JAPAN, 2011 - AND THE ECHO I FEEL TO THIS DAY

When memory, myth, and the ground beneath us converge

Some memories are so visceral, they never leave the body. They live in the bones, in the breath, in the quiet moments before something shifts again.

On March 11, 2011, I was in Tokyo, walking temple grounds just before the Sakura Festival. The air was cool, expectant—cherry blossoms just beginning to stir in their buds. White tents dotted the paths between wooden towers and shrines, vendors preparing their wares for the coming season of celebration. I had just made a purchase and was stepping into one of those tents to collect my item when the ground began to move.

At first, I thought it was a chariot passing by. That’s how smooth the rumble was at the start—low, rolling, like a procession approaching. But then I saw the expression on the vendor’s face. He looked at me, eyes wide, mouth slightly open. He didn’t speak English, but fear needs no translation. He motioned for me to step out of the tent. I did.

And that’s when it hit.

The Ground Moved Like Water

The towering wooden structures of the temple began to sway—elegantly, rhythmically, and terrifyingly, like trees in a storm. Their bells rang, not from any human hand, but from the sheer violence of the earth shifting beneath us.

People emerged from the tents, silent. Phones in hand, they began recording, not out of detachment but perhaps as a way of witnessing, of proving: yes, this is happening. No one was running. But we were all holding on—some to railings, some to one another. The earth felt like a boat at sea, rocking without rhythm, refusing to settle.

We couldn’t stand still. The tremors went on and on. And through it all, I kept thinking: This shouldn’t be happening. But it was.

July 5th, 2025

I woke to headlines about a manga artist’s prediction—a tsunami, forecast for today. It stirred something I hadn’t felt in a long time. Not fear exactly, but an echo. A bodily memory. The uneasy stillness before a wave.

There may be nothing to it. A prediction. A coincidence. A media cycle feeding on myth. But something about the prediction won’t let go of me.

I find myself back in Tokyo, standing beneath those temple towers, watching them bend but not break. I remember the way beauty and terror coexisted—bells ringing over fear, spring blossoms refusing to pause their bloom.

The Architecture of Memory

I founded Architecture Speaks Volumes not just because I love buildings or design. I founded it because I believe space carries memory. Because architecture is not just structure—it’s story. And some stories shake us. Some never stop reverberating.

That earthquake changed how I understood space. It taught me that permanence is an illusion, and that even sacred ground can move. But it also taught me the resilience of stillness. The steadiness in strangers. The way culture, craft, and human connection hold us up—when the earth won’t.

If July 5th Felt Strange to You Too…

…you’re not alone.

Maybe it’s the power of suggestion. Or maybe we’re just more tuned in than we think. But whether anything happens today or not, I’m remembering what it’s like to stand in the middle of still-moving ground and feel time split in two: before and after.

This post is just one piece of a larger memoir I’m writing—a story of place, loss, stillness, and what came next.

Thank you for reading. For remembering. For standing still with me.

With care,

Janice Ninan

Founder | Creative Director

Architecture Speaks Volumes

📖 A memoir-in-progress, unfolding in chapters here.

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