A few days ago, I wandered the hills and temples of Kamakura. I literally breathed easier—because there wasn’t any smog, and I was back where I belonged: in the woods.
I touched tree after tree, something I always do when I hike, because it’s the best way I know to “power up,” like I’m a character in a video game.
And it felt right and good—to greet the green and rooted beings like old friends, even though we’d never met.
Temples dotted the hills along the trail. At one, thousands of porcelain white foxes perched on shelf and ledge, stone and moss.
Another temple felt more like an industry than a sanctuary.
Then there was the one I didn’t want to go in. A monk pounded on a drum, and smoke wafted into the air as a crowd burned things on an altar.
I didn’t want to interrupt. Or do the wrong thing.
But something nudged me inside this place that is known for its three Buddhas—representing the past, present, and future.
When I entered the gate, I stood to the side for a while, trying to figure out what the crowd was doing. It took me a minute to realize that everyone was elderly—and they were burning old photos. A man in a hat dropped what looked to be a family portrait into the fire. A bent woman burned a picture of a child, who stared at the camera. Yellowed as it was, I bet it was taken over 50 years ago.
Why were people doing this? To let go of the past? To be unburdened as they neared the end of their lives?
Everyone gasped (quietly, because it’s Japan) when someone spilled their pile of photos all over the ground. Monks in white gloves helped to pick them up as quickly as possible.
I left the crowd to their ritual and walked the temple grounds.
I passed a tree that didn’t have a single leaf on any of its branches, and yet tiny ecosystems grew out of its trunk and reached toward the sky. I touched this thing that was dead and alive at the same time.
I wandered on, the drum in the background beating like a heartbeat.
Climbing a few stairs, I found myself in a cemetery ringed by a cliff wall. I could imagine the peace that would come from being laid to rest here until the end of time.
Then I saw it—a small opening in the cliff. Beside the tunnel stood a sign I couldn’t read, so I didn’t know if I could enter it or not. Nothing blocked my way, I reasoned, and to top it off, a voice inside nudged, Be brave.
I ducked down and stepped inside. As soon as I did, all sound disappeared—the drum, the birds. When the tunnel curved to the right, all light disappeared, too.
What in the hell am I doing? I wondered. I never do things like this.
But I couldn’t stop myself from moving forward.
I pulled out my phone and turned on my flashlight. Its meager glow barely made a dent in the dark. But at least I could see if there was a hole I was about to tumble into.
Every nerve in my body was on alert as I put one foot down on the dirt path and then the other.
I moved into the unknown—awake and alive.
When I reached the end, I discovered nothing but a rough wall. What was the point of that?
As I stood there in the silent dark, something washed over me. It was unlike anything I’d ever experienced before. This might have been the holiest space I have ever been in. The Greater Than was palpable. Pulsating, just like that big drum out there.
I reached out to touch the wall, because that’s where the power was emanating from. My phone cast an almost pointless glow as my hand got nearer and nearer to the sacred stone.
The sound that burst out of me was guttural, primal.
Because I was trying my best not to scream.
My fingers were an inch away from a horde of millipedes, glowing amber in my light. Their needly legs clutched the wall as their articulated bodies curved this way and that.
I have no doubt—they were guarding that sacred space.
As I scampered out of the tunnel, I couldn’t stop making the noise you make when you can’t scream in a dream . . . and shuddering . . . and looking like a right fool as I burst back into the light.
Adrenaline coursing through my body, I bent over to put my hands on my knees.
I thought I had felt awake and alive before. Suddenly, I could hear everything. Feel everything.
I took a few deep breaths and shuddered a few more times, wiping at my arms as if a million legs were crawling all over me.
When I finally felt sure that nothing was hiding down my collar or up my sleeve, I made my way to the train station to go back to Tokyo.
On the rocking train, I realized that tunnel had given me two very powerful lessons. The first was to be brave. To dare to meet the unknown. To find the holy everywhere I look and to reach for it.
And the second? Its very opposite—to know my place.
There is an Energy, a Power that is Greater Than any of us can ever imagine. And I would do well to remember: it is terrifyingly awesome.
And not the Valley Girl kind of “awesome” I grew up with in the 80’s, but Immanuel Kant’s version. The one that drives you trembling to your knees.
I went to bed that night wondering if I would have nightmares about millipedes. The Japanese call them Baba-yasude—and they are considered the tiniest dragons. They possess a fiery poison that can send you to the emergency room.
I did not dream of them, but when I woke, when I thought more about what happened in that cave, I knew I had learned something I would never forget.
The Holy is not some teddy bear, ready to cuddle.
Or be dressed up in a silly costume I might capriciously choose.
Or be safely stuck on a shelf (or even in some temple) when I am done with it.
The Greater Than beckons.
And hides.
Pulsates.
And defies.
And it is protected by fierce dragons ready to remind us if we ever dare forget.
Fantastic writing, Betsy! Great lessons...So glad you are taking risks and exploring and learning. We miss you back in these Minnesota woods...