ゆらぎこそ
いのちの調べ
音のままに
In wavering tones
life composes its music—
let it play as is.
People talk about harmony like it’s a goal.
Something fixed. Clean. Balanced.
A final chord that rings just right.
But when I look back—really look—
I don’t think I’ve ever lived in harmony for very long.
Not the tidy kind, anyway.
Not the kind you can frame on a wall and nod at.
The truth is, most of life isn’t harmonious.
It’s dissonant.
Messy.
A slow-motion stumble through moods and misunderstandings.
One second you’re laughing over dinner,
the next you’re not talking for days,
both convinced the other doesn’t get it.
And maybe that’s okay.
Maybe that’s not failure at all.
Maybe it’s how things breathe.
If I let go of anything now,
it wouldn’t be anger. Or sadness.
Or even conflict.
I’d let go of the need for constant harmony.
Because I think I finally understand:
harmony isn’t something you force.
It’s something that visits.
It comes and goes like weather.
And the rest of the time—
when things are cracked, off-key, unspoken—
that’s not absence.
That’s still music.
Just a different kind.
When I was younger, I thought the point was to fix everything.
To keep the peace.
To make sure no one was ever hurt,
and that every conversation ended with a nod and a smile.
But life taught me something different.
It taught me through slammed doors,
through cold silences in kitchens,
through the lump in my throat when I wanted to say sorry but didn’t know how.
It taught me through love that didn’t listen
and love that did, eventually,
after a long walk and some space.
The biggest turning points in my life didn’t happen during peaceful times.
They happened during rupture.
I grew not from calm,
but from the friction.
The argument with my father that left us both raw.
The moment I said something cruel and watched someone I loved flinch.
The breakup that emptied me so completely
I had no choice but to start again from zero.
In those moments, everything hurt.
But everything mattered.
Because pain, when you let it pass through you,
doesn’t rot.
It reshapes.
It shows you the edge of who you were
and the door to who you could become.
Harmony is not the default.
It’s a brief grace.
And when it arrives—after the tears,
after the misunderstanding,
after the long, awkward conversation where no one quite knew what to say—
it feels like a warm hand on your back.
A momentary alignment.
A breath you both finally take together.
But it’s not forever.
It doesn’t need to be.
Wabi-sabi lesson:
Let go of the fantasy of perfect peace.
Real life wavers.
People clash.
Things fall apart.
And in that falling, something truer is revealed.
Beauty isn’t in the balance.
It’s in the attempt.
In the small, flawed efforts we make to meet each other where we are.
In the courage to stay
even when everything is slightly off tune.
Sometimes, the most honest love is the one that argues.
Not to win.
But to be real.
life 
Leave a comment