modern day time traveler
Spring. The crisp, warm air calling for a wooly layer to be shed in favor of thinner cardigans, the blushing pinks and whites of cherry blossoms coming to life, and a collective sigh on everyone’s lips as lingering outside no longer elicits misty breaths. Isn’t it strange how, despite knowing how fleeting the cherry blossoms in full bloom will last, we find energy and peace in their temporal beauty? Spring days are transitory and rosy, reminding us of hope and light and ushering in brighter days.
In Japan there is the concept of 物の哀れ (mono no aware)— an appreciation of the fleeting nature and impermanence of things. To elaborate on that, it’s like a futile, melancholic, yet profound appreciation of that which you know will someday fade. Like the warm hues of autumn leaves and delicate clouds of cherry blossom petals. Precisely because we know that they are transient and impermanent, we bask in them and appreciate their beauty even more. Sometimes translated (according to the Internet) as “the ahhhness of things”, 物の哀れ is a bittersweet feeling that mixes in grief, acceptance, solemnity, longing, peace, openness, appreciation. Even if it’s only for a few days a year, we cherish those short moments and live them to the fullest, having an appreciation for the fleeting nature of life — learning to appreciate what you can and letting go when you must.
Ever since studying abroad in Tokyo six years ago, I’ve established a reputation of sorts for flitting in and out of the Seattle area; nomadic, but with a home base. The time elapsed between each visit seems to increase each time by a few more months. This time as a result of the pandemic, 15 months went by in which the US that I remembered and the US that I returned to diverged in more drastic ways than ever before. Starting off with some non-COVID changes: Black Lives Matter yard signs and wall murals in Bellevue of all places, light rail construction actually visibly progressing (the days of working PR for Sound Transit still a vivid memory for me), the ever-increasing density and height of downtown Bellevue towers (courtesy of Amazon). And apparently Costco no longer offers combo pizza, and Molly Moon’s has eliminated earl grey from their regular flavor lineup (RIP!!!).
But of course the biggest, most jarring changes are seeing Americans in masks (or not in masks…), abundant hand sanitizing stations, social distancing stickers plastered on the ground, restaurant seating unused, shuttered stores, my parents’ fluency in Zoom.
I feel like a time traveler, having slipped in between dimensions, landing in a familiar yet unfamiliar scenario. Friends who were once single are now dating, or who were once dating are now getting married. Some have broken up, others are pregnant or have already given birth. Entire life stages have gone by in the past 15 months.
Pandemic or no pandemic, being away for this long would obviously result in changes. It’s not like people put their lives on pause for me — I’m not so naive as to expect that. I’ve grown and experienced quite a bit during this time as well, and am not the person I once was. But adding that additional caveat of a global, epoch-shaping moment certainly accelerated changes.
At first, I felt grief when thinking about all this; the fear of missing out, even for something as complicatedly tragic as this, stubbornly lingered. I always find myself wishing I could be split into two, or three, or four, to be with the people that I love most and doing the work that I feel most passionate about, in different corners of the world.
But as a visiting time traveler, I’m unexpectedly comforted by some things that have not changed. Muscle memory allows for me to settle back into driving on the right side of the road, tracing familiar routes to grandma’s house, the Trader Joe’s, the park downtown. My phone automatically connects to the WiFi at home and other local spots. Dad is still stubbornly using this one Panasonic toaster oven that we’ve had for almost a decade despite the on/off button nearing the end of its life (and a brand new identical replacement oven sitting unused downstairs).
Someday, these will change as well.
Processing life and loss as a nomad and as an unwitting time traveler, I understand the concept of 物の哀れ a bit more now, beyond the easy seasonal comparisons. Perhaps it’s an inevitable stage in growing up, when you realize you can’t have everything you want, and instead, you move on to appreciate and fully live and love in everything that you have; a shedding of the ego, of the desire for control.
I don’t think this means that I can’t be ambitious, or that I can’t try to work out how to “have it both ways”. Acceptance isn’t the same as ambivalence or apathy. But even if I don’t succeed, or if I have to compromise, there’s less grief to be felt in it, and hopefully more of a sense of peace.
On a side note, the theme of 物の哀れ might make for a good tattoo, if I ever decide to let go of my love for onsen/sento (hot springs/public baths in Japan). To be continued.
