An Invitation to Contentment
Okashi Perspective, Raza Theology, and Sohbet of Prayer
Composed Dec 2025
I consider the past few months of this year, consider the semester. As a student I find myself viewing the present seasons of life through the academic calendar, with the semesters, academic years, and summers standing apart yet coexisting like book chapters. The first semester of my junior year of college has been no different. Approaching the term’s end and looking back on the moments passed since returning to school in August, I don’t have to remember to recognize how frequently one particular subject has been on my mind. The subject of contentment sits at the forefront of my thoughts most of these days, no longer a guest, but now making its home in my everyday perspective on life. I think I first noticed it in early October, the thought that sparked my continued reflection: I am content. I sat alone reading outside, interrupted by the sound of geese flying far overhead. It was cloudy and I couldn’t see the anticipated film-photo “V” in the sky, but the distant noise alone filled me with delight. Delight in the autumnal season at hand, in the beauty of details, and in my ability to appreciate it all. Having spent over a week reading classical Chinese poetry for class, my poetic urge craved a journal and pencil, which I regrettably refused. Instead I just scribbled the date and “geese flying overhead” on a sticky note and continued working on my homework. But the sense of contentment stuck with me as I began to wonder, Is this contentment temporary, or am I always truly content? Why am I content in this moment? Is contentment a feeling, or is it an attitude? Rather than drawing an overarching question from specific texts I’ve explored in world literature, those initial thoughts brought forth a query that I now bring back to the texts: How does one cultivate a posture of contentment in the present moment?
About mid-semester I was introduced to The Pillow Book, a collection of musings from the Japanese court lady and poet Sei Shonagon. My first impressions of the work were not particularly positive as I found Shonagon’s voice to be somewhat conceited and unfeeling towards others. Spending more time with the work, however, increased my appreciation, especially as I learned about the concept of okashi, a diversely translated Japanese term with over 400 uses within The Pillow Book (“Sei Shonagon” 1210). Frequently understood as “charming” or “delightful,” okashi was a Heian aesthetic approach “indicating a carefree appreciation of objects and events” (“Okashi”). Shonagon’s writing explores the world in terms of okashi and not-okashi, a perspective that frequently observes the small details of life and the sentiments they bring about. Considering okashi deepened my own appreciation for “the little things” as I began thinking about it more, noticing bits of my surroundings I found delightful, charming, interesting, or intriguing (or not those things). How does the idea of okashi shape my worldview? Can an okashi lens foster contentment?
Shonagon records, “I merely wrote for my personal amusement things that I myself have thought or felt” (Shonagon 256). Indeed, The Pillow Book documents a self-reflective individual’s little notes on life and a perspective of observance. Shonagon ties what she notices to feelings, describing a “well-executed picture” as a “thing that makes you feel cheerful,” “a chorus of dogs howling on and on” as an “infuriating thing,” and “a bound book of fine paper” as a “thing of elegant beauty,” (Shonagon 29, 30, 87). Rather than focusing on macro-level subjects, images like these attend to the mundane, the small, the often neglected. Too frequently we only seek significance in noticeable things in the world, concentrating on what broader society deems important or valuable. While this isn’t necessarily negative in itself, a wide-lens perspective alone misses much of what life offers—what God offers to us in life. Viewing the world in terms of okashi prompts the individual to notice the large and small alike. As Shonagon makes a list of waterfalls, “the thought of them very moving. . .They must indeed thunder quite fearfully” (Shonagon 55), she also considers “[m]oss. Herbs that sprout between drifts of snow. . .The wood sorrel [that] is lovely because of the woven-cloth patterns” (Shonagon 57). She wonders at the loud and pronounced power of the falls alongside the intricacies of common plants, seeing both as worthy of admiration and awe. Just as “the scarlet glossed-silk train-robe worn by the Chamberlain. . .is the most marvellous of all. . .[so the] sight of a dancer’s face lit by the glow of a nearby lamp as she dozes is also most enchanting” (Shonagon 91, 92). Noting “okashi things” in the everyday hones an observance of the present moment, and a heightened span of observance at that—to “see, hear, and feel the world around us with superior nuance” (“Sei Shonagon” 1210). As we reflect on the okashi around us, we discover just how many charming, humorous, intriguing, delightful, and interesting things exist, and we discover our own presence in their midst.
