One of the people who welcomed me to Yugawara had a habit of showing people things.
There was no formal tour and very little ceremony. He'd drive me to Fudō Falls because the waterfall was worth seeing. In a grove full of biwa trees he pointed at the ripe fruit and said, more or less, “Hey, these ones.” I picked one myself and ate it there.
It was the best kind of sweet: not too sweet, soft, completely natural and straight off the tree. The fruit was wonderful, but I remember the gesture just as much. He noticed something good and made sure I got to have it too.
He worked the same way. He showed me how to cut and gather bamboo, how strong it is, and how many things it can become. With him I learned to measure, split, cut, tie and lash it into things we could use. We worked abandoned farmland, built structures, and went to places in the countryside I'd never have found alone.
His kindness never felt polished or strategic. He loved sharing what he knew, and he was just as happy when other people pitched in. He didn't keep Yugawara to himself. He opened it up.
That was unusual for me, and refreshing. A waterfall could just be somewhere he wanted me to see. Fruit could be pointed at and eaten. Work could be handed over without being a test of whether I deserved to belong.
A lot of the kindness I found in Yugawara looked like that: practical, open, almost casual. Someone made room in the car. Someone handed me a tool. Someone pointed to the right fruit. The small things added up until the town stopped feeling like somewhere I was visiting and started feeling like somewhere I'd been welcomed.