The bamboo forest appeared surreal and fantastical. The vertical, segmented columns rose into feathered tops that swayed in the wind, the path covered by long, papery leaves. I hiked the forest in astonishment. In my imagination, bamboo forests are places of old Eastern legends, the backdrop of martial arts movies and ancient Chinese fairytales. Yet, here I was, hiking through the enchanted forest itself. What great fortune and privilege it was to be alive, beholding this bamboo swathe in a remote corner of the Japanese countryside!
I recently spent just under a month walking the Shikoku Henro, the centuries-old pilgrimage path traversed by Kukai (more formally, Kobo Daishi), a Buddhist monk and founder of Shingon Buddhism in 8th century Japan. The route spans over a thousand kilometres, and consists of eighty-eight Buddhist temples, located throughout Shikoku. The Shikoku pilgrimage is listed among UNESCO’s world heritage sites. Each year, hundreds of pilgrims, both Japanese and foreign, walk these roads in search of meaning. My own pilgrimage signalled an entry into the next period of my life. This year, I made the transition from an educator/academic to a counselling therapist. I felt that a pilgrimage served as a threshold that demarcated the passing of one era and the arrival of another. Modern life has dispensed rituals and rites of passage, without which we neglect the contours of time and falter along the arc of maturation. Every outward venture is also an expedition into the recesses of interiority; the pilgrimage gives shape to inner longing in the curvature of the terrain.
There is rest in relaxation, but also in contemplation. A new place, culture, surroundings, and people, provide the spark for new understanding. There is something taxing about the unremitting drone of daily life. When the ruts of routine blunt the eyes, an excursion to the margins of one’s station can reveal the splendour of the ordinary. Scales peel from blurred vision, the film of apathy strips away. To see things in an oblique way is to catch their novelty within the very shape of the familiar.
A pilgrimage is demanding on the body, but invigorating for the spirit that soars in the face of challenge. While struggling up a forested pass, I found small tags hanging off of branches. The yellow tags read: “Kokoro o arau, kokoro o migaku, Shikoku Henro.” I translate these lines as, “A cleansing and polishing of the heart. . . Shikoku pilgrimage.” Arduous journeys have a way of burnishing one’s character. On the pilgrimage, I am my truest companion. A nagging, complaining attitude makes for miserable days. In contrast, patience, humour, and an eye for the unexpected are fruitful dispositions. Getting lost, for example, is one of the inevitable mishaps on a pilgrimage. Panic and frustration rises, tingling the scalp. The maps are unclear, or the road signs are confusing. Disgruntlement piles up. But muster a presence of mind to slow down, take stock, shrug and smile. Backtrack to the last intersection, or ask a local for directions. Some mundane providence comes through. I would see other pilgrims and consult them on the best way forward; I would spot a sign that reveals the desired direction. Getting lost is the prelude to being found. Once found, the whole incidence appears an amusing episode that gives colour to the inevitability of arrival. If we have faith that we will arrive, we can look upon each excursus with spacious understanding.
I woke up around 6:30am each morning and readied my pack for the day’s walk. If the guesthouse served breakfast, I would eat my fill before setting out. If there was no meal, then I would find a kombini (convenience store) somewhere nearby and grab a quick bite. I walked between 25 to 35 kilometres each day, a distance that took me roughly 6-8 hours. The henro route slings along prefectural highways, through traffic tunnels, country back roads, gravelled trails in forests of maple and bamboo, ridged divisions of rice paddies, winding paths tapered to the jagged coastline where each corner gave way to breath-taking vistas. On these long, quiet hours, I savoured the landscape and observed the passing thoughts that bubbled from within. The walking is the thing. Each temple is a mark that punctuate the prose of the land and country. I arrive at a temple, recite the heart-sutra, then spend the next two hours on the road, watching the surroundings unfold while navigating the terrain of my own thoughts.
The correspondence between the landscape and mindscape supplies the psyche with a central metaphor. “Life is a journey” is a tired trope, one flattened by use and bled dry of its descriptive power. Writers are advised to avoid platitudes and cliches; so in the interest of literary excellence, let us search for fresh metaphors. I will gladly employ a new analogy when I find one. At the same time, though we might search for new metaphors, we can hardly dispense with the rudimentary act of walking as an approximation of living. We are bipedal creatures, evolved to put one foot in front on another. Our forward-looking eyes calibrate what is before us, and we advance accordingly. Walking is bound with the shifting surroundings; bodily movement corresponds with change. Thus, our embodied intelligence sets up walking as a prototypical experience, a sensate, physical motion that encapsulates the larger project of life. Adversity and discomfort along the road evoke life’s setbacks. I am unable to find lodging for the night, what to do next? The forecast was off and I am now trudging through mud under sheets of rain. A relationship ends, career hopes are dashed. There is heartbreak, then a darkness that defies the dawn. Yet, in the thick of the difficulty, we find a million ways to do one simple thing: move forward. Our resilience and resourcefulness find no greater expression than when we persist on the journey, stubborn and tenacious in face of impossible challenge.
Patience is a virtue that the road bestows on the hasty pilgrim. Tackle too many kilometres in one go, and you’ll pay for it the next day. Tight hips and a sore back are the price of impatience; they signal a necessary adjustment to ambition and expectation. Moderate the pace of walking, spend more time soaking up the silence at each temple. Take an extra day of rest if needed. Steadiness, slow and sure, makes the journey. If anticipation feeds into anxiety, then patience is the balm that soothes agitated haste, a superpower that puts to shame a culture of instant results. Even the most imposing distance is covered in segments. We are never called to walk 1200 kilometres. We are only called to 25 kilometres today. Take care of today’s portion and the rest takes care of itself. With enough time, we cross the length of continents. As long as one foot follows the other, the destination is inevitable. It is as sure as fate.