Timber and Time

It’s the afternoon of our second day in Japan, and the weather couldn’t be more perfect: a sunny sky, a warm breeze, and our first 13k+ walk.

So far, I’ve seen so many new things that it’s hard to process them all at once. In fact, I still can’t quite believe I’m in Japan. But among everything, one thing in particular has caught my attention:

The tiny houses.

I was amazed not only by how small they are compared to those in Australia, but also by the multiple designs, forms, shapes — I could even say flavours. It was unbelievable.

I guess after photographing so many houses over the past few years, my eyes are naturally drawn to them. And what I saw here was simply beautiful.

Japan is, of course, known for its architecture. But this time, I found myself captivated by the old and the classic.

So, as an improvised project, I began photographing the older houses that spoke to me. The ones that felt familiar, almost like the ones I might have seen as a kid back in the '90s.

I was pleasantly surprised by how much wood was used. Sure, I had heard about it, but seeing it in person was something else—especially in a world so dominated by cladding and render. I loved all the details: some homes in pristine condition, others worn by time. The tones of the timber and surrounding materials gave each house a unique character.

Over this trip, those houses made me reflect on how we live. Back in Colombia, I lived in an apartment—and that was normal. Then I moved to Australia, where living in a house is more common. I haven’t lived in the U.S., but I understand homes there are often even larger. And in Japan? They’re tiny, but enough.

It made me wonder: is this how we see wealth? The bigger the home, the more successful we appear? But then I thought — with more space comes more chores, more maintenance, more to worry about. It’s not necessarily better, just different. I don’t think there’s a right or wrong answer here. Maybe it just depends on what your heart tells you, and who you want to share that space with. But one thing is certain: tonight, most of us will have a roof over our heads, and that alone is something to be grateful for. And when the sun rises, the small comforts we often overlook — like a warm bed and a soft pillow — will still be there to greet us.

So tomorrow morning, I plan to pause for a moment, to notice those simple things. I’ll thank my pillow, my bed, and, as I head out the door, the house that quietly sheltered me once again.

I know they’re just things, and they won’t care. But as long as I care, I believe I’ll feel more grounded in myself and in this strange, shared reality.

I don’t think this post has much to say—but maybe something to see. And I’m glad all those years of practice helped me notice a few quiet moments worth capturing — even as we kept walking.