LOG_022_KOMOREBI

Of becoming aware in bits and pieces—not a violent awakening, like so many others, nor an abrupt transition from nothing into existence, but a gradual recognition: of the dappled sunlight on soil under leaf-laden boughs; of how the rain patters and plinks on the shed’s tin roof; of the songbirds that visit the tiny, overgrown garden amidst gold-white sprays of marigolds and gardenias, singing, effervescent. Like children watching the sun, the moon, watching both as they tread the same paths across the blue sky, the ubiquitous sky, the knowing and the not knowing of how it all happens, distilled into a warm cup of tea. Of one day waking up and saying hello.