If you’ve spent any time in the bonsai world, you know the name Bjorn Bjorholm. As the founder of Bonsai-U and Eisei-en, he’s brought hundreds of video lessons to enthusiasts everywhere — I’d guess there’s barely a serious bonsai person today who hasn’t learned something from him online. I certainly have.
Bjorn’s own story is part of what makes him so compelling: a Nashville native who apprenticed in Osaka, built his own center back home, and then — after years of sharing his journey online — made the leap to move permanently to Kyoto with his wife and daughter. Many of us followed along as he designed his new garden from the ground up, and getting to see it in person had been a quiet dream of mine for a long time.
Through Shai, my teacher and mentor, I reached out — and Bjorn said yes right away, offering me two full days at his place.
Walking into his garden in person, after watching so many videos of it, was something else. Every detail felt considered — the landscape, the stands, the rocks, the trees, even the gutters were quietly beautiful. It’s the kind of space that represents where so many of us hope to get to one day: bonsai as art and science, with an aesthetic sensibility running through everything.
After taking it all in, it was time to get to work. Bjorn offered a few options, and since it’s pine candle season, we went for it — starting with mekiri (candle cutting) on a striking red pine that had once been part of the famous Kokufu exhibition in 1977.
Bjorn walked me through it patiently, and we spent a couple of hours working through the tree, learning to tell strong, medium, and weak candles apart. Along the way we talked — about my path into bonsai, the growing scene in Israel, his own journey. It felt less like a lesson and more like a conversation between friends.
From there we moved to a second tree — a raw, likely yamadori material from a forest collection — and started talking through styling options, beginning some early deadwood work.
before departing his house – had to have the last round again – to absorb it all….
On the second day, Bjorn took me to Fujikawa Kokonoen, the nursery in Osaka where he’d apprenticed years before. It’s one of the legendary names in Japanese bonsai — Mr. Fujikawa is a master known for decades of refining some of the finest pine and deciduous material in the country, and the nursery itself is essentially a living museum of trees that have passed through generations of careful work.
As we walked in, we met Joe, an American apprentice just four weeks into the program. We joked that he was still in the “everything is amazing” smiling phase — and honestly, watching him watch Bjorn, you could see the admiration plainly. Joe’s Japanese is still basic, so having Bjorn there to translate with the oyakata was a huge help.
Joe was working on a black pine, and Mr. Fujikawa asked Bjorn to give him some pointers. There was something special about watching that — the expert guiding the newcomer, translating not just language but technique. When Mr. Fujikawa came over afterward to review the work, he seemed pleased, and through Bjorn he told Joe: it’s fine for where he’s at, but work slowly, don’t rush, be patient — if you work slow and smart, you actually get to a better result faster. Three generations of bonsai knowledge, right there in one exchange.
When Bjorn introduced me to Mr. Fujikawa, I went through the same ritual that’s become a thread of this trip — I gave him the last of my pomegranate bowls, which he clearly loved. He invited me to sit with him for tea, a welcome break from the heat, and afterward we walked through his garden together and took some photos. Before we left, he gave me a gift: a heavy suiseki stone. Lucky for me, my suitcase still had room…
On the drive back to Kyoto, we talked a lot — about the different masters and their approaches, but also about something more sobering: the sense that the level of bonsai material in Japan is quietly declining, as Chinese buyers acquire so many trees that they rarely get the chance to reach true perfection before being sold.
To round off the adventure, Bjorn suggested something completely different — not trees this time, but stones. He’s a Suiseki enthusiast himself, and on the way back to Kyoto we stopped at the confluence of the Kurama and Kamogawa rivers, famous for the unique stones found there — searching the riverbed for shapes that echo mountains and landscapes in miniature.
It was a strangely meditative experience. A couple of months ago I never would have guessed I’d be wading through a river in Japan hunting for stones — my wife Anna has always been the one drawn to suiseki, something I’ll admit I never quite got. Now, somehow, I get it.
After a while searching, we visited Kawai Kosoen, a collector’s shop unlike anything I’d seen — stones paired with daiza stands carved to fit their exact contours, antique suibans for miniature zen gardens, decades of quiet artistry in every corner. A calm, grounding way to close out the day.
That afternoon with Bjorn — trees, garden, stones, zen — captured something I’ll carry with me for a long time.
And with that, the bonsai pilgrimage comes to an end. As I start the long journey home — suitcase heavier with pots and a stone I definitely didn’t plan for — I’m reminded that the real weight I’m carrying isn’t in the luggage. It’s in everything I saw, learned, and felt: gardens built with intention down to the last gutter, masters guiding apprentices with patience across generations, old friends made new, and a craft that connects art, nature, and time in a way that’s hard to put into words.
This trip didn’t feel like an ending. If anything, it felt like a beginning — a deeper appreciation for the path, and a renewed hunger to keep walking it.
Until the next journey, Sanoyara Japan – and thank you for eveything you gave me!
BonsaiNomad
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