Word 038
Deep in the mountains of Uda, in the village of Murō, stands a small five-storied pagoda. For over twelve centuries, it has kept its quiet watch among the cedar trees.
In the summer of 1998, a typhoon shook the mountain. A great cedar fell and struck the pagoda, shattering what had stood so still for so long.
But the craftsmen did not say it was broken. They sat quietly with the wood, and rebuilt the tower, piece by piece. Two years later, in the autumn, the pagoda rose again toward the sky — carrying its scars, yet somehow more radiant than before.
What has form will one day crumble.
That is neither destruction nor an ending.
It is a new creation — a beginning.
There is no need to fear what falls apart. Rock, temple, the human heart — all things change their shape in time. But change is not an ending. It is a passage into what comes next. There are views that only open up after something has crumbled away.