We constantly desire contentment in this life, opposed by a coexisting and unceasing desire for more. People look to the future in hopes that later days hold greater satisfaction, happiness, and comfort, but this outlook simply fosters discontent in and with the present. I notice these dissatisfied propensities in my own life: working on a late-night class assignment, wishing for my prospective eight-to-five job and more leisure hours in the evening; feeling disappointed while traveling because I can’t stay for more time in that place; longing for days to come when I can hopefully read more, write more, create more. As I chatted with my mom on the phone a few weeks ago, I bemoaned a state of dissatisfaction. Upset that I didn’t have time for longer conversations with friends and professors and for slower reading of my course texts, I wondered if there would be a point in the future where I would have that time. Then I thought about contentment and my position in the moment. Walking the neighborhood streets on a sunny, post-rain afternoon, reflecting on studenthood with a beloved family member: okashi. I realized that perhaps the reason I’m discontent with my current time spent reading and in conversation is because I simply wish for more of it. Rather than desiring more, I must notice what is. I must rest in the now. I must notice the okashi things. I am, in fact, content. Studying in the presence of a friend; the apartment’s string lights; emotions of the scriptural psalmists; thinking and breathing: okashi.
While much of the student experience centers around learning, intake, and process, the student’s journey can become solely a search for answers, a grasping for complete understanding. Last year as a busy and overthinking college sophomore, I despaired at my multi-faceted inconclusiveness. I sought control over my mind and physicality; I sought reasoned conclusions to spiritual matters; and I sought fuller comprehension of God in human explanation and experience. Individual effort only yielded desperation and blurrier understanding. I was far from content. What must I do to know and understand more? How can I understand God when I can’t understand myself? Is fuller understanding of self and God possible? Can I be content in unknowing? Saint Ephrem the Syrian and Sufi mystic Rumi address such questions in poetic exploration, encouraging contentment in mystery and in conversation.
A key figure within 4th century Syriac Christianity, and a precursor to the Greek apophatic theological tradition, St. Ephrem emphasized discovering God in realizing His hiddenness. Raza, a term rooted in the Persian language, translates to “symbol,” “mystery,” or “secret,” where a “symbol” reveals a part of a hidden reality by participating in it rather than representing it (Brock 42). St Ephrem applies this raza to God and the earthly realities pointing to Him, the great Mystery. Rather than defining boundaries around the point of God (the Hellenistic method), the Semitic theological approach discovers points about God through which to explore Him. In alignment with this approach, St Ephrem upholds words and creation as key points for exploring God. He writes, “both Nature and Scripture. . .bear witness to the Creator:/Nature, through man’s use of it,/Scripture, through his reading it” (qtd. in Brock 41). In St Ephrem’s words, God “puts on names. . . [and] clothes Himself in language. . .because of our weakness,” though ultimately, “His true Being. . .is hidden” (qtd. in Brock 46). I appreciated the reminder from St Ephrem that we as humans cannot fully comprehend the divine mystery that is God; we understand Him in the ways and to the extent He so permits. Our position before Him is one of sub-existence and subservience, which we are often distracted from. “The Good One gave us freedom,/but we have reduced this to slavery” (Ephrem 130)—a slavery to praise from men, to self-focus, to control, to fullness of knowledge and reason. God opens freedom and contentment to us as we acknowledge His hiddenness and rejoice in the fact that this makes Him praiseworthy. We cannot be content in reason, because reason will not allow us to completely understand God and His ways. I seek to emulate St Ephrem in his response to God: “I am overwhelmed by joy;/my mind bursts its reins/as it goes forth to contemplate Him” (Ephrem 131). Contentment rests not in the comprehensive grasp of God, but in the opportunity to contemplate, explore, and wonder at Him.
On a different note, Rumi approaches the world and his poetry from a mystical Sufi perspective, seeking love and companionship through rambling yet lyrical verse and stories. Rumi’s poetry itself (beyond the direct narrative examples) acts as a form of sohbet, the Turkish word for “conversation,” or “chat.” Jessica Cerrato describes Sufi sohbet as a “spiritual practice by which mystical knowledge and devotional love are exchanged. . .a spiritual transmission, an emptying of soul in unification to an endless conversation ranging from the metaphysical to the physical” (Cerrato). Even today Sufis engage with one another in sohbet, meeting together to discuss individual and collective spiritual matters and foster wisdom, connection, and love. Traversing the ethereal lines of Rumi’s work, I find myself drawn into sohbet with him, asking questions about the world and life and journeying with those questions through words. I also draw his perspective and writing into conversation with the subject of contentment. What actions and attitudes does Rumi encourage? How would he view contentment? Do I agree with his view?
