September/October Newsletter 2026: “Impermanence”

As challenging and painful as impermanence can be for us, there is an exquisite beauty it brings as well. In Leonard Koren’s book, Wabi-Sabi, he sheds some light on this concept of beauty. He describes Wabi-Sabi as “The most conspicuous and characteristic feature of what we think of as traditional Japanese beauty, the quintessential Japanese aesthetic, the beauty of things impermanent, imperfect and incomplete.” If we could accept the possibility that things are in a continuous motion of,  “Either devolving towards or evolving from, nothingness,” and that, “The inclination toward nothingness is unrelenting and universal”, and if we could, “Slow way down, be patient and look very closely,” how much more extraordinary poetry and grace would we experience in every ordinary moment?

Yet it makes sense that we would want to cling to something. The idea of nothingness can be a bit scary. Likely it’s control or the illusion of safety that we’re really clinging to. A simple example appears right now as I sit here writing, I am struck by the fact that this word application has updated itself and now functions differently, and suddenly I don’t know how to use it properly. I feel “out of control.” My peace and harmony disrupted, I yearn for the old program I used to know. I feel pressured to quickly adapt or be left behind. I don’t set my phone for automatic updates for the same reason, I don’t feel equipped to keep up with the changes. Such resistance and so much energy wasted by being annoyed, irritated or angry!  If I didn’t yearn for the past or have concern over what the future might bring, I would suffer so much less. Even as I know this, and respect the exquisite beauty in impermanence, I still struggle. Why?

Here’s something simple I am again reminded of while writing this. “Truth comes from the observation of nature.” When I don’t spend enough time in nature, I am not as connected to my own vital truth and I get further disconnected from the axiom of impermanence. When I’m immersed in nature more, sand, dirt, trees, garden, in the ocean, the mountains, I feel much more aligned with the wonder and exquisite beauty of impermanence in all of my life. There’s no fancy recipe. Nature teaches me, nature calms my fears, nature cures, nature heals, nature brings me home to the poetry and grace of each long and fleeting moment.

There is a phrase I return to often: this too shall pass.

We tend to reach for it during difficult times, as a reminder that grief will soften, pain will change, uncertainty will eventually give way to something else. But I think we forget that the phrase belongs equally to the beautiful things.

This moment will pass, too.

The perfect afternoon. The body we have today. A relationship in its current form. A season of health. A season of illness. The way we understand ourselves. The beliefs we are certain are true.

Nothing stays exactly as it is.

Nature may be our greatest teacher of this. A flower reaches its fullest expression and almost immediately begins to change. Fruit ripens and then falls. The moon fills and empties. The ocean reaches the shoreline only to pull itself away again. Just when we think we have captured something, it has already begun becoming something else.

Our bodies are no different. They are continually repairing, breaking down, rebuilding and adapting. Health itself is not a fixed destination that we arrive at and somehow keep forever. Neither is disease necessarily a permanent identity. Both are states influenced by countless changing relationships—food, environment, age, sleep, stress, thought, movement, season, community and circumstance.

Ayurveda taught me something important about this.

We were often encouraged to hold concepts lightly.

A principle may be true, but how it expresses itself depends upon the person, the season, the environment, the stage of life and what is happening in that particular moment. Grip too tightly to a rule and you may stop seeing the person standing in front of you.

I have begun to recognize the same thing in myself.

There have been times in my life when my beliefs felt solid and permanent. I knew what I thought. I knew what something meant. I knew how things worked.

And then life gave me more information.

Experience softened the edges. Contradictions appeared. Something I once believed absolutely became more nuanced. Not necessarily wrong, just incomplete.

Perhaps wisdom is not becoming more certain.

Perhaps it is becoming more willing to remain in relationship with change.

There is freedom in that.

If something is painful, we do not have to assume it will always be this way.

If something is wonderful, we can love it deeply without demanding that it remain.

If we are healthy, we can care for that health rather than taking it for granted. If we are unwell, we can remember that the body is responsive, dynamic and continually becoming.

And perhaps most importantly, we can loosen our grip on the idea that who we are today must be who we are tomorrow.

Impermanence is sometimes frightening because it reminds us that nothing can truly be held.

But it is also what makes transformation possible.

The leaf falls.

The wound heals.

The season turns.

The mind changes.

The body adapts.

And again and again, life quietly reminds us:

this too shall pass.

Lately in Hawaiʻi, storm after storm has brought flooding that has taken homes, farms, and livelihoods. These are heartbreaking, impossible to ignore reminders that nothing is permanent.

Our family has been living with that truth in a deeply personal way. A few months ago, my cousin wasn’t feeling well. He was young and strong. He went into the hospital, and three weeks later he was gone. He left behind a beautiful wife and a young daughter, and a hole in our family that I still can’t begin to explain.

I look at my camera roll and see an ordinary day a year ago. We had no idea how precious it was. That’s the thing about time: we assume we have more of it, and sometimes we do. But none of us knows what the next five minutes will bring.

We live in a world that’s always asking us what’s next. What bigger thing are we building? What more could we have? Meanwhile, the people we love are right here. The life we worked so hard for is happening right now.

I often believe that when life doesn’t go the way we wanted, the universe may be guiding us somewhere we couldn’t have imagined for ourselves. But I can’t say that about my cousin’s death. I don’t know why it happened, and I won’t pretend I do. I can only hope there is meaning we don’t yet understand.

What I do know is that I want to stop rushing past what I have. I want to look at the faces around my table. Listen to their voices. Feel the sun on my skin. Be grateful for this ordinary, extraordinary moment while I’m in it.

Nothing is permanent. Maybe that is exactly why we should love it all so fully.