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Since last summer, I had been meaning to paint, but somehow, I couldn’t
It felt as though something inside me was saying, “Wait a little. It will come.”
I had ideas I wanted to paint, yet at the same time I sensed there was something else—something I must paint first. I often wondered what that could be.
My Japanese painting teacher always told me, “It’s not about whether you feel like painting or not. You should paint. Just sit in front of the canvas.”
So during that time, I tried sketching picture-book ideas, and I did sit in front of canvases several times. But nothing came forth. I couldn’t paint. And yet, strangely, I didn’t feel anxious.
I thought: I’ll wait a little longer.
In the fall of last year, I stayed for three months in a high-rise apartment in Tsukishima, overlooking the vast Sumida River. While there, I often rode my bicycle to places near my father’s family home—and also near the shrine my ancestors had cherished for generations. Visiting these places brought back many memories.
At the same time, I was struggling with the reverse culture shock of returning from America, and with the pain of being back in Tokyo—a place that had once been difficult for me. In that state of conflict, I found myself reflecting on my days in Ocean Springs (where I had stayed last summer), spending time praying and meditating.
And it was then—or perhaps around that time—that I remembered something:
From childhood, a dragon had always been with me.
As a little girl, I was strangely fond of dragons. I would look up the difference between ryū (竜) and ryū (龍) in dictionaries. I would write the character for “dragon” over and over. I remembered my aunt (my father’s younger sister) once telling me, “If you had been a boy, your father wanted to name you Ryūsei (Dragon Star).”
And I realized that the region where my ancestors had lived, as well as the place where my father’s grave rests, was deeply connected with Benzaiten and with dragons.
Two years ago, when I was suffering from adjustment disorder, I had a vague sense that my intuition and sensitivity would only become sharper. Through studying brain function, I came to understand something:
Many people with mental illness actually experience a dulling of their senses. Not just metaphorically, but literally—the world can fade into sepia, or even monochrome.
In that dim, monochrome world, I felt the presence of a dragon. A beautiful dragon, pure white and glowing in the darkness.
It was like solemn music, and at the same time like a fragrant aroma. Majestic, yet innocent. Delicate and gentle, yet bold and powerful. Serious, yet playful.
An unseen energy, alive, joyful, radiant.
I did not see its face, but I felt its vibrancy.
And I thought: This is what I want to paint.
Or rather: This is what I am being asked to paint.
But then, I hesitated. The Bible describes the ryū (though written with the character 竜, not 龍) as a servant of evil. I had often heard people say:
“Christians don’t paint dragons.”
“Dragon gods are idols, not God.”
So I resisted the idea.
In the end, what was I really afraid of? Not the dragon itself, but how people would judge me. I feared the “imaginary critics” I had created in my own mind, more than I valued the inspiration and creative impulse overflowing within me.
Looking back, it feels foolish.
Art is always subject to evaluation—criticism and misunderstanding are inevitable. What truly matters is expressing myself with purity, regardless of what others think.
I once met a woman who called herself a spiritual leader. She skillfully manipulated people’s hearts, and by making them uncomfortable, she left them unhappy. Looking back, I believe she was deceived by what we might call a “low spirit”—a kind of evil spirit. But at the time, I had no such knowledge.
So I came to believe that every spirit, apart from the Holy Spirit, must be a deceiver. Teachings like that influenced me deeply.
But through painful experience, I learned that denying my own sensitivity, silencing my perceptions, and lying to myself was only wounding me—leaving me suffocated.
Unconsciously, I had turned “religion” into something it was never meant to be, twisted by human folly. I never want to experience that again.
I believe that every human being is psychic to some degree. Just as everyone has muscles, everyone has spiritual sensitivity. After all, we are born with spirit, mind, and body. No one without spirit can exist.
That’s why spirituality can neither be denied nor worshipped—any more than one can deny or worship muscles.
Spirit itself is simply neutral, holding the true answer.
And that answer is this: God is love. Love has been poured into us. And so we are drawn to God.
The more deeply we connect with this source—the Spirit—the more we can experience God and the universe as our true selves, and the more we can love ourselves.
I believe in the one true God.
The debate over monotheism versus polytheism is, to me, merely a cultural conversation. God transcends cultural concepts.
So while many Japanese people venerate the kami (spirits, gods), I cannot see them as “evil.” On the contrary, I feel they are essential presences—part of what has made Japan what it is, and deeply tied to memory, dignity, and identity.
Of course, when people seek only blessings instead of gratitude, or cling too heavily to spirits in desperation rather than prayer, the fault does not lie with the gods. Those are merely human projections and actions—not what the divine ever asked for.
Ultimately, the roles of divide and judge belong to God, not to humans. For God desires governance and integration, and only separates when it serves a particular divine purpose.
So when people claim, “The Bible (or God) says this, therefore I can act in His authority,” it is foolish.
Our role as humans is simply to exist as beings who love God, nature, and one another with wisdom.
From the darkness, a white, glowing dragon spoke:
“Come with me.”
I blurted out an excuse:
“It’s not that I forgot. It’s just…”
The dragon laughed and said:
“It’s all right. I understand everything. Just follow your heart.”
The dragon was like music, and also like a fragrance.
Solemn and stern, yet delicate and gentle—a pure, radiant energy.
Related article: What is Faith?