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



Saying Sayonara
Charles Beers (Huntington High School)
I've never been great with good-byes and I hate the awkward moments leading up to them. The queasy
feeling in my stomach, combined with the golf ball-sized lump in my throat and the inevitable welling of
tears, foreshadows the inescapable words. Yes, I am a mush, and although I’ll never master this skill, I
realized this past summer I’ll need to learn.

A group of friends and I were sitting at our usual table in Kashi, the local Japanese restaurant where
we had forged our friendship. I remember every sight and smell vividly. There was the steam of the grill
that cast a warmth into the air and a sizzle to our hearts. There was the roar of conversation, dancing back
and forth from Japanese to English like a perfectly synchronized couple in the midst of a serenade. Best of
all was the indescribable taste of that first pork gyoza mixed with a steaming bowl of miso soup. It should
have been heaven, but this perfect painting of a Japanese dinner had a dark smear that lingered in the corner
of the canvas: it was a farewell dinner for Ben.

Ben was a senior, and one of my closest friends. We and a few other friends from art class forged a
friendship over Japanese cuisine and movies over the past three years. You could imagine that strange
feeling that crept up on me when he sent me a text saying he was leaving for Chicago in a matter of days
and could we have one last group dinner at Kashi. I was excited that he had gotten into his dream school,
but disappointed that he would be moving so far away in so little time. So while the rest of the group
scarfed down Angry Dragon Bento boxes, I was lost in thought about the future. Would this be the last time
I saw Ben? What about me? What would happen when I had to leave my friends behind for college next
year? After we were stuffed with Japanese delicacies and had bid our waitress sayonara, we drove back to
Ben's. Ben had told us several times that he had seen one of the greatest movies ever made: an old animated
movie titled Spirited Away, by Hayao Miyazaki. When the movie started to play, I tried my hardest to take
my mind off the inevitable of the evening.

In the first five minutes I realized something important: it was WEIRD. While the opening seemed
relatable, a little girl feeling anxious about heading off to a new school, things quickly took a very strange
turn. The parents transformed into pigs, animals and mystical creatures started talking, and the girl,
Chichiro, was forced to work in a bath house while trying to figure out a way to free her parents. I was
awestruck. What was I watching? But the more I watched, the more I became glued to the screen. The
colors were bright and beautiful, and I was eager to explore the fictional, nonsensical world. There were
funny moments, dark moments, weird moments, and even moments where characters questioned their own
identities. But the tone continued to be upbeat, and I became hooked on the spirited fantasy; I didn't want it
to end. Then, as all things must, Chichiro left the magical world, said good-bye to her new friends, and
returned to reality with her parents driving to her new school. It was over.

When Ben drove us home, I was lost in thought at the strange, addictive fantasy I has just seen. I felt
like Chichiro, embracing reality and facing the inevitable change that came with it, which is when I realized
the true message of the movie. I got out of the car, gave Ben a big hug and wished him luck at school, and
watched him drive off into the distance.

As I mentioned, I’m not good at good-byes, and that was one of the hardest. Leaving places and
people I’ve grown so attached to is inevitable as I now prepare to leave for college and discover new roads
to travel. However, I'll always remember the message of Spirited Away: make the most of the time you
have now. There are interesting new faces to see, places to visit, and memories to make. Chichiro and Ben
taught me that. One day I'll return to that fantasy world again, laughing alongside Ben as we devour spring
rolls or revisit Miyasaki’s masterpiece. But for now, “Ima o tanoshime.”
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