Halloween in the United States is one of the most anticipated holidays for children. Every year on October 31, kids dress up in creative costumes—ghosts, superheroes, witches, animals—and go from house to house shouting, “Trick or treat!” In return, they receive candies from neighbors who decorate their homes with pumpkins, cobwebs, and spooky lights.

This year, Halloween arrived with a chill. The wind was fierce, and fallen leaves swirled in the air like little tornadoes. Halloween costumes are usually quite thin, so the children shivered as they braved the cold, walking door to door for candy. Yet seeing their bright smiles, I realized that harsh weather doesn’t matter at all when you’re young and full of excitement.

Many families take Halloween decorating very seriously. In our neighborhood, three neighbors go all out every year, turning their houses into a kind of local attraction. Kids from other blocks even come to our area for trick-or-treating because of them. The street becomes lively and full of laughter.

As an artist, you might expect me to create something elaborate, but ironically, I kept my decorations simple—a few mini pumpkins, some chrysanthemums, and an acrylic pumpkin I painted myself. In truth, houses with modest decorations are often skipped by children, and some people even turn off their lights to avoid visitors. But strangely, kids still come to my door.

I hand them chocolates and say, “Happy Halloween!” Each child’s personality shows in how they take the candy. Some politely take one piece and say, “Thank you! Happy Halloween!” Others grab a handful and sometimes drop them while running away. One child even said “Nihao” to me as he scooped up his candy. That’s fine—it’s just a child, after all. I’ve experienced far worse things in life, and moments like this don’t bother me anymore. Still, I can’t help but notice the difference that home education makes.

One boy loudly said, “Oh, I hate this one! I don’t like this chocolate!”—without realizing I could understand him perfectly well. Encounters like that can be disheartening, but then another child with clear, kind eyes comes along, saying “Thank you” with genuine warmth, and suddenly the world feels bright again. 

As I grow older, I begin to understand why grandmothers hand out the best chocolates with such joy. They are sharing light. Perhaps next year, I’ll raise the quality of my candy too. This year, inflation made even Halloween more expensive—I spent nearly $150 on chocolates that used to cost about $50. Still, seeing how many families put effort and heart into preparing for this day makes me feel grateful.
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When I look at houses beautifully decorated like works of art, I can’t help but smile. Halloween, in its colorful chaos, reveals something truly warm about community—the joy of giving, sharing, and lighting up the night together.

​Our Treehouse has finally arrived. When you order the paperback version on Amazon, each copy is printed on demand. Every time I receive a newly printed book, I feel both excitement and worry about the printing quality.

This edition has a slightly glossy finish, which gives it a refined look. However, the colors are not exactly the same as in my original paintings. Still, considering that it is print-on-demand, I am satisfied with the overall quality. I only wish the title on the cover were placed a little more to the left. I have already made a few revisions and uploaded the corrected version.

To my surprise, I discovered that a few copies had already been sold before the update. I sincerely apologize to those who purchased the earlier version. Yet, when I started this club and began creating books, I made a promise to myself: to let go of perfection.

I didn’t want to be perfect. I wanted to be honest.

I didn’t want to be commercial. I wanted to create something that feels like a batch of homemade cookies baked by a grandmother in a small countryside kitchen—warm, simple, and full of love.

I wanted to make a picture book that is charmingly human—imperfect, tender, and rustic—something that artificial intelligence could never create. So, my books will never be perfect, and I am at peace with that.
Still, I deeply appreciate everyone who purchased this book. Thank you for seeing beauty in imperfection.

It has been about two years and ten months since I published my first book. My very first work, Hello, My Robin, was written while I was studying storytelling at Adelphi University. Since then, I have published about twenty-five books. Some were created together with my children and students, like a relay—passing stories, drawings, and imagination from one to another.
Writing, illustrating, and imagining together has brought me immense joy. But when my stories appeared on Amazon, I entered a completely different world—one where you wait nervously for reviews, wondering how people will react.
There are so many amazing books out there!

Compared to them, my paperback books are thin, simple, and not perfect in print quality. The world is full of beautiful books—hardcovers, pop-ups, books with mirrors, fabric textures, and designs that shine like jewels.
When I first decided to publish through Amazon, I asked myself for days if it was the right path. Hello, My Robin came easily—it was the story of a boy who refused to go to school after being bullied, but found hope again through a small bird named Robin. Honestly, I wrote it to impress my professor and earn an A+.
At that time, I knew nothing about self-publishing. I paid a professional company about $500 to help me. Now, I handle the entire process myself—from cover design and illustration to layout and publishing. If I had kept relying on others, publishing 25 books would have cost me $12,500.

