Cloudgazing on yet another lunch break, I watched the sky with wide eyes. How could this world offer so much without any effort at all? I thought as I nibbled on a fried chicken sandwich and fries. That’s when something caught my eye: the wind moving through the grass in the rooftop garden beside me.

Instantly, I was transported to the middle of the action. I felt as if I had become the grass experiencing the wind. I filled with joy that transcended everything, a moment frozen in its eloquence. The wind washed through the rooftop and rustled every stalk, and I was completely taken.

When I see stalks of grain wave in the breeze, I am pulled completely apart and lose myself in the moment. I disappear into the deep now like a film’s protagonist disappears into Tokyo’s bustling neon streets at midnight.

Watching the wind is a moment of pure religiosity, simplicity so fundamental that it never leaves. The wind moved tenderly through the grass, and I was breathless: each stalk’s gentle bend a note in the sonata. I was witnessing the invisible momentarily take form and then disappear, an apparition materializing for a flash to deliver a message before dissolving.

As it passed through, I was swept away with the wind.