There's a particular quality to autumn light in Japan that photographers spend lifetimes chasing. Standing at Lake Kawaguchiko, watching the momiji leaves begin their transformation against the timeless silhouette of Mt. Fuji, I was reminded why we return to certain scenes again and again—not to capture the same moment, but to witness how change reveals what endures.

The Japanese maples were just beginning their turn, their delicate forms creating a natural frame for the mountain beyond. Rather than illuminating every detail, I chose to let them fall into near-silhouette, allowing their graceful shapes to dance against Fuji's iconic form. Sometimes what we leave in shadow speaks as loudly as what we illuminate.

Autumn in Japanese culture isn't merely a change in weather—it's an invitation to attune ourselves to natural rhythms. The concept of "shun" (旬) refers to the peak season when something is at its most flavorful, most beautiful, most essentially itself.

For creatives, this seasonal awareness offers something profound: permission to embrace our own cycles of productivity and rest. Just as the momiji doesn't resist its transformation, we can learn to work with our creative seasons rather than against them.

This week's practice: Notice one thing in your environment that's changing. How might you document or honor this transition through your creative work?

My time at the onsen near Lake Kawaguchiko reinforced a core principle of Japanese aesthetics: beauty exists most powerfully in transience. The momiji leaves will peak, then fall. Mt. Fuji reveals itself fully only when conditions align. The hot spring water flows constantly, never the same moment twice.

This is mujō (無常)—the acceptance of impermanence that underlies wabi-sabi philosophy. For photographers and all creatives, this isn't a melancholy thought but a liberating one. We're not trying to stop time; we're honoring the fleeting nature of each moment by bearing witness to it.

The pressure to create something "timeless" often paralyzes us. What if instead we embraced creating something of this time—authentic to this season of our lives, this stage of our practice, this particular autumn light?

The Creative Practice

In "Mt. Fuji Sunset," the choice to silhouette the momiji wasn't just aesthetic—it was narrative. By reducing the leaves to their essential forms, the composition becomes about relationship: foreground to background, temporary to eternal, the delicate against the monumental.

Try this technique in your work this week:

What happens when you remove detail and rely purely on shape? Whether you're a photographer, designer, or working in any visual medium, experiment with extreme simplification. Let the relationship between elements tell the story rather than the details of each element itself.

This is also a practice in creative restraint—a form of minimalism that asks: "What can I remove while making the work stronger?"

The view from Lake Kawaguchiko offers natural grandeur, but even in urban spaces, we can cultivate seasonal awareness. Japanese gardens teach us that contemplative spaces aren't about scale—they're about intentionality.

Three ways to bring autumn's energy into your creative space:

Embrace the "ma" (negative space): As leaves fall, nature creates more openness and breath. Can you edit your workspace, leaving more emptiness for thoughts to form?

Introduce seasonal elements: A single branch of turning leaves, a bowl of seasonal fruit, a photograph that captures this moment. These aren't decorations—they're anchors to present awareness.

Adjust your light: Autumn's slanting golden-hour light is longer and richer. Position your workspace to catch this quality of illumination, even for just part of your day.

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Our stay at the hot spring near Kawaguchiko embodied the Japanese understanding of wellness as harmony with nature's cycles. Autumn is traditionally when the body begins preparing for winter's introspection. The onsen ritual—alternating between hot mineral water and cool air, between movement and stillness—mirrors the season's own balance of energy and release.

For your practice: You don't need an onsen to embrace this principle. Try alternating focused creative intensity with complete rest. Not rest as distraction, but rest as ritual—a bath, a walk, sitting with tea. The Japanese approach to longevity isn't about constant optimization; it's about rhythmic balance.

As autumn begins its slow unfurling, I invite you to approach your creative work with the patience of a season. Not everything needs to be captured, completed, or perfected right now. Some projects, like the momiji, need time to transform. Others, like Mt. Fuji appearing through clearing mist, require us to simply be present when the moment reveals itself.

What are you allowing to unfold slowly in your creative life this season?

Until next week,
Josh

P.S. — If you captured this newsletter at just the right moment, like catching Mt. Fuji at sunset, I'd love to hear what autumn transitions you're noticing in your creative practice. Reply and let me know what's shifting for you this season.