After that first book was published, my professor, Dr. Bogg, requested a separate Zoom meeting just to praise my work. She said, “Bravo! Amazing!” and gave me my very first encouraging comment as an author. I still feel deeply grateful to her. One day, I hope my publishing journey grows enough for me to truly thank her in return.
Since then, gratitude and the desire to do better have kept me going. Learning to manage every step of the process has made publishing deeply enjoyable. And slowly, my books began to sell.

I never had high expectations. There are so many brilliant authors and beautifully marketed books in the world. I just wanted to write quietly, in my own corner, and find meaning in the process itself.

And yet, people started buying my books.

So once again, I want to thank each and every reader who has supported me.
If you chose this book, I believe you value warmth over perfection.
May that same warmth fill your life and everything you do.
I know I still have a lot to learn, but I won’t stop.
I will keep trying, keep creating, and keep sharing stories.

That is why I founded Moms’ Playground Book Club and Kids author series—to continue writing stories with moms and children every year.
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Thank you for your encouragement, and please stay with us on this journey.
— Anna Koh

The world feels unbearably cold sometimes. But can’t we choose to live warmly, even if it means losing a little? We get hurt and disappointed by people, but can we learn again to understand and love them? Why must we call art “unprofitable” or measure everything in money? Can’t we simply try to be warm again? If we could, wouldn’t the world become a little different?

In the past few days, as the temperature suddenly dropped, my heart felt just as cold. The world keeps telling us that life is a competition—that if you’re not elite, you’re a loser. People build their own cartels and make others feel like outsiders. It’s such a harsh world for the weak and powerless, with nowhere to turn for comfort. And yet, the world God created is dazzling, beautiful, and warm. Art is the same. Every day, artists create the most beautiful and gentle things in this world. But the world we live in feels so cold, so devoid of warmth, that at times it feels suffocating.

I understand. I feel the same. After facing betrayal, hardship, or the storms of life, the heart closes like an automatic door, refusing to open easily again. Even when we wish to live kindly, to love, to comfort, to help—it becomes hard. Sometimes I feel more pitiful than anyone else. And when we pity ourselves, it’s hard to see others warmly. And yes, there are people who seem to have hearts like demons. If we hold on to goodness, the world can start to feel like a jungle where it’s eat or be eaten. We’re forced to stay alert, always watching over our shoulders.

Next to my home studio, there is a small pond. I often open the window to look at it. A small bird often lands on the juniper branches reflected over the water. That pond is the safest place in the world. Yet the little bird is always on guard—so watchful that it cannot even drink a sip of water before flying away. Sometimes our lives feel just like that small bird’s.

I plan to write a lot today. Lately, I’ve been writing more than usual—perhaps because I want to speak to the warm, kind people who are connected to me. To those who love painting, who understand the language of art.
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It’s been a few sad and dark days. But maybe these feelings fit the approaching Halloween season, don’t they? Now, I feel as though I’m slowly emerging from a nightmare—like I’m walking through a dark tunnel and beginning to see light ahead. I even managed to sleep a little recently, and today I actually ate properly. Why is that, I wonder?
This morning, I cried while driving. I felt something inside me—resentment, frustration, confusion. My mother’s illness, the falling autumn leaves, the provocations from my neighbor… everything felt tangled and heavy.
Then I went to the gallery to deliver my four paintings for the “Small but Mighty” exhibition. My dear and respected director, Miss Allison, greeted me warmly as always. Just seeing her gives me strength. I think I received good energy from her today.
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And yesterday, at church, I was embraced and encouraged by kind people. I also received comfort from my friend Freya, who always offers me spiritual advice and lives as a model of faith.
Before leaving the gallery, I decided to look for one of my paintings that had been sold—to see where it was displayed. I couldn’t attend the reception, so I hadn’t seen it yet. I walked around searching, but I couldn’t find it at first. Then, as I turned a corner, I saw something shining. The light was coming from the very spot where my painting was hanging.
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It felt as though light was radiating from the painting itself.
For a moment, I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me.
But as I looked closely, I felt something indescribable--
a wave of comfort, a sense of warmth and light.
What was that light?
What was that warmth I felt?
Was it the reflection of the golden frame?
Perhaps. But as I stood there, I felt something more.
It suddenly saddened me that this painting, though created by my own hands, was no longer mine to see—it now belonged to someone else.
Ah… how dazzlingly beautiful it was.
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When I painted it, and even when I hung it, I never realized how radiant it was.
But now, after enduring so much inner pain, I saw the light in it clearly.

