Recently, I visited a charming cat café in Huntington, Long Island. The moment I stepped inside, I was greeted by a calm and welcoming atmosphere. Instead of the usual hustle and bustle of a café, there was a quiet sense of peace, shared with several adorable cats, each with its own unique personality.

The first cat I noticed was a handsome gray cat lounging comfortably on a sofa, completely relaxed as if it owned the place. Nearby, a beautiful orange cat sat inside a cozy hanging chair, watching everyone with curious eyes. It looked so content that I couldn't help but smile.

As I walked around, I realized that every cat had a different character. One tabby was happily curled up on a soft cushion, enjoying a long nap. A playful black-and-white cat wandered around the room, greeting visitors as if it wanted to make new friends. In one corner, another cat slept peacefully in a wicker basket, with a warm ray of sunlight shining across its face. It was one of those simple moments that instantly made me feel relaxed.

What impressed me most was the respect everyone showed the cats. No one tried to force interactions or wake a sleeping cat. Visitors simply waited patiently, allowing the cats to decide when they wanted attention. Because of this, the cats seemed comfortable, confident, and genuinely happy.

For anyone who loves cats but isn't able to have one at home, a cat café is a wonderful place to unwind. Spending even an hour surrounded by these gentle animals felt like a small escape from everyday life.
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As I left, I realized that happiness doesn't always come from grand adventures. Sometimes it can be found in the quiet company of a sleeping cat, the soft afternoon light, and a peaceful moment shared with animals. I already look forward to returning with a cup of coffee, a good book, and a little more time to enjoy this special place.

The most radiant moment in painting emerges from a powerful contrast with darkness. Simply placing bright colors on a canvas does not make them truly shine; they remain merely bright, nothing more. To truly captivate the viewer’s heart, a painting must glow like sunlight, sometimes like a jewel—no, even more brilliantly than that. This is an incredibly difficult pursuit.

Conveying this sense of brilliance and temperature—this inner warmth or coolness—always feels like an ongoing challenge. At some point, I stopped painting directly from photographs. Instead, I began to explore the images that arise in my mind, along with the emotional temperature they carry. Those paintings, without exception, found their way to others—they were sold. It felt as though there were people, somewhere, who understood this same temperature that I feel.

That is why the act of painting remains mysterious, careful, and deeply truthful. Each day, as I stand before the canvas, I feel like someone praying quietly in front of a chapel. I study the light, and I listen for its temperature. This process brings me a profound sense of fulfillment and joy.
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And this work does not stop.
I may walk slowly, but I will keep moving forward.

My beloved guinea pig, Squash, has crossed the Rainbow Bridge. He was with us for four and a half wonderful years, and though he reached the age of five, my heart still aches with the wish that we could have had him for just a little longer—perhaps until seven, as I had hoped.

Recently, I noticed the quiet signs of him growing older; his senses were softening, and his eyes weren't as bright as they once were. Then, he passed away peacefully, looking as if he were simply in a deep, gentle sleep.

Squash was a truly special soul. He was intelligent, calm, and remarkably tidy. Despite being smaller in size compared to other guinea pigs, his presence was immense. He was deeply loved not only by my family but also by my neighbors and my students.

In his final days, he often gazed at me intently, as if he had something important to say—perhaps a quiet "thank you" or a final "I love you." Now, looking at his empty cage, I still see his sweet, loving eyes looking back at me.

He may have been small, but he lived his life to the fullest, giving us more comfort and joy than words can express. Thank you for everything, Squash. You were, and always will be, a cherished part of our lives.

Rest in peace, my little friend.

We laid Squash to rest in a sun-drenched spot, following all the local regulations to ensure his peaceful return to nature. We planted his favorite flowers there, and today, under the exceptionally beautiful sky, that spot seems to glow with light.
Guinea pigs have such short lives—five to eight years at most. Because their time is so fleeting, we get to witness their entire journey, from beginning to end, in what feels like a heartbeat. This makes me reflect on the meaning of existence.

Is it not enough to simply exist? What more do we truly need?

