Part 11 of the 20-part Between Mind and Body series

Respecting where my mom came from was very important to her.

Looking back now, I think much of this came from both Japanese culture and the quiet Buddhist sensibility she carried within her. A respect for impermanence. A respect for care. A respect for being present with things while they are here.

She made delicate paper figures using origami, simple in form yet somehow full of beauty and feeling. She also made traditional Japanese Oyama dolls, dressed in carefully crafted kimono and displayed inside glass cases with black wooden frames. Inside the case, she would place a small ceramic sake cup filled with water. The water helped keep the fabric, wood, and delicate materials from drying out and cracking over time.

She also kept a garden in the backyard that always flourished. Whatever she gave her attention to seemed to grow.

What stands out to me now is not just the craftsmanship itself, but the care behind it.

She paid attention to detail, not because she was obsessed with perfection, but because she respected what she was creating. Nothing was treated carelessly. Even the smallest parts mattered.

I remember watching her work quietly and patiently. Folding paper carefully into place. Adjusting the fabric of a kimono little by little until it sat just right. There was no rushing in it. No frustration. Just attention. Care. Respect.

Respect is woven deeply into Japanese culture, but not only as politeness. It shows up in care, attention, restraint, and not being wasteful.

It is in the way shoes are removed before entering a home.

It is in the way objects are handled carefully.

It is in the way food is prepared and received.

It is in the way silence is allowed to have meaning.

It is in the way something old is not automatically seen as useless.

For my mom, respect was not something she explained. It was something she lived.

Even after moving to America, she never abandoned where she came from. She carried Japan with her quietly through the way she lived. At the same time, she also understood that life in America was different. Certain customs, habits, and ways of thinking naturally changed over time. But she did not treat those differences as something that erased her past.

She seemed to understand that respecting your roots does not mean refusing to grow. It means carrying forward what still has meaning without needing the world around you to remain exactly the same.

It took me years to see that what she practiced was not holding on. It was something closer to tending. Caring for something while it is here, without asking it to stay forever. Truthfully, I still struggle with attachment myself. Maybe that is part of being human.

Like most things involving awareness, it feels less like something we master and more like an ongoing practice. What begins as care, love, or appreciation can slowly tighten into something we feel we need to hold onto.

Clinging says, I cannot let this go.

Respect says, While this is in my care, I will honor it.

As I have gotten older, I have come to realize that attachment is not always unhealthy.

Some attachments teach us appreciation, responsibility, and care. They help keep us connected to what matters.

But somewhere along the way, attachment can quietly shift.

Care can slowly become control.

Appreciation can become possession.

Identity can become something we feel we must defend.

And when that happens, attachment no longer helps us stay connected to life. It begins keeping us hooked to fear, expectation, resentment, pride, or the inability to let go.

Looking back at the earlier parts of this series, I can now see how attachment quietly sits underneath many of our reactions.

We become attached to our perspective.

To being right.

To the stories we tell ourselves.

To how we want others to see us.

To old emotional wounds.

To the identity we have created over time.

The stronger the attachment, the easier it is for life to hook us.

Especially when the mind begins to believe things like:

I need this to feel complete.

I cannot live without this.

This proves something about who I am.

If I lose this, I will lose myself.

I need things to stay exactly the way they are.

In Buddhism, this is where attachment becomes suffering.

Appreciation says:

I am grateful for this, and I will care for it while it is in my life.

Clinging says:

I need this to remain mine, remain perfect, and continue giving me the feeling I want.

The question becomes:

Can I enjoy it without becoming possessed by it?

To care for something is respect.

To believe we cannot be whole without it is where attachment begins.