The word “culture” is shorthand for a society’s way of life, its traditions, its values. It is inherently a generalization. Whenever we visit a new place, all of its differences are highlighted. As a tourist, it’s very easy to notice the things that seem “better” than your culture. But as a resident, I’ve also come to notice all the things that feel “worse.” I found myself blaming the culture whenever I was frustrated.

Generalizing doesn’t get me anywhere, and I gain nothing by blaming what I can’t change. I know it’s my responsibility to adapt to these differences, even if it’s very difficult. And it is. It requires unlearning what I have learned. It requires rethinking things I took for granted. It requires finding the unique way for me to fit into it all.

A few years ago, before I moved here, I was able to identify three things that consistently make any day a good day: good people, good food, and good work. It’s not a checklist, but it is a useful diagnostic tool for me. Something to check on when I have good and bad days to understand why they were good or bad.

After a couple of bad days recently, I consciously tried to let go of both my expectations and the expectations others have of me, and I suddenly had a string of great days where I spent time with people I really care about, ate absolutely delicious food, and produced work I am very proud of.

As a metaphorical victory lap after rediscovering what I know is important to me, I went to a nearby art gallery with the intention of viewing artwork by Clifton Karhu, a Finnish-American ukiyo-e artist who moved to and lived in Japan until his death, for over 50 years. Karhu is one of my favorite artists and an inspiration to me.

I slid open the door, stepped in, and became slightly panicked, realizing it was more of an art dealer kind of gallery rather than an exhibition space kind of gallery. A couple of friendly faces appeared. They asked me how Clifton Karhu entered my life. I briefly explained that through drawing hundreds of emoji for a client, I stumbled into learning about hanafuda, falling in love with Karhu’s interpretation, a bold, graphic style unlike any other. They smiled and said how unusual it was for someone find him that way.

I removed my shoes, and stepped up onto the tatami floor. We went upstairs. They brought me some tea. Then they opened an enormous folio full of Karhu’s ukiyo-e, most of which I have never seen before in my life. Actually, besides his hanafuda, which I was lucky enough to find, it’s the first time I’ve seen any of his art in person. It was transcendent. I didn’t know what to say, I didn’t know what to do. I just wanted to stay there forever.

I purchased an original 1976 Ōtsu-e-style woodblock print (amazingly, #1 of 100) depicting Raijin, the god of thunder, who rather embarrassingly dropped his very important taiko, trying to fish it out from up in the clouds. Incidentally, this same scene is often depicted in hanafuda on a November-suited card. (In Karhu’s own deck, it’s a self-portrait.)

In English, this reads, “It hurts the face to lose what you need.” In Japanese, it reads, 「かんじんのたいこをとんとんおとしたるかみなりとのゝなりのわるさよ」 which roughly means, “Raijin looks so undignified after dropping his most-important drum!”

This piece is casual, playful, and atypical compared to his more elegant, unbelievably vibrant landscapes and scenes of Japanese life, architecture, and seasons.

In the last 24 hours, I’ve thought about it a lot: what it says, what it is, what it means to me. I too am casual, playful, and atypical. I may not meet the expectations others have of me, just as others may not meet my expectations of them. That’s going to have to be okay, because I cannot lose what I know I need for fear that it will hurt my face.