A Slow Morning in the Japanese Countryside
My name is Mitsugu Sasaki. I am a maker of patchwork and hand-sewn garments, and I run a small atelier called Sasaki Yohinten. I live in a quiet town in the northern countryside of Japan, more than three hours away from Tokyo. It’s a place where time flows gently — where rivers weave through the land, forests change with the seasons, and history lingers in the stones and old wooden houses.
In spring, the trees slowly blush green, as if waking from sleep. By summer, the sky opens wide in blue, clouds drift high, and the once-soft greens deepen into strong, steady shades. In autumn, the mountains shed their colors leaf by leaf, and winter eventually comes, with longer shadows and slower light.
Winter mornings are my favorite. At 4 a.m., the world is still wrapped in darkness. I walk beneath a sky full of stars, and sometimes — if I’m lucky — a shooting star traces a silver thread through the silence. On snowy days, the flakes fall quietly under the streetlights, like pieces of the sky drifting gently to earth.
These slow mornings have become essential to me. As someone who spends the day hand-stitching in silence, this early time — moving, breathing, watching — is a way to keep my spirit clear and my hands steady. It is my way of listening to the world before I begin creating.
Each morning, I rise around 4 a.m., just before the sun begins to stretch its light across the hills. Japan’s mornings come early, especially in spring and summer, when the sky brightens long before most people wake. After a few quiet stretches, I step outside for a short ride on my bicycle —
“a small ritual that awakens both my body and my thoughts.”
The rhythm of the seasons, the stillness before the day begins, the cool air against my face — they all remind me that each morning is a small gift.
“And so, my day begins not with hurry, but with gratitude.”
Mitsugu Sasaki is the founder of Sasaki Yohinten, where he reimagines vintage fabrics through hand-sewn patchwork.