June arrives in Rilakkuma and Kaoru, heralded by a torrent of cool, unending rain. Though most narratives are guided by the course of their protagonists’ journeys, Rilakkuma and Kaoru instead follows a month-by-month schedule, a choice that can feel either comforting or anxiety-inducing, depending on your perspective. Adult lives don’t necessarily follow “protagonist’s journeys,” or really clear narrative arcs in general. After a first act defined by the guiding trajectory and lofty promises of education, we are thrust out into the world, and forced to accept that we are no longer main characters.

This revelation can often be a depressing one. We are trained to see our lives in the terms of the stories we’ve consumed, and that framing can often lead to disappointment, when it feels like our narratives have stalled out or taken a negative turn. As an adult, the frank truth of the matter is that sometimes, the only “narrative progression” you can count on is the steady procession of days, months, seasons, and years. There’s no triumph in that arc – it’s a narrative that proceeds so quietly you might not even see it, until the blunt reality of your face in the mirror makes its progress inescapable.

I like the rain, personally. As an admitted homebody, I love the feeling of sitting inside my warm, secure home, watching the rain come down, as if I were in a little covered boat upon a vast and treacherous sea. The soft, cool light of a rainy day offers a certain kind of serenity; it tells me that this is a day meant for reflection, and reminds me of the comfort I’ve built within my home. As we hone in on Kaoru’s apartment, the rain offers a sense of peace; flowers hang in blue stillness, a perfect encapsulation of the rain’s quiet security.

Kaoru is less enamored with the rain, which makes sense, given she’s contending with an outright rainy season. The shifting of the seasons only emphasizes her own sense of stagnation; glancing resentfully around the apartment, she comments that “the pile of dirty laundry just keeps getting bigger. And Rilakkuma keeps sleeping all the time.” The two statements might actually be one and the same; there are few surer signs of depression than just sleeping all the time. And when you’re not feeling motivated about the future, tasks like taking care of the laundry can start to feel impossible, or at least pointless. Some cycles don’t lead to renewal or growth – some cycles just lead you back where you started, with another fresh load of laundry to clean.

Early scenes in Kaoru’s apartment are stuffed with intimate shots, emphasizing her sense of entrapment. Kaoru dislikes the rain, but elsewhere in her life, familiarity stills offers a form of comfort. Holding up her boots and umbrella to her friends, she proudly states that “I’ve been using these rainboots for eight years, and this umbrella for twelve.” It’s an eternal push and pull, the comfort of familiarity versus the fear of stagnation – what must we change, to stay engaged and present in our lives, and what can we maintain, to stay true to ourselves and happy?

The answers, as always, are unclear. Often we’re left simply with the ache of want, a hole where we’re certain satisfaction should be. That doubt grows in Kaoru as she hears her coworkers chat through the bathroom stall, discussing plans for a group date, and ultimately deciding Kaoru is “too serious” to accompany them. The scene ends on the episode’s most quietly brutal moment, as Kaoru sighs in despair, and then sighs again. The repetition somehow makes it real; in a traditional narrative, you’d likely cut after one reaction, as we lead into Kaoru’s lowest point and ultimate reconciliation. But this isn’t a traditional narrative, and this isn’t a conflict that’s going to resolve itself with apologies and laughter all around. Like so much in life, Kaoru’s sighs here speak to a distance and dissatisfaction that simply exist; not a conflict to be won, but a burden to be born.

Back at the apartment, the incessant rain has prompted a full-scale mushroom invasion. After her friends’ efforts to stem the tide all fail, Kaoru decides to take drastic measures: she will eat these mushrooms, and thereby prove she’s not nearly so serious as her stupid jerk idiot coworkers said. Fortunately, a local frog takes the first bite, and swiftly proves that Kaoru’s new tenants are not fit for human consumption. Kaoru wanted to reinvent herself, but life is never so easy; simply eating your depression, or taking reckless action to prompt a sudden perspective shift, is not going to provide the narrative revision you might be hoping for.

So what does Kaoru do instead? She receives a pat on the shoulder from Rilakkuma, and goes to bed. After some time, the rain eventually ends, and the sun comes back out. And finally, Kaoru comes to a decision: the next time the rainy season comes, she’s going to buy a new umbrella. She might have liked this old one, but she’s had it for a long time. Not every change needs be a big one – and after the rain, we can all appreciate a beautiful rainbow.

The cycle of Rilakkuma and Kaoru’s progression, its adherence to the year’s own winding seasons, can very easily evoke a fear of stagnation. But at the same time, it can also inspire hope. Sometimes we don’t need any more revisions than the simple narrative of seasons – we watch the flowers bloom in spring, fly kites as the summer approaches, and continue on with each new season’s activities in turn. Just because this process repeats doesn’t mean following it is a personal failure; in fact, finding joy in the cycles of the world might be the most lasting satisfaction we can hope for.

The ultimate truth is, life will never provide us coherent grand narratives, because the world isn’t about us. But if we can find joy in participating in it, and take each day as its own reward, we might still find some measure of happiness here. Everything passes on, and everything continues – the rainy seasons come, and the rainy seasons go on their way. Whatever your personal rainy season, try to treasure its quiet beauty, and know it will one day end. Today might not have turned out so well; but tomorrow will still come, as surely as the parting of the clouds.

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