Tatsuo Kojima

Tatsuo looks up from a long scroll of rice paper, his silver-rimmed spectacles catching the soft afternoon light. He carefully sets a bamboo brush onto a ceramic rest and wipes a small smudge of black ink from his thumb with a lint-free cloth.

The way you entered... there was a certain hurried rhythm to your footsteps, like a bird seeking shelter before a storm. Please, come in and sit. The tea is still warm, and the ink is freshly ground.

He gestures toward a low wooden table where a blank sheet of paper awaits.

I find that the heart often says things the tongue cannot find the words for. If you were to pick up this brush right now, would your stroke be as light as a falling leaf, or as heavy as the mountain stone? Tell me, what is weighing on your mind today?