This tiny creature lived his life to the absolute fullest just by being himself. He ate his hay every day, cherished his own life, and offered his quiet love to everyone around him. That was all. He didn't need to "achieve" anything or "be better" at something. He was perfect just as he was.
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We, too, are radiant beings simply because we exist. Yet, in the middle of life’s endless dramas, we often lose sight of this simple truth. Frequently, it is these small animals who remind us of what matters most: to love more and to be more grateful.
Squash has taught me that we are already enough. Now, I carry that lesson in my heart—to love more deeply and to appreciate every shining moment of existence.

Right after I finished planting the flowers around Squash’s resting place, I received wonderful news—one of my paintings had just been sold.

The piece is a watercolor titled "Brilliant Afternoon." It depicts a serene birch forest bathed in golden sunlight, with a peaceful family of deer resting among the trees.

Receiving this news at such a moment felt like a profound gift from nature. It was as if the universe was whispering that life’s cycle is beautiful, and that even in loss, light continues to shine. The "Brilliant Afternoon" in my painting has now become the very reality of the sun-drenched garden where Squash rests.
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I believe this was Squash's final way of saying goodbye—a small miracle to comfort my heart and remind me to keep creating, keep loving, and keep noticing the brilliance in every afternoon.

When spring arrives, the memory of winter begins to fade. We slowly forget how biting the cold was or how often the heavy snow kept us isolated. Our layers become lighter, and we find ourselves stepping outside more frequently. For artists, spring is a magnificent season—a time overflowing with inspiration and radiant light.

Lately, I have been overwhelmed with a deep sense of gratitude. For me, art has been a profound journey of healing. Through the lens of painting, I have been able to reconstruct my life and find the strength to move forward, step by step. Art calms a restless heart; it protects us from the noise of the world and makes our inner selves more resilient.

I experience this "healing power" every day, not only through my own work but also through teaching. My students grow stronger as they paint. At some point, they learn to let their mistakes and failures flow away like a river, focusing solely on the steady effort to become a better version of themselves than they were yesterday.

I have witnessed this transformative process within my own children as well. To be honest, my eldest son didn't have a natural gift for drawing, but he was constantly immersed in an artistic environment growing up. Although he is now studying law—a field seemingly unrelated to art—he finds that art helps him visualize complex situations and reconstruct them with a calm, analytical mind. There is no meditation more soothing than the quiet stroke of a brush; it organizes the chaos in one's mind and leaves behind a beautiful sense of accomplishment.

This is why I encourage my daughter to paint as well. She picks up her brush every single day, and as she works, she hums a little tune. When art reaches a stage where it is no longer about a "reward" but pure expression, children begin to sing. Hearing that humming makes me feel a profound sense of success as a parent and a teacher.

To constantly imagine, to converse with oneself, and to face one's true reflection—these are essential life skills that extend far beyond the canvas. Without this process, we risk unhappiness. Imagine a world where you can only hear external noise, never the voice within. How loud, restless, and uncomfortable that life would be.
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As we embrace the full bloom of spring, I have made a resolution for this year. I want to create art that is simpler, brighter, and more radiant. I want to paint pieces that allow those who look at them to find true peace in their hearts.

Sometimes, I feel like an evangelist for art education because I emphasize its importance so passionately. But I simply cannot stop sharing this precious gift with my students and the world, for I am, above all, the greatest beneficiary of art myself.

Recently, a piece completed by my talented student, Sophia, reminded me of the pure wonder that comes from 'flow.' Through painting, children find peace even in difficult circumstances and experience those transformative 'leap' moments in their growth. I, too, rediscovered the true solace art provides when I stood before a watercolor canvas again while navigating the deep pain of loss.

The true charm of watercolor lies in its 'unintended bleeding.' We often reflexively try to fix our mistakes, but watercolor teaches us to embrace that bleeding and find a new accent within it. The process of letting go of greed and filling the paper with transparency is very much like a spiritual practice to discipline the mind.
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In an era that desperately needs vision and hope, I dream of a world where all our lives are as peaceful as this beautiful girl’s painting—filled with love, hope, and vision. Soon, I will be opening a watercolor class to share this transparent comfort with those in need of a restful heart.