It’s been almost twenty minutes, and I’m fortunate to still be alone in the space, held by the steady sound of alkaline hot spring water pouring out to my right. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass, the evening overcooked yolk-like sun was slowly lowering itself toward a cluster of clouds drifting above a vast open sea, uninterrupted by boats or land.
The sliding door opened, and the sound of two aggressive showers briefly punctured the silence before fading again. Two men entered and settled in, one heavily tattooed almost Yakuza-like, the other clean and unmarked. Without a word, the stillness returned. Some time later, an elderly man with greyed hair joined us.
There we were, four naked strangers soaking together, sharing warmth and a quietly beautiful sunset without words. Our attention rest on the same horizon and the slow unfolding of colour in the evening sky. As the sun hung lower, clouds miraculously drifted in from both sides, covering the sun like curtains being drawn. The evening sunset show ended, and the elderly man was the first to leave.
That moment brought me back to something I had experienced just days earlier.
I was walking through a forest on Yakushima with only socks on, my feet feeling the damp, cold ground and the changing textures of the forest floor. I was drawn to a particular Sugi tree, or Japanese Cedar. Much of the lower part of its reddish-brown trunk was covered in that distinctive green moss that shimmered when sunlight found it.
I laid down my foam sitting mat and had my back facing the Sugi tree, taking in the scene before me. To my left, more Sugi trees stood quietly among increasingly overgrown plants. In front of me were massive grey boulders. To my right was the direction of the forest entrance, now at least fifteen minutes away.
After some time, the sun found a small opening and illuminated a patch of ground beside the Sugi tree. I inched toward it and turned to face the light, feeling its warmth settle into my body against the sweater-weather chill. In that moment, I felt called to place my right palm on the Sugi tree’s trunk. It was only the second time I felt called to do something like this, the first being with the sacred Kayu Putih in Bali, and as before, I had no expectations.
With my eyes closed and my right palm resting on the Sugi tree, I started to tilt my head gently from left to right, for some unknown reason. Then, my tears came, slow and steady, flowing without force but without pause. Almost immediately, a drizzle began to my right and in that moment, I felt comforted as though something, or someone, from where the sun had been shining was crying alongside me.
When my tears eventually stopped and I opened my eyes, I found myself facing the massive grey boulders, my vision still blurry from the tears as I adjusted. A small flying insect hovered directly in front of me, unremarkable yet impossible to ignore. As I tried to make sense of what had just happened, it flew to my right, then upward toward the sunlight.
The sunlight felt strangely brighter than before, catching on the greens and causing them to shimmer with an almost unreal vibrancy. The moment felt warm and comforting, rich with life, carrying the feeling of a release, a renewal, an arriving. Just as suddenly, the light dimmed and everything settled back into shade. It felt as though someone unseen had drawn the curtains. I picked up my sitting mat and left.
Later, I shared about this experience with others on the Forest Therapy retreat, including that I had received a very specific message in that moment, though I stopped short of sharing what it was.
What I hadn’t shared was that, moments after the drizzle began, there was a strange mental dialogue that unfolded, one where I felt less like a participant and more like a witness. Questions surfaced in full sentences, said in an exasperated voice. Why did I have to go through all this. Why me. Why was so much of my life wasted. Why did those people do what they did. Along with many other Whys. These were the Whys that were processed in therapy over the months.
Each Why arrived with its own weight, and after each one, there seemed to be a response, not in words but in warmth and light that I could feel and see through my closed eye lids. When I eventually opened my eyes and saw that surreal vibrancy, I remembered that those moments were necessary for me to arrive, and I hadn’t been alone along the way.
Sitting with three other naked strangers, watching the evening sun quietly disappear, I felt at peace. Here, it’s peaceful. Processing all those Whys had been exhausting, and finally laying them all down felt like the close of a chapter, perhaps even the close of the first half of life, and an arrival at a rhythm that is quieter, gentler, more vibrant, with a gentle wondering of what might come next.