Everything in life is just for a while
A reflection on time, presence, and looking up.
I came across a line from Richie in The Bear recently. He said, quite as-a-matter-of-factly just before attending a wedding with Syd:
Everything in life is just for a while.
We all know it. This idea is not new, of course. Every tradition that has thought seriously about the human condition has arrived at some version of it. The Japanese call the bittersweet awareness of passing things mono no aware (物の哀れ), “the bittersweet beauty of passing time.” The feeling you get when something beautiful is also passing away, like cherry blossoms, the end of autumn, or a beautiful sunset.
I often think of life as standing in a queue. It’s moving almost agonisingly slow at the beginning but unbelievably fast towards the end. Over the years, I’ve watched older relatives leave the queue. Friends. Those people are getting closer and closer to my own age.
It feels strange when you start to notice it. It wasn’t dramatic. There was no panic. No single moment of revelation. It’s just like standing in line and noticing that the crowd ahead of you is thinning. The line keeps moving. The end, wherever that is, edges a little closer every day, every single moment.
I’m moving into my sixties soon. This awareness feels more real with each passing moment.
We start keeping our heads and eyes down at around the time when we’re 20.
We call it staying focused. We keep ourselves busy. Our career demanded it. The family depended on it. Decades of discipline built everything around us and gave us stuff. And these habits have a way of growing into us. Nothing wrong with that.
But underneath the busyness, we begin to forget. We want to stay productive and keep our calendar full. We forget that we are in a queue that is moving and moving relentlessly forward. Our busyness (or strangely “busi-ness”) becomes a quiet defence against the awareness of our time passing.
And busyness isn’t the only distraction. We also distract ourselves by looking back, replaying better times or reliving old mistakes. Clinging. Regretting. If only I had not said those words. If only I had been more patient. Spent more time. Travelled more. Loved more. Forgive more.
Or we look ahead. Dreaming. Setting goals. Worrying. Planning. Strategising. Worrying. Plotting. When I have this, I will be happy. When the kids have grown up, I will relax. When I have made my millions, I will retire. And enjoy.
These have stolen more living than almost anything else I know. Everywhere but here. Any time but now.
Meanwhile, the queue keeps moving.
The Japanese have a concept called ichigo ichie (一期一会), or “one lifetime, one meeting.” The idea that every encounter, every ordinary afternoon, is singular and will not recur in exactly this form. The traditional tea ceremony is built around this awareness. You’re present with the unrepeatable fact of this tea, this light, these people. The ceremony ends. That’s the whole point of it.
In Parts Unknown (Full Episode - S8 E3), when Anthony Bourdain was looking for the best sushi in the world with Chef Masa Takayama, there was a scene where Takayama explained what I thought was ichigo ichie:
“This moment. Do not miss this…(when the sushi is served), then grab it and eat it. That’s why you got to eat quickly. If 30 seconds…1 minute, it’s dying. Ki (Qi) is leaving.” - Chef Masa Takayama
Two great chefs experiencing ichigo ichie during an omakase at Tokyo’s acclaimed Sushi Ko.
Most people live their whole lives getting ready, rehearsing for the real thing. They forget that the rehearsal IS the real thing. It is the only thing.
Cherry blossoms. The Japanese love them with an intensity that I find hard to understand. A week of beautiful blooms, then gone. It passes so quickly that it is painful; you cannot hold it. Or grasp the moment in your hand. Even a video cannot capture its essence.
The brevity of its beauty is the beauty. You cannot separate the bloom from the fall. Life with all its imperfections, its losses, its ordinary, unremarkable days, is the same thing. The ending isn’t what ruins it. The ending is what makes it real and beautiful.
Accepting this is not the same as resigning to it.
Resignation implies hopelessness. Pointlessness. Despair. Everything ends, so what’s the point anyway?
But acceptance, the kind that Zen masters teach, says: everything ends, so this moment is precious. Irreplaceable. Smell it. Taste it. Feel. And live it to the fullest.
Participate. That’s the whole point of it.
I’m trying to learn how to look up. Every day. Every now.
This meal in front of me. This conversation with my wife. The drive to Gary with my cousin. An afternoon of yum cha with my sons. This moment will not come again once it is gone.
Everything in life is just for a while.
So look up. Look around. Now.
Hi Francis, this writing moved me lots cos I share the same sentiment. Thank you for verbalising it. You always write so effortlessly eloquently. Bless u.