I was born in 1983 in Japan. Although my birth was registered in Tokyo by my father, I was actually born in the countryside. My maternal grandparents, both farmers, lived in a small town called Shizuma (静間) in Shimane Prefecture, not far from Hiroshima. Shizuma means “in between the quietness,” or “a place of gentleness,” and it lives up to its name. The streetlights were so few and far between that one was hardly visible from the next. A diesel train passed only a few times a day. The local postman knew everyone in town by name. People never locked their doors. We had running water and electricity, but we still burned wood to heat our bathwater. There was a refrigerator, yet the small river remained the best place to chill watermelons. It was in this quiet town that I was born and where I spent many of my childhood summers.

Compared to many of my friends whose grandparents also lived in Tokyo, I was quite proud that my family had a place like Shizuma. Although they were not wealthy, they seemed to have most of what they needed to live a modest and happy life. Their house was over a hundred years old. In summer, we kept all the windows open to let the breeze flow through the entire house. In winter, we gathered around a kotatsu table with charcoal burning inside. We picked vegetables from the garden and grew rice. In short, it was a prewar-style Japanese house, with a few modern-day items and a way of life to match. I always disliked returning to the big cities after spending summer or winter there. I felt so disconnected from nature.

Perhaps I’ve taken a long way to explain what my childhood was like. And while it may sound to some like a nostalgic recollection, what I’m really trying to convey is how far we’ve come from a time when our lives were surrounded by and nurtured by nature.

When climate scientists talk about climate change, they refer to carbon dioxide, global temperatures, Arctic sea ice, ice sheets, sea level rise, and more recently, extreme weather events linked to climate change. And when the rest of us talk about climate change, we often focus on the consequences of burning fossil fuels and place blame on corporations and governments for inaction. But we rarely talk about how our own modern-day lifestyles contribute to the problem.

Climate change is one part of a much broader environmental crisis. Human activity is the main driver—directly or indirectly, knowingly or unknowingly. In one way or another, our daily lives interfere with nature and its ecosystems. As ecosystems collapse in many places, we find ourselves in the midst of a full-scale environmental emergency, and climate change is a key part of it.

That said, I am not asking anyone to return to the lifestyle my grandparents had. We live in 2020, and there must be ways to live well that are appropriate for our time. I’m not asking people to give up comfort, but rather to approach consumption with greater moderation. I believe the moment demands that we rethink our ways of living—to make them more environmentally conscious, more sustainable, and perhaps more connected to nature.

Younger generations are already beginning to shift, and that gives me hope. But the rest of us must also take part. I do not believe in the possibility of total or universal behavioral change. But I do believe we can reduce unnecessary waste—and with it, unintended human suffering.

When I was drafting my ideas for Sojourner 2020 last summer, my sister-in-law was expecting a baby. Thinking about the world he was about to enter gave me a chance to reflect deeply on how I want to live and what I want to create as an artist. The projects I placed inside Sojourner carry my hopes and dreams for a world where my nephew can live in peace and happiness, in a safer environment. Now, as I stand before the works that have returned to Earth, my hope grows that they will continue to carry my messages into the future.