Saying Goodbye

Aware (a-wa-re) is a Japanese aesthetic term that is difficult to define. Roughly, it embodies the feeling of impermanence that is drenched in melancholy. In the Manyoshu, a collection of eighth-century Japanese poetry (where the current Japanese era name, reiwa, came from), aware is triggered when birds mournfully call for each other as their time together are running out. Because change is inevitable, Japanese poets came to accept it as a part of life. However, instead of falling into despair to the fact that there is an inevitable end for everything, they see beauty in it. During the Heian Era (794 - 1185), the term evolved to evoke interjections of “ah” or “oh,” while tipping the line between beauty and melancholy. In modern Japan, the term still lives on in the culture. The reason a large number of people go out into parks at the beginning of spring to see the cherry blossom bloom is not really because the cherry tree has more intrinsic value than other types of trees such as the pine or the oak. It is because the cherry trees’ delicate pink flowers bloom in April, only to wither a few weeks later. In other words, transience is beauty.

Yesterday around midnight, I came back to my room from a farewell party with my senior friends. Before I left, I felt, almost naturally, that we will meet again next week on Friday as we have always have throughout the semester. But after arriving back at my room, lounging around on the sofa and staring up to the white ceiling, I came to the realization that this get-together that I have taken for granted will cease to exist. To clarify, the get-together itself will not cease to exist; it will continue on with the rest of us who have not graduated. It’s just that the seniors will no longer be here.

It’s not as if I won’t see them again though. At least, this is what I want to tell myself. I mean, we have technology that help connect us. At one of our parties, we can probably skype call them in. But again, they are not actually here.

As I am writing this, I looked up to the shelf next to one of the two dusty windows in my room. There was a cardboard box filled with cup noodles and packs of spices that I got from a senior who I spent hours talking with about all the nuances of life while staying in our Airbnb in Argentina. Next to the box was a monitor that I received from another senior who I created a wheat farm within Minecraft while debating about the impact of AI in the future. The house was silent and I started to hear my heart and mind slowly beat to the rhythm of post-graduation blues: an overwhelming feeling of loneliness. Is this what happens when we say goodbye? How am I supposed to deal with this “goodbye?” I will probably see them again, but in this void, their only remnants are the photos, fragments of memories in my head and stuff on my shelf.

Why should I be scared even if I know I am going to meet them again? I think a lot of my fear stems from my previous experiences in middle school and high school. Truth is, I have not stayed in a single school for more than four years. From Thailand to Switzerland and now America, I was able to make a lot of friends. But over time, my relationship with them started to fade. We are friends, but I feel that it’s not quite the same: stuff we talk about, our mutual interests, our inside jokes. It’s easy for those who have friends they see every day at school for the past eight years to say that they have been able to keep contact despite going different ways at some point. I was able to form connections with people despite not being with them for long, but I can no longer just reach out to them and talk to them like before. Maybe it’s my fault for not doing anything. Maybe it’s my fault for letting these relationships fade away. But how can other people do it, but I can’t?

Is time the problem? Did I not truly connect with the people I know? I don’t believe that. I think I’ve truly become friends with people despite only knowing them for a few weeks: at summer camps, middle school, high school. But most of these relationships faded away. I can’t just text them out of the blue. Again, the only remnants I have of them are just some photos Facebook saved to remind me every year. They’ve disappeared. I mean it’s not literal, but to me, they’re really gone. Even if I do reconnect, they’re not them.

Last year in the fall, Kai and I were sitting in one of the freshman’s dining hall. Fall being fall, the sky was already dark outside and leaves were mostly gone. We were eating in silence at the back of the dining hall on a tall table next to the dish return. Out of nowhere, he asked me whether I think we will still be friends after graduation. I remembered that question clearly because it bothers me to this day. Naturally, I think we will and I told him that. But again, looking back at my own experiences, there are no guarantees. Will people I’ve become close with here in college suffer the same fate as others in my memory? It’s not that I am going to forget them, it’s just that everything will eventually fade away. Friendship turns into acquaintanceship. Our shared memories compress into a collection of Facebook photos. The four-year “once in a lifetime” experience becomes a cardboard box on a dusty shelf.

Back to the seniors. Well, actually, to everyone I have said or will have to say goodbye. Maybe I just have to accept it. The best way to go around keeping in touch with people is to put the effort into it; there’s no doubt there. But at some point, both parties might feel that it’s forced. We go our own ways and most of the time, I will not be able to keep up with them. Even if I do keep in contact with them, we will change in our own ways and I will soon realize that the other person I hold so dearly in my mind, has turned into a very different person. And so I must let go. Even if we still do find things in common, I don’t think time and experiences can be reversed to how they were when we spent them together. And so I must accept it. I must accept change.

It’s summer now in Upstate New York. Just a few months ago, I was huffing through a barrage of snow. Now I am sitting outside while the birds call joyfully for each other. The seasons all have their own charms, I think. Summer has its beautiful smells. Fall has its falling orange leaves. Winter has its ubiquitous, yet satisfying white landscape. Spring has its beautiful blooming flowers. But to me, the reason I appreciate them most is not because of their intrinsic values. I love them because they only last for a few months before making way for the next season.

I’ve said my goodbyes to the seniors. Maybe it’s not how I truly wanted to say, but I will have to accept it. I will be keeping in contact with them, but I know it’s not going to be the same. But there’s probably nothing wrong with it. I started to understand that instead of trying to preserve how things are, I should let it evolve. My friendships probably have no value in the first place if they do not evolve over time. Even when it ends, that value is preserved in my memories and my identity. While the value that will stay the longest with me may not be the friends themselves, for I have no control over other people, the values that come from these experience and memories will definitely stick around. Maybe I can pat myself on the shoulder and tell myself that it is okay to let go. The value in friendships may not be found during its active period; it is only when friendships have changed or have ended that I can truly appreciate them. That is because friendships are drenched in aware: beauty in impermanence.