Day Fifty-Two · Dewdrops

At 6:30 in the morning, on the grass in the company garden, every leaf is topped with a dewdrop.

Small, round, and shiny. When there is wind, they sway gently but do not fall, as if playing a game with the leaves.

Crouching down to look, the sky is reflected in the dewdrops. A cloud just happens to drift by, gets captured in that tiny water droplet, then drifts away. Another cloud, then it drifts away again.

Suddenly I realize that dewdrops actually exist for a very short time.

Once the sun rises, they are gone.

The short ones may last only an hour or two, the longer ones just a morning.

But they are not in a hurry.

When the time comes, they stay quietly, holding every passing cloud in their little hearts.

When it’s time to leave, they don’t struggle—they turn into vapor, float back into the sky, and wait for the next morning.

We always pursue “permanence.”

Long-lasting holdings, lasting gains, lasting attention.

We wish to hold everything tightly, holding on forever.

But some beauty is just like dewdrops.

A peaceful morning, a cup of coffee at the perfect temperature, a moment without watching the markets.

When they are here, cherish them; when they leave, don’t chase after them.

The sun slowly rises higher.

The dewdrops on the tips of the grass begin to disappear one by one, silently, without a trace.

But tomorrow morning, they will return.

Brief, yet complete.