Living light: the art of letting go
Silence is not an absence, but a breath rich with meaning, an invisible language that reveals what we often overlook. It is not an empty pause but a space where the essence of what cannot be put into words resides. In this apparent void, silence guides us toward a deeper understanding of ourselves and the world. It teaches us to listen to what remains unsaid, to grasp the unspoken, and to see beyond the surface. And perhaps, it is in silence that we learn to let go.
When we stop clinging to the desire to possess or control, we open ourselves to a different kind of wealth: one that cannot be measured in objects or tangible securities but in inner peace. True security is not found in the walls we build or the objects we hoard but in recognizing that everything is transient. Houses pass from hand to hand, objects wear out, but what we cultivate within—awareness, love, gratitude—becomes the most lasting mark.
The space before and after us
In the film “A Ghost Story”, the protagonist, now a spirit, witnesses the unraveling of his existence, powerless to intervene. His silence is not merely an absence of sound but a palpable presence filled with longing and regret, bearing witness to the relentless passage of time. In this mute contemplation, the ghost no longer relives his life as a protagonist but observes it from a distance, revealing what was previously invisible: the infinite, unrepeatable value of every moment, now lost forever.
Bound to his home like a leaf to a branch, he succumbs to the contemplation of passing eras, watching the house change, welcome new inhabitants, and eventually dissolve amid the ever-changing flow of reality.
In this powerlessness, a profound awareness unfolds: nothing truly belongs to us—not the walls that protect us nor the memories we keep.
We are merely fleeting passersby, brief notes in an infinite symphony.
A similar theme weaves through the film “Bin-jip“ (빈집) which in Korean means “empty house”, where the protagonist lives on the margins, moving from house to house and inhabiting them without owning them. He leaves no trace of himself but carries a sacred respect for each space he temporarily occupies. His silence becomes a form of dialogue with the essence of things and the impermanence that envelops everything. In his passing, he leaves homes intact, even better than he found them, suggesting that it is possible to live without weighing down the world.
In The Safety of Objects, the relationship with the material world becomes a lens through which to explore our desire for control and certainty. Each object tells a story, but in attempting to attribute deep meanings to them, we often burden them with expectations they cannot bear. A poignant example is the car that, for a mother, becomes a symbol of a broken bond—a physical reminder holding the image of her son. It is not just a vehicle; it is a time capsule, a safe harbor for a past she cannot let go of. This need to hold on reveals the human paradox: we seek security in the tangible, but only by letting go can we make space for greater freedom.
As we approach Christmas—a time often associated with an abundance of objects—a crucial question arises: are we really seeking what matters?
Or is the frenzy of giving merely a way to fill a void we cannot name? The objects that crowd our homes—shiny toys, perfectly wrapped packages—often lose their value as soon as we possess them. In this frantic race, we risk forgetting what should truly fill this season: sharing, presence, and the creation of meaningful moments that outlast the wrapping paper. Letting go, in this sense, means lightening not only our homes but also our hearts. In the emptiness left by what we no longer need, there is room for what truly matters.
The echo of empty cities
This same reflection on the value of things, amplified during Christmas, reemerged powerfully during the pandemic, when the silence of cities and the absence of physical connections pushed us to find new meanings in the emptiness surrounding us. Empty streets, suspended encounters, words filtered through screens—it all seemed to evaporate into a deafening absence. And yet, within that emptiness, there was room for something new—something that went beyond mere possession. The walls of homes clinging to immense cities petrified by the fear of the virus and enforced isolation began to speak.
Murals, blossoming everywhere, turned gray, anonymous walls into spaces of connection and reflection. What was once just matter—a gray, unremarkable wall—became a bridge to what we cannot express in words. Just as letting go of material things invites us to discover who we truly are, so too did the walls show us thatsilence is not absence but possibility: a space for the invisible, for what hides amid the frenzy. These walls transformed what was static and immobile into something alive and shared; they captured our fragility and our strength, showing that, from emptiness, profound meaning can arise.
