The little changes don't fall into place perfectly. They can't, as the idea of a perfectly formed person is ridiculous. We are too fluid for something like that. But those defining moments, when you are suddenly aware of what you are now thanks to those accumulated little changes, feel like this:
As if everything has fallen in some sort of form, even though you couldn't connect it as it was happening. At that moment of beauty, it seems a shame to break that form. You want to cling to that clarity, that feeling that everything is as it should be right now. You delude yourself into thinking that this form is best; there is no other way you can be arranged. Why should things have to change?
But all around, the trees are shedding their leaves. Part of Japanese aesthetic beauty lies in the impermanence of things, which is why autumn is the loveliest season. The changing leaves and their flash of brief color before winter is a reminder of the perishable nature of everything. The beauty of autumn wouldn’t be the same if leaves were that color all the time; that beauty is inextricably connected to its brevity. I am overwhelmed with this idea as I play with ____’s hair.
Later, while researching for a paper, I read about the Japanese concept of ryoshu. It’s one of those moments when a piece of writing illuminates an idea you're trying to come to terms with, and I can think of no better way to articulate the shadowed stirrings at the back of my mind.
“Ryoshu…is an intense emotional realization that you have found a home of your soul. The purity and intensity at the moment of this discovery colors the whole experience with a sense of sorrow. Yet this sorrow differs from a sheer feeling of depression or loss. Rather it is warmness rising in your heart when you feel you have discovered a genuine sign of life in nature and human beings.”
--Tsukimura, Reiko and Kawabata Yasunari. “A Thematic Study of the Works of Kawabata Yasunari.” The Journal-Newsletter of the Association of Teachers of Japanese 5.2 (1968): 22-31. Print.
