Home is where we return at the end of a journey, right?
That’s why, even though I am having an incredible time in Tokyo, I have already begun imagining what it will be like to step through my own front door.
What it will be like to wake up and walk the 50 steps it takes to get a flaky and buttery croissant from Flour and Flower, my local bakery.
Or sit in the chair with my chiweenie and tell him about all the dogs I saw in Tokyo (and how none of them were as awesome as he is, except maybe the white bulldog who gets strapped into a doggy wheelchair to walk through the park because his back legs no longer work).
Basho, the Japanese master of haiku, wrote, “Every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home.”
Part of me relishes the contrary wisdom of this. What would life like this look like?
At the same time I want to argue with the wise master—making this one more case where it can all be true, something I am saying over and over to my university students here.
Seeing every day as a journey—especially a hero’s journey—invites all of us, wherever we are, to be ready for adventures that will test our character, strength, grit, and skill.
Framing life this way means each day offers yet another exciting chance to prove our mettle as we live the hell out of our story lines and face whatever is on its way, hopefully with the help of some trusted friends.
It could be a trip or a surgery or a job change or a new relationship. Every single one of those things is an adventure.
Here’s where I start to struggle.
My life journey has often left me feeling untethered . . . as if I am not sure where I belong. That’s why for a while, I was listening to Phil Collin’s song “Take Me Home” on endless repeat. (Thank you to the dear friend who told me to knock that shit off.)
When life is a journey; when we are called to adventure after adventure, especially ones we’d rather avoid; when we are weary and exhausted and afraid and overwhelmed, most likely all we want to do is go home—to a place of rest and comfort. A hearth by the fire. A place where we know what to expect next.
Home. Where we understand the rules, the language, the jokes, even the wounds.
If Basho is right, if the journey itself is home, it might feel like we never get to have roots or rest. We never get to settle and find succor.
But that isn’t true.
Where we live in Tokyo is near the famous Nezu Shrine, and this is yet another place where it can all be true. One kami, or Shinto deity, is said to reside in this centuries-old shrine. This past weekend, there was a huge and boisterous festival in this god’s honor.
At the same time, gods live everywhere in every thing in the Shinto belief system, so I prefer to meet a different god in Nezu. The one who lives in the pond.
Every time I approach, one turtle—and I swear it’s the same one—swims over to me and puts one clawed foot on one mossy stone. Then it floats in the water and cranes its surprisingly long neck to look up at me. It stares at me as long as I stare at it.
Every time this happens, I feel whole and loved and enough and all those things we want to feel. I feel at home. In my self. In the moment.
The moment, though, cannot last—because I need to work and eat and teach and live just as the turtle god needs to swim and eat and straddle the two worlds of ground and flow.
But that kami, that god, is a perfect example of how the journey itself is home. For a turtle carries home wherever it goes, whatever it meets. Just as we do. We have a radiant and shining center that we can return to wherever we are, whatever adventure we’re asked to be a part of.
Like that turtle, our center knows how to live in the ancient rhythms: now braving the world and sticking out our necks; now pulling back into a quiet and safe space; now making a muck of it; now finding another living being to greet and honor with our attention; now on our Way to this adventure and then that one, where we are continually being invited to live light and shine.
I completely hear what you are saying, Betsy.