IT WAS A CRISP blue morning in Tokyo. At about 7 a.m. while on a walk, I passed through a large red torii gate I found beside the road in Numabukuro, the town next over from where I live in Nakano.

In Shinto — the ancient Japanese religion that maintains a reverence for the natural world — a torii gate signifies the transition from the everyday world to the sacred.

Stumbling upon a red torii gate amongst the sprawling sea of silver that is Tokyo happens rather frequently. When I come across these thresholds, I usually take a moment to stop and look around.

Doing so a couple of days ago led to one of the most beautiful moments I’ve had while living in Japan.

Being from Los Angeles, I never experienced the four seasons in all their glory. It’s why I wanted to come to Japan so badly for the first time five years ago.

Each season has its own unique allure, but after two years of living here, I can say with confidence that autumn is my favorite.

I imagine Japan hundreds of years ago, when the cities were made of wood and paper instead of metal, and the wonder of nature provided ceaseless inspiration for art and poetry, and beyond that, the will to live in a brutal world.

The renowned Japanese poet Matsuo Bashō wrote:

I feel fortunate to foster this profound appreciation for the natural world, as it’s provided solace to me in my times of need, just like artists of the past.

After passing through the gate, I walked along a stone path covered in the fallen yellow leaves of ginkgo trees.

Interspersed with the ginkgo trees were brilliant red maple leaves drifting from orange to burning red, purple to icy grey, creating a canopy of color and golden morning light which emanated from the sun rising over the Tokyo skyline.

A bird flew through the branches, shaking the leaves. Then I heard dress shoes clacking quickly on the pavement. A woman came down the road, jogging in her dress clothes, presumably late for the train on the way to work.

There’s a juxtaposition in Japan between the tranquility of nature and the frenetic pace of modernity. This nation’s appreciation for nature and the ways of old remain clear as day, as nearly half of Japan practice Shinto.

Yet, this appreciation contrasts an intense and rather unhealthy work culture which I’ve been able to experience and observe.

In the morning, one will see many men and women in business attire literally running to a job they likely don’t want to do. These people are obviously not to blame. They’re late for work, trying to make a living.

And maybe they are rushing to a job they love, who knows? As an observer, I’ve always found the stark contrasts of Japan fascinating, as no country is perfect. Where there’s beauty there’s often pain — where there’s perfection there’s an unseen shadow.

When I hear those clacking shoes, I can’t help but think that life so quickly passes by. We’re running to we know not what.

I’m not Japanese. There is much about this culture I’ll never understand. I’m not here to understand, but to observe, and what I see is magic emanating from our everyday world, drawn by adhering to my senses and wandering down a less trodden road.

I continued on the path and into a park, passing first a small cemetery. Cemeteries in Japan differ from those in the Western world. This one was solemn in a way, comprising marble headstones and dark statues, shrouded in fallen leaves.

Whereas cemeteries in the West are often bare and orderly, this felt abundant with energy, the flow organic and natural, the setting epitomizing the radiance of autumn and the philosophy of wabi-sabi, beauty in imperfection.

There was no wind, yet I sat on a bench and watched yellow leaves fall, the pages of my life turning. A woman in a blue coat with faint pink hair raked the leaves. The only sound in the air came from the bamboo rake upon pebbles and the whistling of birds.

My favorite time in Japan is ending, and that makes me sad in a way. The fallen leaves mean that life is moving on, as does the single branch of a maple tree, where the colors fade from orange, to red, to purple, to white.

The nature of impermanence is poignant here. In the spring, the cherry blossoms come and go within a couple of weeks. When in full bloom, people crowd the hotspots to take pictures and enjoy hanami — picnicking beneath the cherry blossoms.

These experiences are awesome, but what I enjoy most are the moments I don’t expect. I remember last year when I lived in Osaka, being lost in thought, wandering through my neighborhood.

I’d witness the delicate white petals drifting on a gust of wind, an ephemeral moment I couldn’t capture with a photo, a moment only for me.

Autumn is the same. This weekend, I wanted to go on a hike or something to view the fall foliage in all its splendor before winter. This unexpected experience, however, meant more to me than anything I could have planned for.

All the better that I didn’t have my phone to take pictures, only my journal and my pen to impart not what I saw, but what I felt. What I felt was peace, a light piercing my soul just as it did the hanging branches.

Despite the frantic pace of modern life, there is still tranquility to be experienced in the nooks and crannies of this world if we follow our curiosity with our eyes and hearts open.

Life is fleeting — that’s what makes these moments matter. The sun falls just as quickly as it rises. There’s another good day around the corner, and whatever we’re experiencing right now, whether love or pain, sun or rain, will be a memory.

Life goes on. I can’t hold on to the feeling, to the moment, to the person, to the piece of myself, as there’s nothing to hold onto.

Today I came back to this spot with somebody I care about. I was reminded that we don’t need to pass through a gate to appreciate what’s sacred. The sublime exists everywhere, in everything, flowing all the time. We may simply open our eyes on a crisp autumn morning and head out on a walk to realize this.