The tragedy isn’t that the bloom falls; the tragedy would be if it stayed forever, plastic and unchanging, immune to the wind. We spend so much of our lives trying to build fortresses against decay, seeking “permanent solutions” and “everlasting” bonds, yet we find our deepest emotional resonance in the things that are actively slipping through our fingers.
In Autumn Light, Pico Iyer captures a truth that Japan has long held as a cultural pulse:
“We cherish things, Japan has always known, precisely because they cannot last; it’s their frailty that adds sweetness to their beauty.”
This is the essence of mono no aware—the bittersweet pathos of things. It is the realization that the glow of the sunset is sharpened by the encroaching dark. If the sun hung at the horizon indefinitely, we would eventually stop looking. It is the ticking clock that forces our attention into the present.
When we look at a ceramic bowl mended with gold—kintsugi—we aren’t just seeing a repair. We are seeing a celebration of the break. The frailty of the clay is part of its history, and the gold doesn’t hide the fracture; it illuminates it. It suggests that the object is more beautiful now because it was vulnerable enough to break and survived to tell the tale.
In our own lives, we often mistake fragility for weakness. We hide our grief, our aging, and our transitions, fearing that they diminish our value. But beauty isn’t found in the absence of a shelf life. The most profound moments of connection—the way a child’s hand feels before they grow too big to hold yours, the specific light of a Tuesday afternoon in October, the final conversation with a mentor—derive their power from their expiration date.
To love something that cannot last is the ultimate act of human courage. It requires us to lean into the “sweetness” Iyer describes, knowing full well that the ending is baked into the beginning. We don’t love the cherry blossoms despite the fact that they will be gone in a week; we love them because of it.
In an era dominated by digital communication, the handwritten note stands out as a powerful and increasingly rare form of expression. The simple act of putting pen to paper carries a weight and significance that makes it a potent tool for both personal and professional communication. We can all appreciate their enduring charm and delightfulness.
During my tenure at IBM years ago, one of the most delightful aspects of being a manager was the provision of personal stationery. This wasn’t just any paper; it was a statement of elegance and personal touch. Smaller in size, cream-colored, and boasting a luxurious texture, each sheet bore my name engraved on the letterhead, conspicuously lacking any IBM logo. This stationery was designed for a specific purpose: to maintain the long-held company tradition of writing personal notes to colleagues and associates.
The power of a handwritten note lies in its inherent personal touch. When someone takes the time to write by hand, they invest a part of themselves into the message. The unique curves and strokes of their handwriting, the choice of words, and even the occasional crossed-out phrase all contribute to a sense of authenticity and intimacy that cannot be replicated by typed text. This personal investment communicates to the recipient that they are truly valued and special.
Receiving such a note was always a delight. Many of us kept these notes in special file folders, occasionally taking a few minutes to flip through them, reliving important moments and feeling a renewed sense of appreciation. These tangible and physical mementos have a quality that digital messages simply cannot match.
As the years have passed, the custom of sending personal notes has faded, replaced by the convenience of digital communications. This shift has only served to enhance the impact of handwritten notes. Receiving a handwritten note today feels like discovering a treasure. Such a note stands out precisely because it isn’t instant, digital communication.
The act of writing by hand also benefits the sender. The slower pace of handwriting compared to typing allows for more thoughtful composition. It encourages the writer to choose their words carefully and reflect on their message.
As we’ve been grappling with the impact of AI tools on various aspects of our lives, handwritten notes also serve as a bastion of genuine human expression. The act of writing by hand removes the temptation to rely on AI-generated text for our most personal communications. When we put pen to paper, we directly confront our own thoughts and emotions, as we find our own words to express what we truly feel.
Moreover, handwritten notes also provide a level of privacy and intimacy. Unlike emails or text messages, which can be easily forwarded or shared, a handwritten note is meant for the eyes of the recipient alone. This exclusivity adds to the special and personal nature of the communication.
Whether expressing gratitude, offering condolences, or simply saying “hello”, the act of putting pen to paper creates a moment of pause in our hectic lives for both the sender and and recipient providing a moment to reflect, to connect, and to affect another person’s life in a delightful and meaningful way. Special creations for special people in our lives!
Suddenly, I was enveloped in a thick, impenetrable fog. One moment, I had been cruising through clear skies; the next, I was relying solely on my instruments to make an instrument approach into Salinas. The transition was abrupt, and my heart raced as I scanned the gauges in front of me.
“Scan and scan again,” my flight instructor’s voice echoed in my mind, a mantra drilled into me during the long hours of instrument flight training. I forced my eyes to move, to keep scanning, but they kept drifting back to the directional gyro — suddenly its compass rose was spinning wildly, round and round, sort of hypnotizing me, capturing my focus. My gaze felt stuck, refusing to budge as the gyro whirled around and around, 360 degrees of chaos. I knew the airplane wasn’t actually turning but I was very confused.
“Focus, focus!” I yelled at myself. I wrenched my gaze away from that directional gyro, my heart pounding in my chest. That instrument had become a black hole, threatening to suck all my concentration into its dizzying vortex. I needed to maintain control, and not let things get away from me. I needed to stay “in front” of the airplane, not “fall behind”.
Pilots in the clouds must keep scanning across four primary flight instruments — or risk being seduced by their inner ears into believing they’re in a turn and need to correct. Instead, the correction puts the airplane into a turn, and a deadly spiral begins. I knew this, but the malfunctioning gyro made it hard to trust my instruments.
