Catching My Breath While in Transition
“This eel, where it came from and where forth it goes—who knows.”
—Haiku by Reichiro-san, Sendai
As I sit in front of the main building of the Miyagi Museum of Fine Arts in Sendai, I find myself doing what I often forget to do—catch my breath. Life happens so quickly, often faster than the mind can process. One episode blends into another: events of the moment, moments from years past, thoughts of what must still be done. But when I breathe—truly breathe—I can hear the whisper of the present moment again.
Now, I'm back in Penang, participating in the Armenian Street Art Festival, an annual celebration of culture and creativity helmed by my friend Joe Sidek, the same soul behind the Little Penang Street Market. This is my second time joining, and once again I’m surrounded by a synergy of artists, dreamers, and believers, all weaving their pieces into the fabric of this island.
Initially, I hesitated. Ego always finds a way to question: “What’s in it for me?” That slippery mind of mine, always comparing, always measuring worth. I admit, I still struggle with selflessness, even though I’ve spent a lifetime aspiring toward it. The mind is a trickster—slippery as the eel I once painted in Japan.
Ah, yes, the eel painting.
It was a one-foot by three-foot piece done in black Japanese ink on washi paper, spread across three panels. I painted it in a breath—just like that. A swift motion, almost unconscious. I added a flick of an eye and a few flimsy fins near the head. Then I brought it to my dear friend Reichiro-san, haiku poet and laundromat keeper, who added the verse:
“This eel, where it came from and where forth it goes—who knows.”
We mounted the panels with four pieces of scrap pine wood I found in a dumpster and displayed the piece that same evening at the Gobangai Art Gallery, right across from the Sendai Shinkansen Station. It was my second solo exhibition there, the first being a two-man show with Mr. Pimentta, my friend from Argentina.
A lady came to the gallery that evening. A writer, I believe. She was engaged in deep conversation with the artist from Nagano who had appraised my eel at USD 1000. I didn’t say much. Just watched. And then she approached and handed me the money in cash. Just like that. The first piece sold that night.
It wasn’t just about the money—it was the affirmation of intuitive art, the unseen hand that moves the brush when the mind gets out of the way.
Now here in Penang, as the street festival unfolds, I feel that same pull—the wave of energy, creativity, and momentary stillness in chaos. The breath that settles the mind, if only for a while.
Take a deep breath through your nose.
Hold it.
Then release it slowly through the mouth.
Let it go—fully.
Then allow the next breath to enter naturally.
Repeat.
Again.
And again… until the mind begins to quiet.
Simple, yes. But do I always do it? No. Not always. But I practice more often than before. Because if I don’t, I get swept up by the current of thoughts. I lose track of the present.
I am sorry, Ya Allah, for missing Friday’s Jumu'ah prayers. I most likely missed a khutbah that was meant for me. My bad. Astaghfirullah al-Ghafur ur-Rahim. Still, I know You are with me—even in these moments of guilt, transition, and breath.
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