A Window

It's been a long time since my last update. hope you are enjoying a great weekend to prepare back to work after a sweet special holiday.

So here is a warm greeting.

I have had an important friend for a long time: word. Our connection thrives through reading and writing, a bond that feels both deep and timeless.

Today, I want to write about windows—or rather, begin my reflections with them.

Through the window in my kitchen, I have the perfect view of a cherry tree that stands just outside, a living canvas for the changing seasons.

In spring, the cherry tree awakens with the sprouting of new buds. Soon, delicate white and light pink blossoms cover its branches, creating a breathtaking display of renewal and beauty.

As summer arrives, the blossoms give way to lush green leaves, and small cherries begin to form. These fruits slowly ripen in the warmth, transforming into vibrant shades of red, yellow, or even purple. The tree feels alive with abundance, its branches heavy with fruit ready for harvest.

Autumn brings a shift in the tree’s demeanor. The ripe cherries are gone, the leaves turn to shades of yellow, and a soft breeze carries them to the ground. It is a season of gentle decline and quiet preparation.

In winter, the cherry tree enters a state of stillness. The bare branches seem dormant, but beneath the surface, the tree quietly stores energy. Its roots continue to absorb nutrients, preparing for the inevitable renewal of spring.

I often spend my time in the kitchen during the morning and early evening. The light that filters through the window changes with the seasons, and both the morning and evening light have their own unique charm.

In spring, the morning light feels fresh and bright, carrying the promise of renewal and growth. Summer mornings might hold a touch of humidity, while the sunsets are particularly vibrant and mesmerizing. Autumn mornings arrive with a crisp chill, and the evening light takes on a golden hue, painting everything in warmth. Winter mornings are quieter and colder, but the evening light exudes a cozy sense of anticipation, a gentle glow against the cold.

There is another window, the one in my bedroom, which is covered with frosted paper. So, often when I can't sleep at night, I watch the moon shift across the sky, its light casting moving shadows. The trees outside my window, along with the whispering wind in the night, often make me drift into a trance. It is a kind of quiet unique to the night—within this silence, the sounds seem to come from a far-off place. Though there is a faint, mournful whine, it brings an overwhelming peace.

There is another window, through which I’ve never seen in person. I’ve only seen the night and stars from this window, and sometimes the first snow. At times, I can even see the coastline, and the spire of an ancient tower, where there is an old clock.

I have only seen certain moments of autumn and winter through this window, glimpsing scenes that belong to those seasons. Perhaps I will see spring and summer,

“You see, you can already tell me how many rivets are in the Golden Gate Bridge. And how many miles of cable were used and how high it is. But it's not until you actually stand on it and see the beauty, and listen to the suspension cables singing in the wind...”

“That’s an experience. That’s human experience.”

Quoted from the movie: Finch

Background:Finch is a 2021 American post-apocalyptic survival film directed by Miguel Sapochnik and written by Craig Luck and Ivor Powell.[1] The film stars Tom Hanks and Caleb Landry Jones. The story follows an aging man named Finch, a survivor in a now nearly uninhabitable Earth, who builds and teaches a robot to take care of his dog when he dies.

Perhaps I will never stand by the window to see the seasons I now witness, to observe the play of light and shadow, to gaze at the sea of clouds, the coastline, and the mist. But I want to tell you, some experiences transcend mountains and rivers, connecting time and space, unaffected by the constraints of time or space. Some forces of life, some beliefs in living, travel through the mind and spread through the senses of the body. Once they exist, they are there.

So it is my heartfelt gratitude to you. Between my destiny and me, there is often a silent understanding. It has never been stingy with tenderness, nurturing, and caring for me. In the moments when my life most needed tranquility and depth, it granted me this time and space, filled with immense calmness and sorrow.

--Do you know what immense calmness is?

--encompass and settle all joy, delight, and sorrow, allowing you to digest and absorb all energy.

--Do you know an even deeper, vaster, and more profound sorrow?

- continuously brings you peace.

Maybe, true tranquility is always filled with sorrow because life, after all, is a tragedy.

Thank you.