I forced my gaze to the attitude indicator, my eyes locking onto the horizon line. The wings were level — good. But I needed more confirmation. The altimeter showed a descending altitude flying the glide slope; the airspeed indicator reassured me I wasn’t descending abnormally. Finally, I checked the turn coordinator — no turn, the wings still level.
I resumed my scan, fighting the urge to glance back at the gyro. I pushed the throttle full in for maximum power, broke off the glideslope and began to climb. I knew there were clear blue skies above me. The altimeter, airspeed indicator, and attitude indicator became my anchors, each pass feeling like an eternity. My palms were sweaty, my breath coming in shallow, rapid bursts.
The cloud seemed endless, a suffocating blanket threatening to overwhelm me. The instruments became my only reality, their steady readings a tenuous grip on sanity. A voice in my headphones said “You’re not on the glide slope. State your intentions.” I quickly said “Cancelling the approach, equipment problem.” He gave me a new altitude to climb to and a vector away from the airport.
Then, I broke out above the fog layer and into the clear air above, the oppressive gray giving way to blue. The horizon reappeared, a welcome sight after the endless void of the clouds. Slowly, the tension in my muscles began to ease, though the threat of the spinning gyro loomed in the back of my mind. It continued to spin.
As I reflected on the incident later, I realized that my flight instructor’s relentless emphasis on scanning had not only guided me through that moment of crisis but also ingrained a deeper understanding of what it means to be a pilot. It’s not just about flying the plane; it’s about staying composed, making quick decisions, and always being ready for the unexpected. The sky can be very unforgiving, but with training and determination, a pilot can navigate even the most daunting challenges.
In that moment, I felt like I had dodged a bullet — I wasn’t just someone flying a plane, but had faced a serious challenge and been able to safely recover from it. I felt thankful to have escaped the failure, not fallen victim to its mechanical grasp.
The best flights always end with a smooth touchdown back home. I was relieved to taxi back to my parking spot and shut the engine down, looking forward to flying another day. With a new directional gyro installed!
Amor Towles, the literary maestro behind “A Gentleman in Moscow,” throws a curious phrase our way in the epilogue of “Rules of Civility” – life’s a game of honeymoon bridge. Intriguing, right? Forget four partners and fancy bidding wars. Honeymoon bridge is a stripped-down affair, two souls huddled, playing with a deck stacked with the unknown.
In our twenties, when there is still so much time ahead of us, time that seems ample for a hundred indecisions, for a hundred visions and revisions—we draw a card, and we must decide right then and there whether to keep that card and discard the next, or discard the first card and keep the second. And before we know it, the deck has been played out and the decisions we have just made will shape our lives for decades to come.
Amor Towles, Rules of Civility
Makes you think, doesn’t it? Because life, let’s face it, is rarely a team sport. We navigate its twists and turns with a partner by our side sometimes, sure, but ultimately, the hand we’re dealt is ours alone. We hold the cards, good and bad, diamonds of joy, clubs of disappointment, hearts overflowing with love, and spades that sting with loss.
The beauty, and the burden, of honeymoon bridge is this: you don’t get to see all the cards at once. They’re dealt face down, one by one. A job offer, a heartbreak, a random act of kindness — each a surprise revelation. You play based on what you hold, strategize on the fly, hoping the next card complements your hand, not cripples it.
Think about it. That first crush, a nervous flutter as you lay down a tentative “hello.” The late-night study session, hearts pounding in sync with the clock ticking down to exam day. The thrill of landing your dream job, a high five with fate itself. These are the early bids, the initial gambles in this grand game of life.
But here’s the twist: unlike bridge, where the entire deck is eventually revealed, life keeps some cards hidden. You might yearn for a specific suit, a heart to mend a broken one, a diamond to replace a financial worry. But the dealer, that mischievous force we call destiny, has its own agenda.
So, what do you do? Do you fold, overwhelmed by the uncertainty? No, my friend. In honeymoon bridge, you play with what you’ve got. You learn to finesse the hand you’re dealt. A bad grade? Maybe it’s a wake-up call to explore a different path. A lost love? A chance to rediscover yourself and redefine what matters.
The key, as Towles suggests, is in that word “honeymoon.” It speaks of a time of joy, of new beginnings, of a willingness to embrace the unknown. It’s about approaching life with the wide-eyed wonder of a first kiss, a constant sense of discovery even when the cards seem stacked against you.
Sure, there will be moments of frustration. You’ll throw your hands up, wondering why you keep getting dealt rotten luck. But remember, even the worst hand can be salvaged by a clever play. A setback at work might lead to an unexpected opportunity. A health scare could ignite a newfound appreciation for life.
Life’s a game of honeymoon bridge, after all, not a high-stakes poker game. There’s no all-or-nothing final showdown. It’s a continuous flow, a constant dance with the cards you’re given. And the most skilled players, the ones who truly master the game, are the ones who learn to adapt, to find the hidden value in every card, even the seemingly useless ones.
Because sometimes, the joker you least expect becomes the winning play. A random encounter blossoms into a lifelong friendship. A layoff pushes you towards a hidden passion. These unexpected turns, these wild cards, are what make the game truly exhilarating.
So, the next time life throws you a curveball, a card you didn’t see coming, take a deep breath. Remember, it’s honeymoon bridge, not a battle royale. Embrace the challenge, assess your hand, and make the best play you can. With a little bit of strategy, a whole lot of heart, and a dash of that honeymoon spirit, you might just surprise yourself with the hand you build.
Life’s a game, after all, and the best players are the ones who keep playing, no matter what cards they’re dealt. It’s the journey not the reward.
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