A Note from Tonight

The Feeling of a Green Flash

Photographer Kiyotaka Kitajima joined us at Island Echo the other evening.

As always, he arrived quietly, camera in hand, carrying stories that seemed to belong to the landscape itself.

This time, the conversation began with an unexpected subject: a herniated disc.

Just before an exhibition in Tokyo earlier this MAY, he sneezed while standing by the ocean and suddenly threw his back out. What began as a severe strain developed into a herniated disc, leaving him in constant pain. He spoke about nerve block injections, the fear of losing mobility, and the reality of facing physical limitations at sixty.

Yet there was no bitterness in his voice.

Only calm.

The kind of calm that seems to come from spending a lifetime listening to waves.

More than fifty days have passed since the injury. Walking is still painful. But he continues to go to the ocean.

He continues to photograph.

He continues to show up for sunsets.

There was something quietly powerful in that.

At one point, he looked toward the horizon and said:

“I felt there might be a chance of a green flash tonight.”

Not that he expected to see one.

Not that he knew one would appear.

Only that he could sense the possibility.

A green flash is a rare optical phenomenon that sometimes appears for a brief moment as the sun disappears below the horizon.

According to Kitajima, there are signs.

The air must be clear.

The sun must remain strong until the very end of the day.

The atmosphere must be sufficiently transparent.

And even then, a single cloud on the horizon can change everything.

The final outcome belongs to chance.

Or perhaps to nature itself.

Listening to him, I realized that Island Echo may work in much the same way. We often imagine that meaningful experiences are something we create. But perhaps all we can really do is prepare the conditions.

The moon rises.

The tide changes.

The wind arrives.

People gather.

What happens after that is beyond our control.

We wait.

We listen.

And sometimes, something appears.

Not because we made it happen.

But because we were present when it arrived.

Maybe that is why people seek places like this.

Not because they are searching for nature.

But because they are searching for themselves.

Or more precisely, they are searching for the part of themselves that can only be remembered in the presence of nature. The version of themselves that existed before schedules, notifications, expectations, and noise. Nature does not give us anything new. It simply reminds us of what was already there.

As the conversation ended, Kitajima smiled, adjusted his camera, and walked back toward the beach.

The green flash never appeared that evening.

At least, not on the horizon.

But I felt its presence nonetheless.

Not as a flash of light.

As a quiet reminder that even in pain, even in uncertainty, there is still beauty worth walking toward.