The problem with being the star

There’s a well-known saying that you are only the “star” of your own life three times: when you are born, when you get married, and when you die. Only one of those moments—the wedding—occurs while you are fully conscious, which is why people go absolutely crazy planning them. However, since the divorce rate in Japan hovers around 30% annually, the logical conclusion is that you might actually be the star more than three times. (Naturally, I never mention this cynical observation to anyone preparing for a wedding.)

Japanese wedding ceremonies today are less about religion and more about hyper-engineered entertainment. Interestingly, despite market pressure to entertain, the tradition of the bouquet toss is losing popularity. Why? Comments online suggest it makes the catcher look “too needy and desperate for marriage.” Entertainment is a minefield.

I know, I know. My introductions are deliberately meandering. But this discussion of weddings leads us to a crucial ritual: tree planting.

The hope engine: Why we plant trees for the unseen future

A popular addition to modern Japanese wedding ceremonies is the tree planting ritual, where the couple jointly plants a small tree (often an olive tree) to symbolize their burgeoning family. Tree planting has become a universal symbol for celebrating beginnings—whether it’s a marriage or the completion of a new building.

Why does planting a tree always evoke such a powerful, positive feeling?

The answer, I believe, lies in time. A tree’s growth cycle often exceeds the length of a human life. You cannot plant a tree without a radical, almost arrogant degree of hope for a future you will not see. This perfectly aligns with the famous quote, attributed to Martin Luther: “Even if I knew that tomorrow the world would go to pieces, I would still plant my apple tree.” Hope for the future is the only thing that drives us forward, even when the world feels like it’s collapsing.

The 100-Year bet: Oak, responsibility, and barbecue

This philosophy is the foundation of our annual ritual here at CondeHouse. We, the people working in the wooden furniture industry in Hokkaido, plant oak trees every year. Last Sunday, about 300 of us gathered and planted 2,000 oak saplings.

Why oak? Because it takes approximately 100 years for an oak tree to grow enough to be harvested for wooden furniture material. Think about that: the children who join us in planting will likely not live long enough to see the resulting furniture. It is the ultimate long-term bet, a quiet acceptance of responsibility for an entirely unseen generation.

It may sound sad, but we genuinely enjoy this annual tree-planting event. And yes, a massive barbecue party is always held afterward, which definitely sweetens the deal. But the true driver is the hope we put into the soil. We are investing in a 100-year legacy, fulfilling the ultimate responsibility of a business that relies entirely on nature: ensuring the raw materials of the future exist, even if they won’t benefit us directly. That is the profound, beautiful irony of our annual ritual.

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I confess that I’m a man who plants trees for a future I will never see—a 100-year bet placed with the same defiant hope as Martin Luther’s apple tree. At CondeHouse, our annual ritual of planting 2,000 oaks is a quiet promise to a generation yet unborn. Our Hatsune Miku Art Chair is the first blooming of that long-term legacy: a piece crafted from the same resilient Hokkaido wood and the same unyielding hope for the future. It’s not just furniture; it’s a century of patience turned into high-art and turquoise-green elegance. Now, here is a portal to our most hopeful creation: the image below is your link to the special site. If you prefer the fleeting, disposable objects of the present, do NOT click it. But if you’re ready to sit upon a legacy built for the next hundred years, go ahead. Claim your piece of the future. —— The Hatsune Miku Art Chair.

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