Nothing Lasts. How Do We Face It?
'SEE THE TREE there? It's turning red, right?' I looked to see what Kotaro Nishibori, the last manufacturer of paper umbrellas in Kyoto, was pointing at. On our left was a line of cherry trees, their leaves oxblood on that sunny November morning. On our right was Nijo Castle, where, Nishibori informed me, the Meiji Restoration began. It was here, in 1868, that the last shogun, Yoshinobu Tokugawa, returned political power to Emperor Meiji, ending the nearly 700-year shogunate. Overnight, it seemed, Japan was open to the world and, as the curtain fell on its medieval past, the country entered a period of transformational change.
'It looks like it will die,' Nishibori said of the cherry tree, 'but it's not going to die. The next spring, there will be another flower blooming on that same tree.' Then, drawing a line between nature, men and history, he gestured to the castle and said, 'All the power fading and passing to the next generation.'
The country that changed modern culture and design, from A to Z
The notion of impermanence has long held a special place in Japanese thought, ranging from religion and philosophy to aesthetics and architecture. That essential belief in the transience of all physical things is Buddhist in origin and has generated a vast vocabulary of words surrounding its philosophical implications. Mujo is one term for impermanence, but so is mono no aware, which has been translated variously as 'the pathos of things' or 'the beauty of transience' but is simply an awareness of mujo. Buddhist teaching would have us live in proximity to this knowledge — that everything we love and become attached to must pass from the earth in its material form — allowing it to impart grace and humility to our lives, even as we forgo those things such as ego and hubris that advance the illusion that death will not come for us all.
To live in the nearness of death is not a recipe for inaction or even fatalism. Yet it does require us to hold seemingly contradictory ideas. One of the ways in which Japan enshrines the subtle meaning of these concepts is through the realm of art. Beauty in old Japan, as everywhere in the premodern world, was a vessel of knowledge. Nothing, not in Asia nor in pre-Renaissance Europe, was ever beautiful for beauty's sake; it was beautiful because it lighted the way to truth.
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How a WWII submariner took the fight directly to the Japanese
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A dramatic example of the situation in 1944 began in mid-June, when three boats from Submarine Attack Group 9, named 'Parks' Pirates' for their commander, Cmdr. Lewis Smith Parks, departed Pearl Harbor to prowl the waters from Formosa to Luzon. They were led by Cmdr. Lawson P. 'Red' Ramage on Parche, followed by Steelhead and Hammerhead. The Massachusetts native graduated from the U.S. Naval Academy as an ensign in July 1931, with his first attempt to get a submarine assignment initially blocked due to an eye injury. His second attempt, in which he memorized the eye chart, succeeded in getting him aboard S-29 in January 1936. He was a radio and sound officer at Pearl Harbor in March 1941, and he was there when Japanese carrier planes raided it on Dec. 7. On June 6, 1944, Parks' Pirates embarked on their first patrol, with modest initial results for Hammerhead: a sampan destroyed on June 9, followed by a coastal oil carrier damaged. 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Discovery of 300-Year-Old Coins May Prove $17 Billion ‘Richest Wreck in History' Has Been Found
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In 2015, then-Colombian President Juan Manuel Santos spoke at a news conference regarding the shipwreck's initial rediscovery, telling attendees, "This is the most valuable treasure that has been found in the history of humanity," ABC News reported. Since it was sunk by British warships some 317 years ago, the vessel has been remarkably untouched, officials previously said. The Colombian government didn't immediately respond when contacted by PEOPLE for additional information. Read the original article on People
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A moment that changed me: I went to a death cafe – and learned how to live a much happier life
'Are you afraid of dying, or are you afraid of not living?' Last year, I was sitting in a circle of strangers – half Buddhist monks, half morbidly curious members of the public – when someone asked one of the most profound questions I had ever heard. I was at a 'death cafe', at my local Buddhist centre in south London. A plate of biscuits was passed around while people nursed mugs of hot tea. At 29, I was one of the youngest attending the informal chat about death and dying, which was part of an initiative to encourage more open conversations about the ends of our lives. During the session, people reflected on the lives of those they had lost. Stories were shared about the joyful moments they had had together. A woman asked me why I would want to come to something like this, at my age. I looked around before revealing more than I had ever told my own friends and family. I began to talk about how, for a long time, I had considered suicide. Throughout my late teens and early 20s, I was stifled by my thoughts and anxieties, and often felt misunderstood. After receiving professional help (and an autism diagnosis), I became plagued with guilt and shame that I hadn't embraced how precious life actually was. I felt regretful for wasting what some people call the best years of their life. I decided to say yes to every opportunity in a bid to catch up on everything I had missed. I took on endless creative projects, went on holidays, wrote books and scripts, made films, and hosted dinner parties. I'd gone to the death cafe after seeing a poster advertising the meetings. That day, I shared how I'd often fixated on milestones as a way to measure my success, and how I would compare myself with others and feel like a failure. We laughed as we acknowledged how these milestones, like university degrees or property ownership, were never used as a way to describe people who had died. I realised that my newfound zest for life also had its downsides: I felt burnt out, and I hadn't given myself enough time to savour moments before moving on to something else. After a career in acting, I had become a published journalist almost overnight, but instead of celebrating my new commissions, I gauged my success as a writer by counting how many articles I had written. Similarly, I had acted in multiple major TV productions, but panicked when I didn't have the next one lined up. I'd spend eight hours making the perfect cake for a friend's birthday but then be exhausted for the event itself. 'The journey is the best bit,' smiled one of the older strangers in the room. 'The fun is not knowing what might happen.' I realised that my fear of not living meant my ego was fuelling my choices. My desire to be successful came from my insecurities about feeling like a failure to others. So I needed to focus on how things made me feel, not just how great they looked or sounded to strangers. My shame over my mental health had made me defensive, as if I owed everyone an explanation as to why I made certain choices. But at the death cafe, I realised that I could thrive in imperfection. I've become a much more patient person, and try to be more present when spending time with people During that evening I met people who were ill, people who believed in reincarnation, parents who had lost children, and a woman who cared for the dying. While many of the questions we had about death were answered, we had to accept that not all of them could be. Before we left, we hugged. Related: A moment that changed me: I went into the wilderness with my family – and lost my inhibitions I felt a sense of peace flood over me as I realised that I no longer needed to seek validation from others. Instead, I chose to accept myself and embrace my past. Rather than believing that saying yes to everything is the best way to live life to the fullest, I've become more open about communicating my boundaries. I've become a much more patient person, too, and try to be more present when spending time with people. While this shift away from pleasing people means I've lost some friends, I've also gained a stronger bond with others. Since my first visit, I have continued to return to death cafes all over London, meeting new people and having new conversations about death over tea and cake. In truth, I feel more alive than ever for doing so. • Elizabeth McCafferty is a journalist who writes regularly for the Guardian • In the UK and Ireland, Samaritans can be contacted on freephone 116 123, or email jo@ or jo@ In the US, you can call or text the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline on 988, chat on or text HOME to 741741 to connect with a crisis counsellor. In Australia, the crisis support service Lifeline is 13 11 14. Other international helplines can be found at
