The island of Shikoku, Japan, Wednesday, the 16th of May, 2001

The heat and traffic has subsided, and the strain is melting away. You enter your room, slowly, walking out of the slippers at the base of the tatami, quietly moving into a different space. It is dark, and tranquil, and lit by a single panel wall of glass, barely discernible against a backdrop of manicured ancient garden forms, moss and stone, all floating on watery sound. There is a presence of mind in this space that dampers’ your breath down, to an almost nothing rise and fall.

The boiled water is ready. Kneeling, you lift the lid of the tea box, taking the pot, then the canister out. The smell of fresh powder only reinforces the peace that is protecting you whilst wrapped up so cozily in this, your own private courtyard. Steam disturbs your brow as you pour then whisk, then finally, let it steep. Your stillness is profound. The delicate sweet is unwrapped and simply exquisite. What better way to savor the first taste of tradition, while seeing time move at a different pace.

Many days before, another sense of rhythm and time had taken over the day, as Cape Muroto welcomed them. It was a patchwork of life as nightingales on gossamer song as fine as needlepoint threaded each piece together. A lizard surfed sideways down a tsunami of leaves. Wave on rock and wind in fir moved together in a wash of sensory sound. As you walked, it was as if you marbleized the air in your slipstream, with pools of warm running into pockets of cool. Sentinels of basalt stood guard over spray. A spider spun its web too close and has to reweave it each day.

Pebbles underneath slid and rattled, throwing the intruders off gait. You have to slow down now. It’s Nature’s way of making you wait.

So they sat, curled up close, under a wide protecting eave. Both taking down notes, both not wanting to leave. It was as if time didn’t matter. The next Temple would still be there. Right now was more important, while breathing salt air. Osprey above screamed out shrilly, while hunting for prey. Two strangers below them were content just to stay.

The moments became hours, then neither counted anymore. They were lost in their own worlds, writing down what they saw, that wasn’t in the shadows, or carved out on a sign. They were dealing with memories and history that were turning them blind.

One was grieving his deceased wife. Words failed him to tell, so when he tried to express his grief, his tears only would well, then run down his cheekbones, and tremble at his chin. Without more to be spoken, his eyes would brim again.

He took out her photo, all framed and tinted soft, and with a lump in his throat, told of twenty-four years together, in marriage, he’d lost. He showed her the ocean, and shared the bright sun. For him, life was over, without her, there is no other one.

Since her passing that day, he’d struggled on in living death, not focused on work, losing his way with each breath. So for him this long journey, was for more than just one. He was walking for happiness, and from fear not to run.

The other was pensive, trying to share his deep sorrow. She was living her dreams, and was filling each new tomorrow with wonder and thank-fullness, and questions too many to know. And wondering deep inside if this pain is all life has to show.

So the wind kept them company, and the waves drew them near. As two strangers in solitude, knew each other’s story so clear. One writing characters, the other in cursive, each giving quiet time in support, because in grief against nature, the scale defies talk.

Eventually they moved on, and climbed the summit top. The Temple bell was rung hard, and the Heart Sutra chanted without stop, in amongst other journey pilgrims, lighting candles and incense. The atmosphere was intimate, memories tugged at their instincts.

That night in their lodging, each went their separate way, having shared so much quietly, there was not much left to say, except in the quiet of tatami and the ceremony of tea, while gazing into a courtyard, time made them see, what had not been noticed before, in the haiku of everyday life. That your breath is an eternity, that brings you frequent insight, to each trouble you have or think is your own. Yet watching a garden moving is like breathing absolutely alone, and only then can you see it, that unbearable lightness of what it will say. In that moment of

Zen