Have you ever been stopped — truly stopped in your tracks — by something you weren’t anticipating or looking for?

The particular quality of late afternoon light falling across an ordinary wall. The familiar and sweet face of someone you love, authentically caught without pretense, fully alive and unguarded, in a moment they don’t know you’re witnessing. A piece of music or scent arriving in a moment that changes the experience entirely. The first brisk morning of autumn that arrives with the first frost. Children laughing and playing somewhere out of sight.

Have you ever noticed anything like this?

At one point in our lives, at least for some people, there seems to be a strange sort of fatigue that settles in. Not one that shows up all at once. A kind of slow exhaustion that builds over time — something that can feel much deeper than just physical fatigue. A sense of holding-it-together for too long, or perhaps more like an exhaustion-of-the-soul. The fatigue of carrying so much — our convictions, enduring resolve, purpose, or maybe the unmovable sense of knowing exactly where we stand and why. A sense of solidity, rightness, or direction that adds meaning and relevance.

Wabi-sabi is a wonderful concept as it has come to be understood in the West — a sort of melt-in-your-mouth blend of elevated flavors and textures. Think sushi: the quiet juxtaposition of rice, fresh fish, elegant presentation, and the bright accent of wasabi. Hip, cool, and culturally appealing.

But like most things that travel from another culture and get packaged, adorned, interpreted, and tweaked to fit a contemporary style or ethos, the murky — maybe muddy — origins of meaning and intention tend to shift. They become something more comfortable, more aligned with where we already are.

Each spring in Japan, something very simple happens.

Cherry trees begin to bloom.

For a short time — sometimes only a few days — the branches fill with pale blossoms that seem almost weightless against the sky.

During this brief season, people gather beneath the trees in a tradition known as Hanami (花見), which simply means flower viewing.

Families spread small blankets beneath the branches.
Friends share simple food.
Someone pours tea or opens a small bottle of sake to share.

Sometimes a word travels far from where it first was expressed and understood.

Along the way, layers of explanations get overlaid, models of thinking get applied and diagrams emerge. Eventually guidelines, programs and personalized advice take form, and the word begins to wobble a bit, become a bit weightier that it once was.

Ikigai may be one of those words.

In recent years, Ikigai has often been presented as a diagram that a lot of people are familiar with.

The tensions are very, very subtle.
Powerful, yet as ephemeral as the traceless arc of clouds drifting across the sky — or the fleeting path of a bird passing overhead.

Quietly, almost like a whispered hint, they shift the winds of our reactions and preferences.

Over time, these small tensions slowly build — taken for granted and often left unchecked.

They quietly pull us toward some experiences and away from others.

From a very early age, quite naturally, life begins to organize itself around a simple sensed center.

Me.
Mine.
You.

The sense of “I” becomes the quiet heartbeat of identity and how we move through life.

We learn quickly how to speak from it, defend it, explain it, strengthen it.
Families encourage it. Schools reinforce it.
Psychology and culture build entire frameworks around it.

Even well-intentioned communication often leans heavily in this direction.

Much of life is carried and experienced in tensions — whether we notice them or not.
Sometimes small, and sometimes quite large.

Often we notice tension in the body first…

A tightening in the shoulders.
A jaw that quietly sets.
A breath that becomes a little shallow.

But many of these tensions — these small moments of tightness — begin somewhere else.

A small worry appears.
A memory surfaces.
A moment does not go the way we hoped.

Sometimes the mind grabs hold of something and refuses to let go.

A thought.
A worry.
A story about what this means.

And suddenly you’re caught by it.
Embroiled in it…
Maybe even building on it.

When that happens, I sometimes do something absurdly ordinary… usually with ten small things.

Set ten spoons on the counter.
Count ten cracks in the sidewalk.
Locate ten sprinkler heads.
Stand up and sit down ten times.
Gather ten leaves.
Line up ten objects just to see how they look in a row.

Emotions are not the problem.

Anger.
Fear.
Anxiety.
Grief.

These arrive quickly sometimes.
Sometimes fiercely.

They are part of being human.

What tends to make things harder is not the emotion itself —
but the moment when the feeling quietly becomes who we think we are.

“I am an angry person.”
“I am anxious.”
“I am broken.”

At that point the feeling is no longer moving.

It becomes a place we stand.