Japan is a land of 72 seasons. Each day is not the same and not the same as the last. There is nuance and a time when each fish, each swaying type of grass, and piece of fruit is most spectacular and ripe. I write this from a local café–every spot is an easy stroll from yaezaukra, a late-blooming variety of sakura with soft pompoms of pink. Spring is in motion, and our Israeli guests have their choice of flower festivals like the azalea or purple wisteria.

Every step in Japan is peaceful, right? Well, yes, but for those who are alert and sensitive, there is more to discuss. If we go by a different calendar, a Jewish one, today is already a heavy day. It’s Yom HaShoah, Holocaust Memorial Day. We look back, we stay present, and we anticipate what’s ahead. Maybe we Jews, with all of our history, alertness, appreciation, and memorial days, also have 72 seasons. Or 175. 365 Seasons. Each day holds a lot.

Take yesterday, when I invited our Israeli guests downstairs for coffee and to help eat the remaining slices of our son’s Bar Mitzvah cake. We ate these sweet crubles in the in-between of his Bar Mitzvah Shabbat and the solemnity of a Yom HaShoah.

We sat under our giant flag of Israel and talked. They had questions. “How did this guest house begin? Why do we do it?” There’s much to say. (My husband, kids, and I host every day of the week, and it has changed our Jewish-Japanese-American-in-Tokyo lives).

Like most Jewish stories, the seeds and treasure are born from both pain and joy. We planted this guesthouse for Israelis coming to Tokyo one year before Oct. 7th. We bought our home and invested in projects conceived when we hosted our first guests. Two of our........

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