The In-Between: Mother and Artist
West Japan (More or Less) Travel Notes — Part VIII
A Place to Run

5 min readMay 13, 2026

After a day defined by tension — between work and care, attention and absence — there was, at last, a small opening.

A place to run.
A place to breathe.

This is a quiet account of what happens when that space appears — and how, even briefly, the question of “balance” gives way to something simpler.

*The In-Between: Mother and Artist*
*West Japan (More or Less) Travel Notes — VIII*

Previous:
PartVII— A Workshop with 170 Students
https://medium.com/@ekotumi/west-japan-more-or-less-travel-notes-part-ii-why-i-tour-with-my-two-year-old-3c1203be094f

During the break, we stepped outside.

At last, outside.

Along the covered walkway, Mini-Tumi ran after a group of junior high school girls.
Moments later, the roles reversed — “So cute!” they called, chasing after her, as she darted away and hid behind a pillar.

She had run, at least a little.
That alone was enough to bring relief.

And yet, there was no time for the schoolyard after all.
Still slightly sulking, she returned with me to our seats.

The tall, slender director seemed surprised.

“Even in that ‘no-no’ pose, she stayed so quiet.”

I let it pass. I already knew that was her way.

“The next part is the real challenge,” I replied.

After the break came the workshop.

This, in fact, was the format the director had envisioned from the beginning.

Within a given scenario, the students would assume roles and improvise conversations.

“Moral education” classes are often perceived as dry, even tedious.
But this approach changed something. By inhabiting a role, the students were able to think more concretely — as if the situation were their own.

For example:

Would you abandon your mother and flee the country with your children?
Or remain together, knowing all of you might be killed?

And if you chose the former, you would also have to tell your mother.

The room came alive.

At times, laughter broke out.

Some might feel that laughter has no place in a space where life-and-death questions are being considered.

And yet, precisely because of that atmosphere, the discussion did not collapse into a tidy moral conclusion —
a rehearsed “I would do the right thing.”

Instead, it became something else:

A space where each student had to confront, however briefly, the question of what they themselves would do —
whether they could risk their own safety, their family’s safety, to help others.
Whether they could act as Chiune Sugihara once did.

Listening to their reflections, I felt that something — however small — had remained with someone.

Throughout the workshop, as I moved around guiding the students, Mini-Tumi followed close beside me.

She was not quietly seated, as she had been during our first meeting at the town hall.
She made her “no-no” protest again.

But in the vast space of the gymnasium, perhaps she did not stand out so much.

Or perhaps she did — especially to the students, who were closer to her in age than I was.

Had it been right to bring her?
Was I truly balancing being a mother and an artist?

I could not say.

Once again, the result was inconclusive.

There was only uncertainty.

Afterward, we stopped by Fukuyama Transporting Co., Ltd., and the official program for the day came to an end.

It was still light outside.

At last — after three days — Mini-Tumi’s free time had arrived.

I opened the map with one criterion in mind:
somewhere she could run.

The word that caught my eye was “castle.”

Fukuyama Castle, near the station.

Where there is a castle, there is usually open ground — space to move.

I am not, by nature, interested in sightseeing.
And yet, for once, I wanted to go.

Agne and the poet decided to join (the director remained at the hotel to work), and so we all set out together.

The happiness of being able to run.

Mini-Tumi bounced and leapt, climbing up and down the stone walls again and again in an endless rhythm.

Agne followed her with a quiet smile, as if there were no end to her patience.

As Mini-Tumi would have done in Tokyo — or anywhere in the world — she began collecting things:
stones, acorns.

Her small hands quickly filled.

Agne took out a small pouch with a rabbit motif — clearly something she cherished.
She emptied it and handed it to Mini-Tumi, who immediately began using it to carry her acorns.

And just like that, the rabbit was hers.

We looked at the castle, watched the sunset, and stopped by a nearby shrine.

At last, I felt myself able to breathe fully again.

We found a café-bar that would not have been out of place in Shimokitazawa. I ordered a glass of wine.

Mini-Tumi drank mango juice for the first time in her life.