The other day, I visited a university in Tokyo for work and unexpectedly found myself immersed in a moment of quiet beauty. Located in the suburbs, the campus was surrounded by crisp, clear air and tall, golden ginkgo trees in full autumn splendor. As sunlight filtered through the leaves, creating shifting patterns on the ground, I found myself pausing, simply captivated by the scene.
In Japanese, we have a word for this: komorebi (木漏れ日). It refers to the gentle sunlight streaming through the gaps in trees, but it carries a much deeper resonance. It’s not just the light itself but also the interplay of shadows, the fleeting patterns created by the wind, and the transience of the moment that define komorebi.
Komorebi is not merely about “light” and “shadow.” It’s about the space in between—the way the light dances with the breeze, the rippling shapes on the ground, and the quiet presence of ourselves as we pause to appreciate it.
In the rush of daily life, taking a moment to pause under the light of komorebi feels like a small luxury. Yet, the calm and serenity it brings linger in the heart, perhaps softening our view of the world, if only just a little.
Do you have a memory of komorebi—moments when light, shadow, and time seemed to come together in quiet harmony?

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