Beauty Is in the Eye of the Beholder
Irene Chen (Townsend Harris High School)
It starts on a spring day, sitting in the computer room. The only sounds audible are the whirring of
computer fans and the voice of our teacher. 32 pairs of eyes wander the room, looking for a respite from the
school work. In a brief moment of focus, I hear the teacher talking about words that are unique to certain
languages and my interest is piqued. 31 pairs of eyes now wander the room as my attentions shifts to my
computer screen. I'm browsing through a list of words that are unique to other cultures when I'm drawn to
one word: komorebi.

Komorebi is the Japanese word for the sunlight that filters through the leaves of trees. I'm immediately
drawn in by the picturesque vision of sunlit rays falling on green leaves. But my second thought comes in
the form of a question: this word seems so exceedingly specific and unique. Why create a word just to
describe this relatively uneventful and common occurrence? Well, I found my answer a few months later.

It is the summer of 2014 and my family is at the Japanese Tea Garden in San Francisco. The moment I
enter the garden, I'm greeted with an array of multicolored bushes, shrubs, and leaves that border a pond,
tinged with green. Light grey rocks speckled with white and red are scattered in a seemingly random, yet
unexpectedly pleasing formation. As I walk through the garden, I'm astounded by the order and beauty
around me. I see koi boasting beautiful colors, reminiscent of fire dancing along their delicate fins. Trees
with branches marked off with the light feather touches of a green leaf. Clear ponds dotted with lily pads
and the lightest of pinks found in the petals of a lotus flower. I come across an arched drum bridge that
crosses a thin river, stone statues of cranes frozen in place in ponds, bright red pagodas, stepping stone
paths, a small zen garden, and a traditional tea house in the heart of the garden. Needless to say, I’m
amazed. You see, I previously thought of gardens as fields of flowers or small, personalized patches of land
for families to use recreationally. However, completely submerged in the experience, I found that the
meaning of a garden went far beyond America’s backyards, geared towards practicality.

A major part of Japanese culture involves an appreciation for nature and a pursuit of simplistic beauty.

That's not to say that countless other cultures don’t value nature and simplicity, but this is the first time I've
witnessed such a pure devotion in applying those principles and melding them together to create such a
garden that is there for the purpose of eliciting a sense of peace, serenity, and contentment. And that is the
answer to my question. The whole reason why komorebi exists as a word is because Japanese culture is
rooted in minimalism. There doesn't need to be a special occasion to acknowledge beauty. Rather, it is
finding the extraordinary in the ordinary and looking at it from a new perspective every day that makes life
so much more enjoyable. Instead of constantly seeking happiness, you learn to incorporate happiness into
your everyday life.

So here I am, standing in the middle of a Japanese tea garden and breathing in the crisp summer air.

First I look at the floor. Then I look around me. Finally, I look up at the trees to see a collage of colors:
greens, yellows, and reds. I see the way the leaves sway in the breeze, the way sunlight shines through
holes in the canopy while contrasting against the silhouette of leaves for a holistic embodiment of beauty in
the mundane. I mean, I see this every day, but I'm suddenly looking through a new lens. Just like how the
sunlight hits a barricade of leaves and illuminates it from behind, unveiling a whole network of
interconnected veins from where I stand, I now see this display from a completely new point of view. And
you know what? Sometimes, you do need another perspective to let beauty reveal itself where it was once
hidden. 100