SP New Year's Message 2026: Finding Wonder in Every Season

A retired professor reflects on a year of discovery, from cherry blossoms to autumn leaves, and shares his vision for lifelong adventure

The New Year arrived quietly in Okinawa. While crowds gathered at nearby Futenma Shrine for their first prayers of 2026, I watched from a distance, content in my solitude. I'm not particularly religious, but somewhere in that moment, a childhood memory flickered—my family bundled up in winter coats, walking together to our neighborhood shrine, steam rising from our breath in the cold air.

Twenty-eight years ago, I moved to Okinawa. Two years ago, I retired from university teaching. But rather than marking the end of something, retirement opened a door I didn't know was there.

When Travel Costs Rise, Look Closer to Home

With international airfares soaring, I made a decision that would transform my year: stay in Japan. What seemed like a compromise became a revelation. This archipelago I'd called home for decades still held secrets I'd never discovered.

My 2025 journey began in winter's grip. In early February, I found myself in Sapporo, standing before towering snow sculptures along Odori Park's kilometer-long stretch. These weren't just piles of snow—they were masterpieces, intricately carved castles and creatures that seemed to breathe under the glow of colored lights. The Sapporo Snow Festival draws millions, and I understood why. In the bitter cold, art comes alive.

From there, I drove to Lake Shikotsu for the Hyōtō Festival. Here, water from one of Japan's clearest lakes is sprayed and frozen into organic sculptures—massive ice formations that glow an ethereal "Shikotsu Blue" by day and transform into a kaleidoscope of colors at night. Standing there, teeth chattering, I felt like I'd stepped into another world. Ice dripped, lights danced, and for a moment, I forgot the cold entirely.

The Sakura Pilgrimage

Spring arrived, and with it, my obsession: cherry blossoms.

I started early, catching the first pale pink blooms along Tokyo's Meguro River. The crowds hadn't descended yet, and I could actually see the water beneath the petals. From there, I traced the sakura front northward—through the Mt. Fuji area, where snow-capped peaks framed delicate blossoms, then to Kanazawa, where petals drifted like snow along the Sai River.

But everything was preparation for Hirosaki.

I'd heard about the hanaikada—the "flower raft"—but nothing prepared me for the reality. When cherry blossoms at Hirosaki Castle reach their peak and begin to fall, the moat becomes a solid carpet of pink. Not scattered petals, but a complete covering, as if someone had painted the water itself. Under the illumination of evening lights, with the castle standing sentinel above, it looked like a scene from a dream. This is why people call it one of Japan's most spectacular sights.

The journey through Aomori continued with simple pleasures: the freshest tuna I've ever tasted at Oma (the fatty ōtoro practically melted on my tongue), the cherry blossom tunnel at Ashino Park where trains emerge from clouds of pink, and the eight-kilometer sakura corridor of the Kasamai Ohata Sakura Road. Driving through that tunnel of 1,400 cherry trees, petals swirling around my car—it felt like moving through a pink snowstorm.

My only regret? Arriving too late for Hokkaido's cherries. I found only scattered petals at Asahikawa Park, the trees already dressed in green. Cherry blossoms are fleeting—that's what makes them precious.

The Soba Trail

Between the seasons, I indulged another passion: buckwheat noodles.

In May, I made a pilgrimage to Togakushi in Nagano Prefecture, one of Japan's three great soba regions. At the popular restaurant "Soba no Mi," I savored their specialty tororo soba—the noodles topped with grated mountain yam, silky and cool. Togakushi soba has a unique presentation called bocchi-mori, where noodles are arranged in small, neat bundles on a circular tray. The attention to detail, from stone-ground buckwheat to perfect water temperature, is what separates good soba from transcendent soba.

August brought bittersweet news: the Horokanai Soba Festival in Hokkaido, celebrating the nation's top buckwheat-producing region, was holding its 30th and final event. I had to go. The crowds were overwhelming—thousands of soba lovers from across Japan had the same idea. But after waiting in line at the renowned "Sobaya Hachiuemon," watching the chef's practiced hands work the dough, I understood what I would have missed. This wasn't just noodles; it was craft, tradition, and community.

In autumn, I returned to Togakushi, this time to Iwataya for their ōzaru—a massive serving that I somehow finished. Same village, different restaurant, entirely new experience. For soba lovers, this is paradise.

Autumn's Crimson Curtain

As summer's heat faded, I began my autumn pilgrimage—perhaps the year's most ambitious journey.

I started early, in late September, at Murodo in the Tateyama Kurobe Alpine Route. At 2,450 meters elevation, autumn arrives first. Mist wrapped around the peaks as I walked across carpets of red and gold leaves. The landscape felt primordial, untouched.

From there, I chased the color south: Jozankei and Lake Toya in Hokkaido, where vivid foliage framed hot spring towns; then to Morioka, where I combined an academic conference with leisurely strolls through Morioka Castle's autumn dress. I rented a car and looped through Tohoku—Lake Tazawa's mirror-perfect reflections, Koiwai Farm's pastoral beauty.

