The Beauty of Impermanence

The Japanese concept of mujo (無常) speaks to a simple truth: nothing lasts. The waves crash, the seasons shift, the people we meet come and go. Even we—our thoughts, our work, our lives—are in constant motion.

Spring is a reminder of this. We start in spring, we finish in spring. A season of meetings and partings, beginnings and endings. The cherry blossoms bloom brilliantly, then fall within days. The moment is fleeting, but the impression it leaves lingers.

I do miss spring in Boston and Osaka/Kobe at times like this. Having lived abroad for ten years before returning, the season carries a weight beyond just the weather—it’s the feeling of it all.

If we're talking preferences, I’ve always been more of an autumn person. But the meaning of spring—its weight, its significance—hits deeper. It’s the end of winter, the start of something new, and the cycle repeats.

My last spring memory? Quitting my job. I was working at a large cybersecurity company, dealing with critical infrastructure—energy, government, systems that couldn’t afford to fail—and met so many people along the way.

From the start of spring until the next spring, everything was shifting—work, school, life itself. We start in spring, we finish in spring. These moments in life feel like distinct episodes, fleeting yet impactful.

Even after leaving, I’m still in contact with my old company. Just recently, they reached out with a part-time offer, figuring out a role for me. We’ll see. Life keeps moving, and another chapter is about to begin.

Mujo reminds us of this. Life is impermanence and beauty intertwined. Every flower is bound to fall. That’s just how it is. We meet people, we share time with them, and then we part. But what matters isn’t how long something lasts—it’s the depth of the moment itself. That’s what lingers.

We don’t always notice these things while moving through life. But when we step back—when time condenses and we see the patterns, the turning points—it becomes clearer. What stays, what fades, what truly mattered.

And in that, comparison starts to feel meaningless. Everyone has their own path, their own strengths. Why spend time chasing what doesn’t bring happiness when life is so short? The light goes out at the end of the day—so why not use it while it’s still burning?

What matters is focusing on what we do best, what we value most. Holding on to what matters, letting go of what doesn’t. Reducing instead of adding. Life feels lighter that way.

And that’s what tea teaches, too. The art of Japanese and Chinese tea—Chadō, Senchadō, Gongfu Cha—carries this philosophy. Ichigo Ichie is one way to put it, but the essence remains the same. Every cup is a moment that will never come again. A meeting, a parting, a quiet pause in between.

Tea is fleeting, yet the impression it leaves lingers. It’s in the aftertaste that stays, the depth that unfolds, the complexity that reveals itself over time. The balance, the clarity, the resonance that remains long after the last sip. The way aroma lingers in the breath, how each steep shifts and evolves. The silkiness, the structure, the smoothness. The quiet hum of qi settling within. The memory we had of it. These are the things that matter—what stays, even after it’s gone.

Tea holds so much power. It teaches us impermanence, and in that, beauty. It’s a life philosophy.

Everything is fleeting, so we should drink the best tea while we can. No matter what we're facing, through it all, there’s tea—our quiet companion.

Maybe I’m writing like this because I had Wakocha earlier, a Japanese black tea, from a particular cultivar that made me mellow.

花は咲いては枯れ
あなたに心奪われ
それでも守り続けたくて
私のガーデン 果てるまで

人は出会い別れ
なくしてはまた手に入れ
それでも守り続けたくて
私のガーデン 果てるまで

— Garden by Fujii Kaze