Let Light Soften Us

It had been one of those days where everything seemed to pile up. I arrived at work with a long to-do list and left with an even longer one. Colleagues kept walking into my office, each one bringing an additional set of tasks, my phone rang off the hook, last-minute meetings pulling me away from the work in front of me. Endless demands and countless small frustrations wore away at me.

By the time I parked the car to fetch my wife from work, my mind was still running laps around unfinished conversations and unchecked tasks. I hadn’t noticed how tightly I was gripping the steering wheel, how insidiously the tension crept into my body, until I finally stopped moving.

The rain had just passed. Droplets clung to the windshield, round and still. As I sat there, I noticed the way the light bent inside them, each one a tiny, shifting world. Some were clear and bright; others refracted a golden glow into tiny rainbows. When I tilted my head, the reflections moved with me, bending and changing, as if they were alive.

The moment reminded me of Komorebi, the Japanese word for sunlight filtering through the leaves. It describes that soft, dappled light that dances across forest floors, a fleeting interplay of light and shadow. Staring at the tiny beads of water, the light dispersed within them, each one a miniature artwork, I realised that the essence of Komorebi isn’t limited to the forest. It’s found wherever light touches the impermanent.

In those few minutes, I felt myself truly exhale, as if the simple act of noticing beauty gave my body permission to slow down. The humming in my head softened. The world grew quiet again. My breath returned, quiet and steady.

It’s easy to think of calm as something we have to reach for, like a reward waiting at the end of a yoga session, a walk, or a weekend. But sometimes, it’s closer than we think. It lives in the noticing. The way light filters through leaves or raindrops. The shadow of a tree swaying against a wall. The way a bee hovers, indecisive, between two flowers. When we pause long enough to notice, our attention returns to the present, and with it, our peace.

This present moment is where life is actually happening, and sometimes all it takes to return to it is a droplet of water holding a tiny piece of sky.

Komorebi reminds us that serenity is not a luxury reserved for retreats or still mornings; it’s a choice available to us in any moment. It’s not about escaping the noise of life, but about letting light filter through it. We can find stillness in the spaces between meetings, in the glimmer of sunlight on a cup of tea, or in the hush before sleep.

When I finally saw my wife walking toward the car, my frown had turned into a small smile. Everything felt suddenly, inexplicably complete. The tension I had carried all day had dissolved. My to-do list was still long but my mood was light.

Komorebi is everywhere, dear reader, if we choose to look. It asks for nothing more than a pause, a breath, a willingness to see. When we let light in, even for a moment, our world softens.

And so do we.

Until next week,

Ric.