I’ve started to notice how beautiful small flowers are. Maybe it’s because I’m getting older, but I think it’s more because I’ve been living in Tokyo for a while now.
Back in the small town in North America where I studied, walking wasn’t something I did very often. Life there was all about cars—it was just how you got anywhere. The town was surrounded by mountains, and the roads stretched endlessly ahead. There wasn’t much to catch my attention, and even when there was, I wasn’t really looking. Once I arrived at my destination, I’d focus on what needed to be done and move on. Sometimes, I’d go out for a short walk, but even then, I didn’t really see the small things around me.
In Tokyo, though, I walk everywhere. Even if I take the train or bus, there’s always more walking on the other side. The city has these little moments of green—small parks, carefully planted flowerbeds, or trees tucked into unexpected corners. Among all the concrete, the cars, and the endless crowds of people, my eyes naturally look for those patches of nature. And now, I actually notice them.
I think I didn’t see things like this back in my college town because I didn’t need to. It was quiet there, with fewer people and fewer distractions. My eyes always went to the empty streets or the mountains, and that was enough. I didn’t think to look closer, to see the smaller details.
Even the light feels different in Tokyo. Glass buildings and cars reflect it in so many directions, scattering sparkles everywhere. It feels layered somehow, like different kinds of light blending together. It’s a brightness I never noticed in my hometown under the wide-open skies.
The wind is different, too. It weaves between the buildings, turning corners like it knows where it’s going. Sometimes, there’s a breeze that picks up everything in its path—leaves, stray paper, even store signs that wobble on the street. It feels alive, like it has its own personality. And at night, I find myself searching for the moon, peeking between skyscrapers like a small secret waiting to be found.
These are things I never paid attention to before. Living in the city has made me more aware of flowers, trees, wind, and light—and how they all shift with the seasons and time.
Even my sense of time has changed. I’ve fallen in love with the fleeting moment after the sun disappears behind the buildings but before the city fully sinks into night. Between the tall buildings, the world feels dim and shadowy, but when I look up, the sky is still glowing softly. That in-between time feels special—something I never noticed before.
A friend of mine, a photographer, once told me about the “blue time.” It’s a fleeting moment after the sunsetwhen everything turns different shades of blue. It’s so short, you could easily miss it, but when you see it, it feels magical. That’s how I feel about these little things Tokyo has taught me to notice—they were always there, but now they feel like treasures I finally learned how to find.