It was in late winter when I stayed in a small village called “Meji.” Everything was frozen and set down so quietly. This place was surrounded by mountains, valleys and small, cultivated lands. At that time, I was overwhelmed by the cumulated pressure from personal transitions. I sort of felt released by the rural tranquility. Every day I strolled down a path though a forest and I walked over cropped and burnt fields. Sometimes I stood still on the frosted desolate land in the early morning. The silence of these moments brought me to face the inner self.
I was staring at straw laying down here and there. Pulled and snapped straw was scattered atop ashes. Their ocher bodies contrasted against the black field. Thin reeds and bare branches on the slope of cultivated field were tangled with them. The images of these agitated scenes soaked into myself and resonated. The strokes of straw slashed my mind.
It hurt, so I took them.