Someone who leaves

Migratory patterns of our minds

Somewhere towards the end of the movie Past Lives, the male protagonist says to the female protagonist:

“You had to leave because you're you. And the reason I liked you is because you're you. And who you are is someone who leaves.”

It is maybe one of the most significant dialogues in the movie. (Good movie by the way, another fine example of South Korean cinema.)

Someone who leaves… strikes a chord in me as I have often been that person. Someone who longed for far away lands, collecting lost soul pieces in the most unexpected places, weaving “home” in movements between pit stops.

But strangely enough, in this moment I am someone who couldn’t leave. Today would have been the first day of my 10 week pilgrimage in Japan, had I boarded my plane to Tokyo yesterday, which I decided not to do, against all odds, less than 24 hours before my flight.

And I am writing about it so I can linger in the liminal space that ensued the initial shock (of letting go) a little longer. I am also being mindful about not letting my meaning making machine of a mind to draw conclusions prematurely.

I tracked the clock as the plane I was supposed to be in departed from Istanbul and imagined its anticipated touchdown in Tokyo sometime early morning while I would be asleep in my timezone. Next morning, when I opened my eyes and found myself in the uncomfortable bed in my parents’ guest room with lower back pain and immediately remembered that I don’t need to rush anywhere, I felt an instant relief instead of disappointment.

I didn’t go, even after months of imagining myself in Japan, having been intoxicated by the visceral and mysterious calling to suffuse myself in Japanese culture, after hours and hours of researching, connecting with people in Japan and even studying the language; even after having bought an expensive flight ticket, gifts for my friends in Japan, and even after I packed my bags and was ready to go. I couldn’t.

To the why I didn’t go, anything I’d say would be speculative at this point. Let it suffice to say “I didn’t feel like it”. After months of clearly seeing and feeling myself in Japan, suddenly I didn’t. Whether it was some kind of intuition or an overwhelmed nervous system is not what this piece of writing is concerned about.

What I want to write about is what happened during and after decision making process. Because, as you know, sliding door moments in one’s life is interesting. It is those moments, you travel back in time and ponder about for the rest of your life: What would have happened if … ?

When I was literally trembling in the heat of uncertainty, I reached out to my close friends and my elder Debra, asked for witnessing and prayers. Help came in the form of non-judgmental presence which immediately grounded me in acceptance for the state I was in. “No matter what, whether you go to Japan or not, you are on a pilgrimage” Debra reminded me in a voice message. That put my heart at ease and tipped the scales towards self-compassion instead of dwelling in self-pity and a sense of failure.

“As freely as possible, ask yourself, what do you want to do in this moment? And to the best of your ability giving yourself permission to feel as you feel and to allow yourself to be with what arises, whatever that is because you know it’s holy business.” she continued on and the confidence in her voice propped my spine upright.

In the span of an hour, I let go of my plans (and expectations of myself), regulated my nervous system and went to sleep. Next morning I made the practical arrangements (changing my flight dates to autumn, still with no certainty whether I would go to Japan or not) and informed some people in Japan who were going to host me.

And then I went for a long walk in the meandering back streets of my mother’s hometown, still in the awe of what had just taken place. I let my feet take me off the route I usually walk on and freely wandered in the afterglow of something unexpected happening.

As a window closes,
another one opens.
As one possibility takes off in vast sky
another one, still formless and shy
emerges softly in the corner of my eye.

I felt elated as I looked at the familiar streets and the most mundane aspects of life on a random Wednesday afternoon. Why o why did I feel so blessed in being here now as if I were in a Japanese zen garden?

I don’t know what came over me. But never ever have I felt so content to be where I am and not wanting/needing/having to go or be anywhere else. What an unexpected gift of a presence from my failed attempt to go on a pilgrimage in Japan!

Listening to every heartbeat of the way by Lotan Sapir