I remembered something that happened 15 years ago, at my first exhibition in Germany.
A visitor approached me and said,
“Anna, your paintings seem to shine. I can feel the light from them.”
I thanked her for her kind words, but she shook her head and said,
“No, really—it’s not a compliment. Your paintings truly shine. Thank you.”
Today, that memory came back to me.
Ah… that person must have suffered deeply too, just like I have.
Only now do I truly understand what she meant.
I wish I could tell her that I’m sorry for not understanding then,
and thank her for saying those words to me.
Now I understand what that light was.
It was the light that appears when a heart in pain desperately reaches out for comfort--
When, in the darkness, one grasps at even the faintest glimmer of hope.
I will continue to paint.
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Dear God, please grant more light to my work.
Let it bring comfort, love, and peace
to those whose hearts are in unbearable pain.

I have finished delivering my four paintings for the Small but Mighty exhibition at the Mills Pond House Gallery.

This time, as I handed over my work to the gallery, tears came to my eyes without warning. Inside, I also saw that one of my paintings from Imagination 25--Duality of the Mirror—had been sold.
The meaning of those tears… life is truly difficult. I feel tired. There are moments when everything feels like a mess, like I am on a roller coaster that never stops. Perhaps that’s why, when something good happens, I let myself feel joy fully. I also genuinely love hearing good news from others—because such things are true gifts.
In Buddhism, life itself is called a sea of suffering.
I agree with this to some extent. When you are in the midst of suffering, it can be so painful that it feels like you can’t breathe. At our house, people who are burdened by life’s hardships sometimes visit and share their stories. I listen, eat meals, drink tea with them, and hope that, for a moment at least, their pain might ease, even just a little.
It was during one of these difficult periods that I turned back to the cave paintings of Altamira. For nearly a year, I did almost nothing else—I painted a whole series about Altamira. I was searching for an answer: Does art have power when life feels unbearable?
Painting and writing, I realized, are like white lotus flowers blooming from the mud. Or like a ray of sunlight that somehow reaches into the dirtiest corner of the gutter. Sometimes that sunlight touches you, and you think, I can live a little longer because of this light.
If I had known that life itself was a gutter, perhaps I would not have wanted to live.
I often wonder while painting—why is art always so beautiful, when life is not? When life feels chaotic and ugly, why do the objects in my paintings look so beautiful—sometimes unbearably so? My Koi Fish series especially expresses how blessed and beautiful it is simply to be alive. They tell me: Life may be muddy, but it moves, it breathes, it shines. Keep living. It’s okay.
Their beauty moves me to tears.
I cried in the car today. Perhaps because I realized that my destiny is to paint lotus flowers that bloom in the gutter—to share hope, to offer warmth to others. To say, See, the sunlight reaches even here. Do you feel it? It’s warm, isn’t it? For this moment, it’s okay.
On the way back, I understood something with complete certainty: why the prehistoric people of Altamira painted such beautiful images.
Scholars will say they painted for religious, educational, or entertainment purposes.
But no—that’s not it.
They painted to live. They painted because they wanted to survive.
They painted so they could breathe.
Outside their cave was the terror of death, creeping into their shelter day after day. There was no religion, there was no civilization then, so they wouldn’t have known any gods either, no promise of tomorrow—only the fear of hunger and the loneliness of existence.
So they painted.
And when they looked at those paintings, they must have been astonished:
Why is my life such chaos, but my painting is so beautiful?
For that brief moment, they must have thought, At least this is beautiful. Thank goodness.
And they cried—just as I cried leaving the gallery today.
The next day, they must have painted again.
While they painted, the fear, anxiety, darkness, depression, and pain must have disappeared. And after finishing, when they looked upon their beautiful work, they must have felt the will to live again.
Today, I finally discovered the true meaning of art as a survival tool.
We must paint in order to live.
We must create in order to breathe.
Perhaps this was humanity’s very first salvation—our first artificial respirator.
When I was young, I went through many hardships. In those dark times, I used to watch the koi swimming in our home aquarium. Music, drawing, writing, and reading were all forbidden, but I could at least look at the fish. That was the only beautiful thing I had. The fish were so graceful, always moving—never still. Every movement was different, every moment alive.
Everything that moves is beautiful.
To be alive is the greatest blessing.
Whether in a decorated aquarium or a dirty gutter, movement itself is sacred.
And that—that—is art.