We are quietly cast into an accumulation of past, memory, and circumstance

And yet, what we choose and where we turn our gaze is always entrusted to who we are now

In a world where, before one knows it, only easily understood values are chosen, the opportunities to touch one's own senses have grown fewer

What is beautiful, and what moves the heart

That sense should by nature be something freer, and more ambiguous

A flower raised in the mountains, unarranged, stands there all the stronger, and in stillness

When one stands before it — what one takes in hand, and what one leaves behind

The act of arranging flowers is not a matter of making a form, but, I believe, of choosing the world anew through one's own senses

That is why I wish to keep touching the things that open the heart