2023, my dad passed away from cancer. I had been home in New Zealand for nearly three months, helping to care for him — one of the hardest and most precious times of my life. He was my steady supporter, my favourite DIY partner, and one of the biggest champions of this little business. We always talked shop.

The day after his funeral, I flew back to Japan. I didn’t feel ready — I wasn’t. But our shop was arriving, and life was moving on whether I was ready or not. When I got home, the shop had already been delivered. It had been plonked, unceremoniously, right in the middle of the garden. There it was, waiting.

We opened on November 1st. Between grief, jet lag, and the full weight of a new season ahead, I threw myself into work. It was both therapeutic and utterly overwhelming. I cried a lot in the garden. Quiet tears between digging and planting, pruning and hauling. And yet, somehow, the garden became the space where I could hold it all. The sorrow. The gratitude. The exhaustion. The beginning of something new.

My dad had visited Japan dozens of times over the years — always happy to help me with little projects, endlessly curious, always encouraging. Online, we called him Grandad in Japan. That name stuck. And now, this garden — the one we’re slowly shaping around the shop — is for him.

It’s dedicated to Grandad in Japan.

There’s still a deep void. But in the quiet hours, when I’m planting or sweeping or watching the light shift through the maki trees, I feel him nearby. Not in some dramatic way. Just… part of it. Part of the effort, the intention, the quiet joy of making something grow.

This blog, Under the Maki Trees, will be where I share the unfolding of the garden — both the physical one and, perhaps, the inner one too. You’re warmly welcome here.