Kaze No Torii Michi
In my mind's eye, my word wood looms, the dark shadows filled with fragrant air from the tall and handsome camphor trees. I remember the first time I smelled the aroma of camphor, an essential oil I bought after seeing Hayao Miyazaki's My Neighbor Totoro. It was exactly like I imagined it would be, astringent and clean, the way sunlight might smell if it had a scent. But that analogy didn't illuminate the shadows of neglect that clustered in my once cherished woods.
Would I be able to go back? Many people would worry about getting out of a forest; but my concern was that I would never find the way back in. It's been so long since I wrote in this journal, seeded it with my own words and watered it with the joy I found in reading others' stories.
Why did I leave? So many reasons. The dream job that became a nightmarish lesson in reality. The discovery that I hadn't lost my voice; I don't think I had it to begin with. Only my stories speak for me- yet I don't know who "I" am. So much of me comes from the threadbare gingham pocket in which I grew, a worn out and outgrown place.
Why am I coming back? Because I met people I know from here, out in the world. People I admire. Because I miss the stories you all tell. Because the word wood is a space that I made to grow anew. The Wind Forest.
And breeze does come, whispering through the trees, the vague hint of a flute, the vague hint of welcome. There is an opening, between a stately camphor and gnarled old oak. Not large, maybe not even a complete way in. But it's a start.
Would I be able to go back? Many people would worry about getting out of a forest; but my concern was that I would never find the way back in. It's been so long since I wrote in this journal, seeded it with my own words and watered it with the joy I found in reading others' stories.
Why did I leave? So many reasons. The dream job that became a nightmarish lesson in reality. The discovery that I hadn't lost my voice; I don't think I had it to begin with. Only my stories speak for me- yet I don't know who "I" am. So much of me comes from the threadbare gingham pocket in which I grew, a worn out and outgrown place.
Why am I coming back? Because I met people I know from here, out in the world. People I admire. Because I miss the stories you all tell. Because the word wood is a space that I made to grow anew. The Wind Forest.
And breeze does come, whispering through the trees, the vague hint of a flute, the vague hint of welcome. There is an opening, between a stately camphor and gnarled old oak. Not large, maybe not even a complete way in. But it's a start.