But Chūson-ji Temple stopped me in my tracks.

The approach through the golden ginkgo trees, the ancient cedars standing like sentinels, and then the Konjikidō—the Golden Hall—gleaming through autumn leaves. The contrast of human artistry and natural beauty left me breathless. I stood there thinking: I have to come back next year. Some places demand a return visit.

The finale was Kyoto, as it always is. This year felt different—warmer weather made walking easier, but the overtourism was impossible to ignore. The road to Kiyomizu-dera resembled Shibuya crossing during rush hour. Tour buses idled everywhere. Part of me felt frustrated.

Yet when night fell and Tō-ji Temple's illumination began, frustration melted away. The five-story pagoda reflected in the pond, surrounded by crimson maples—it looked like a painting that had learned to breathe. At Kōdai-ji Temple, the Garyō-chi Pond created mirror images so perfect I couldn't tell where reality ended and reflection began. The Japanese have a word—awai—for that subtle, in-between color, neither fully one thing nor another. That's what I saw: nature's mysterious gradations, the infinite shades between red and orange, light and shadow.

Island Reflections

As 2025 drew to a close, I returned to the Okinawan islands. December flights are cheap if you book early—sometimes just 5,000 yen one way—and hotels outside the holiday rush are affordable. It's become my ritual: end the year where the sea meets sky.

The development shocked me. Irabu Island, now connected by bridge to Miyako, has transformed almost beyond recognition. Hotels sprout like mushrooms after rain. Kurima Island now hosts a massive foreign-owned resort. The quiet, forgotten islands of my memory are gone.

But I checked into one of those new resorts anyway. Sometimes you need that elegance, that sense of being slightly removed from everyday life. On my birthday, I sat on the balcony watching the East China Sea, reviewing the year's journey, sketching plans for the next. These moments of reflection have become essential—taking stock of where I've been, imagining where I'm going.

During summer, I'd also revisited Ishigaki and Miyako's beaches, even making it to Hateruma, Japan's southernmost inhabited island. Renting a scooter, I circled the island in an hour, the wind in my face, the ocean stretching to infinity. Pure, uncomplicated joy.

Dreams Don't Retire

People ask what's next. The truth is, I'm hungrier for experience now than I was at forty.

Before I die, I want two things: to travel to the stratosphere in a balloon-type spacecraft, and to experience a brain-machine interface—directly connecting my consciousness to AI. I want to move beyond the metaverse into something deeper, the kind of immersive reality we saw in *Avatar*. Is it science fiction? Maybe. But twenty years ago, so was the smartphone.

Here in Okinawa, I'm involved in startup support, dreaming of the day when this island produces a unicorn or decacorn company. With the Okinawa Institute of Science and Technology (OIST) here, it's not fantasy—it's eventual reality.

The Flying Professor Returns

This year was domestic travel only, but 2026 changes that. In late February, I'm heading to Australia—the country that transformed my life decades ago. I've already booked the ticket using miles accumulated during my teaching years, destination: Perth in high summer.

I'll visit the University of Western Australia and Curtin University to observe their latest industry-academia collaborations and startup ecosystems. Yes, the weak yen has made travel expensive. Yes, airfares have skyrocketed. But I'm in my mid-sixties now. If I postpone, "someday" might never come.

So the Flying Professor returns! Retired from university, but not from life. I'm an independent researcher now—I jokingly call myself an "Independent Research Artist"—and the investigation continues forever.

A Message for Every Generation

Since October last year, I've been collaborating with generative AI to blog about these experiences in both Japanese and English. The English version goes deeper, explaining how I earned the nickname "Flying Professor," why I chose happiness studies as my research focus. AI helps me add a bit of flourish to the storytelling, making these memories come alive in new ways.

To younger readers: travel. Not just internationally—explore your own country. Use all five senses. Taste the local food. Talk to strangers. These experiences become the foundation of who you are.

To those my age: it's not over. Retirement isn't an ending; it's a comma, not a period. My most adventurous year came at sixty-something. What's your excuse?

The Horokanai Soba Festival ended this year—the 30th was the last. If I'd waited, I'd have missed it forever. How many experiences are we postponing that won't wait?

I learned something in 2025: Japan's four seasons aren't just beautiful—they're a teacher. Spring teaches impermanence (cherry blossoms fall). Summer teaches intensity (island heat that demands surrender). Autumn teaches transformation (leaves that burn before they fall). Winter teaches that beauty can exist in cold, in hardness, in ice.

Each season, I chased something different. Each season, I found more than I was looking for.

The suitcase is already packed for Perth, Western Australia. The Okinawan sun is shining. Somewhere in Japan, cherry trees are preparing for their spring performance. And me? I'm preparing for whatever comes next.

Because as Mark Twain reminds us:

"Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn't do than by the ones you did do."

I intend to have no regrets.

About the Author:

A former university professor who has lived in Okinawa for 28 years, now in his second year of retirement. He continues his research as an Independent Research Artist, exploring themes of happiness, innovation, and the art of living fully at any age.

New Year's Message 2026 | For Travelers Who Refuse to Stop Discovering