Rumi’s poetic sohbet repeatedly fixates on emptiness. He challenges those led by worry and self-focused desire: “how strange your fear of death/and emptiness is, and how perverse/the attachment to what you want” (Rūmī 24). I understand Rumi’s philosophy as the embrace of stillness and quiet to discover that “the soul lives there in the silent breath” (Rūmī 21). “Die,/and be quiet,” Rumi says; “Your old life was a frantic running/from silence” (Rūmī 22). The new life, for Rumi, is discovery of the soul, and freedom in discovering that the soul is emptiness. He further notes the nature of mystics as “experts in laziness. . .because they continuously see God working all around them” (Rūmī 30). I resonate with much of Rumi’s work despite its Islamic perspective, but I feel that a Christian view contributes greater depth to the existent sohbet. For the follower of Christ, emptiness comes not just through stillness, but through repentance and humility. And this emptiness is not the final stance, but the position of welcoming in the Holy Spirit. “Dear soul,” Rumi writes, “if you were not friends/with the vast nothing inside,/why would you always be casting your net/into it, and waiting so patiently?” (Rūmī 24). How much more does the Christian perspective add to those lines! Rather than a vast nothing, the Christian is full of a vast Something, full of Fullness Itself. In following Christ, individuals not only observe God working around them (as Rumi notes), but also in them.
The life of a Christ-follower necessitates prayer, attending to God and conversing with Him, which the concept of sohbet speaks to. What is life but continuous sohbet with God? We must tell Him what we observe, what we question, what we need, and we must be quiet, be still. The psalmist writes, “He [the LORD] says, ‘Be still, and know that I am God” (The Holy Bible, Ps. 46.10). In stillness and silence we place ourselves in a position to wonder at God and in a posture to listen to Him: “But listen. . .Hear blessings/dropping their blossoms/around you. God.” (Rūmī 8, italics mine). I frequently call to mind a passage from Paul’s first letter to the Thessalonians, a reminder of God’s will for His followers, to “rejoice always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances” (1 Thess. 5:16-18), and a fitting addition to the conversation with Rumi. Drawing elements from his poetry, a life of contentment is found in prayer: sohbet with the Lord and quiet, awe-filled meditation on Him.
How does one cultivate a posture of contentment in the present moment? How do I cultivate this posture? Collecting the perspectives of Sei Shonagon, St Ephrem, and Rumi, while bringing my own as a follower of Jesus Christ, a beautiful invitation to contentment emerges. Observing the momentary okashi things, seeking God with full acceptance of His divine hiddenness, engaging in spiritual sohbet, and practicing these continuously offers a life of humility, satisfaction, and worship to their observer. An “okashi perspective,” noticing the big and small, reminds us of our position in the world. The mystery of God emphasizes His sovereignty. Sohbet fosters relationship. We are not the center of the world. I am not the center of the world. God is the center and our center, active around us and dwelling within us. He sustains us, and we find contentment in attending to the raza in the world and to God in and through it.
Works Cited
Brock, Sebastian. Introduction. Hymns on Paradise, by St Ephrem, translated by Sebastian Brock, St Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 1990, pp. 7-76.
Cerrato, Jessica. “Sohbet.” Medium, 28 Nov. 2018, https://medium.com/@nodoveacovenant/sohbet-444246507490.
Ephrem, Saint. Hymns on Paradise. Translated by Sebastian Brock, St Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 1990.
“Okashi.” Japanese Architecture and Art Net Users System, https://www.aisf.or.jp/~jaanus/deta/o/okashi.htm. Accessed 7 December 2025.
Rūmī, Jalāl al-Dīn. The Essential Rumi. Translated by Coleman Barks, with Reynold Alleyne Nicholson, A. J. Arberry, and John Moyne. New expanded edition. New York: HarperOne, 2004.
“Sei Shonagon.” The Norton Anthology of World Literature, edited by Martin Puchner, 4th ed., Vol. 1, W. W. Norton & Company, 2018, pp. 1207-1211.
Shonagon, Sei. The Pillow Book. Translated by Meredith McKinney, Penguin Classics, 2006.
The Holy Bible. New International Version, Biblica, 2011.
I love this! So many good thoughts!