From Haiku to Brand: The Story of Mizukagami (水鏡)
A haiku assignment, a walk in Tokyo, and a single photograph. At the time, they were just moments. Later, they returned to me and became the seed of my brand story.
水鏡我こそ主役冬紅葉
Mizukagami / I myself, the true main actor / Winter maple leaves
Lessons in Seventeen Syllables
I was attending a haiku class for a year, meeting twice a month. For each session, I had to bring four original haikus as homework. In the class, each person submitted their four poems, and then we shared and discussed them together.
Coming up with four haikus was harder than I expected, but it forced me to slow down, notice details, and look closely at nature. The class also taught me the beauty of haiku, the depth of the world, and the culture behind it. I learned about kigo (季語), the seasonal words that anchor each haiku in a particular time of year.
The class also taught me to re-learn aspects of Japanese culture and traditions. I was struck by the psychology behind people’s behaviors and human nature. And, all could be captured in the simplicity of just seventeen syllables.
The Day the Water Spoke
I still remember the day I took the photo that first saved my assignment and later defined my brand.
I was walking through a park in Tokyo with a close colleague and friend, another therapist. We had just finished lunch at a calm, cozy restaurant, something we often did a few times a year. We would explore good restaurants together, then walk afterward, having deep conversations — reflecting on our lives, families, work, and anything that mattered in that moment.
That afternoon, I noticed the water: still, yet shimmering with light, movement, and color.
Usually, people — myself included — go out in autumn to see the kōyō (紅葉), the colors of the leaves and trees. That is where we expect the beauty to be. But that day, it was the water that caught my eye. The reflection spoke more powerfully than the leaves themselves. I stopped, lifted my phone, and captured it.
At the time, it was simply an image for inspiration — or rather, desperation — to fulfill my assignment. I didn’t even know how to call water reflection.
Later, I looked it up and found the word Mizukagami (水鏡), water mirror. I thought it was beautiful. And I managed to create a haiku around it.
Less than a year later, as Thrive Life Design took shape with the Reflection Room, that picture came back to me — presence, stillness, depth, motion. It became my brand.
A Living Mirror
The Reflection Room was created for quiet, introspective leaders in Japan — a space where stillness and reflection reveal clarity beneath the noise.
I explained the Reflection Room as me showing up like a “mirror.” But I’ve realized that’s not the whole truth.
I am not a mirror, cold, flat, emotionless glass. I cannot be.
I show up as a Mizukagami, a water mirror.
Quiet, introspective leaders are strong in what they do. They are capable and skilled. But even they crave moments to pause, reflect, and breathe.
In the Reflection Room, leaders do not just see a hard reflection. They see colors, the seasons of change, the sun, the wind, and the influence of their surroundings as both professionals and human beings.
I show up as a water mirror: with my reflections about them, my curiosity, my questions, and my presence in holding the space.
I will still use the word “mirror” because it gives a clear first picture. But Mizukagami is the deeper metaphor that guides how I show up.
Together, we create ripples on the water between us. That is the art of reflection.
The Paradox of the Main Actor
When I first created the haiku, I meant that the reflection itself, not the fall leaves, was speaking. The water declared, “I am the main actor.”
Now, reading it again, the meaning shifts. If I am the Mizukagami, am I also declaring “I am the main actor”?
This is the paradox I live with. Part of me still longs to exist quietly, without a spotlight. Yet part of me knows I am stepping into visibility, showing up as the powerful center of my own work.
Maybe this is what Mizukagami really embodies: quiet presence that does not shout, yet when it speaks, it claims its place with strength.
