This is a story about a rainy day in the woods. It reminds me of another rainy day in Mount Daisen a year ago. (You can read the story here.) Situated in two different places, the magic the rain conjures is like no other. Saturday morning. I knew it was going to rain. I checked the weather forecast, deliberated before deciding to head out anyway. It's July, we are in the midst of the rainy season in Japan. The rainfall these days is much more frequent now given that it is tsuyu, rainy season, that lasts through June and July. This season is also marked by the initial hydrangea blooms I have chanced upon in the neighborhood. Rainy seasons are synonymous with hydrangea blooms, just like how Spring reminds one of sakuras and canola flowers. I hopped on the Kobe dentetsu toward Kita-Suzurandai station, about 40 minutes away. People occupied the cabins and sat down with their standing umbrellas by their side. I looked down at my Crocs, my trusty rain shoes. I am prepared for the rain, I thought. At the same time, my mind explored a multitude of options. Where can I go to wait out the rain? I can find a place to read. I can find a place to have lunch at while waiting for the rain to subside. Kita-Suzurandai. The weather turned awry. I didn't expect the wind to come whipping in my face like this while struggling with my umbrella, recalcitrant with its flimsy flaps. On most rainy days, I would have curled up indoors. This is what happens when you have weather forecast information at your fingertips. You either make an informed decision by staying at home, or make a reckless decision by heading out, armed with all the rainy day essentials and a resilient heart to brave through the rain. And the wind. I have found it. I joined the queue at the bus stop, where I waited for the shuttle bus service to the arboretum. I was surprised at the turnout even in this weather. People were decked in hiking attire, backpack, boots - the entire package. At that sight, my heart leapt knowing that I had company. A staff member of the arboretum, an elderly man held his umbrella up while informing us that the bus was scheduled to arrive soon. Then there was a gentle reminder to help ourselves to the hand sanitiser on the right side upon boarding. The rain seemed to let up a little and the wind had retreated. Pockets of sunlight gleamed from behind the dark, passing clouds. Enveloped with the dampness from the downpour earlier, my shoes squeaked in discomfort as though reminding me of another heavy bout of rain. We were wrapped with a shroud of mist as we began our stroll through the hydrangea garden. The wind came in episodes, trees swayed and leaves rustled in sync. And when the wind came, the droplets came alongside them. It was uncomfortable at first, but it felt unexpectedly refreshing after a while. The way the droplets land on your face, in tiny splashes, adding onto the overall dampness on your clothes. They stick to your skin, an increasing discomfort takes over, but the thrill of walking in the rain leads you into enjoying the moment instead. A drizzle ensued shortly after. There was a child walking around with his rain boots. There was a lady with an orange raincoat, taking pictures. There was a photographer capturing moments, whose sole protective rain gear he had was for his camera. Maybe he had a rain jacket on. I vaguely remember, but seeing how he held his camera so close to his chest, tucked beneath his jacket under a plastic shield of sorts, I could relate to that kind of protection. As photographers, our cameras are more important than us getting wet. The rain grew in intensity and had no intention of subsiding until an hour or so later. My forecast told me so. I knew I needed to find a place to settle down for lunch, seek shelter and wait for the rain to stop before heading out again. I found that refuge in a cafe that functioned more like a mountain hut where people could have their onigiris and bentos coupled with tumblers containing beverage, usually tea. The Japanese love their ocha, but I still prefer my coffee. But my favourite part of that respite was the warmth and coziness of that space, where I looked out of the windows to watch the rain fall, droplets sliding down the window panes. I looked out to see these towering pine trees, like guardians of the forests. After lunch, I returned to the pages of the book I was reading, The Book of Ichigo Ichie: The Art of Making the Most of Every Moment, the Japanese Way written by Héctor García and Francesc Miralles. I wondered if my encounter with this book was purely by chance, or if it was trying to tell me something more about my current state of mind and situation. Or if it was trying to talk to me, like a tiny voice, like an ah-ha, this is what I have been meaning to tell you moment. It might be because I am leaving Japan soon and every single day leading towards my departure is every day to be cherished and treasured, knowing that my time here is shortened with every passing second. It might be because I felt a wave of momentary thrill sweep past me as I was walking through the woods with the drizzle that made me more alive and rejuvenated. It might be because of many other reasons that I may not know of, or understand at this juncture. But all I know is that I don't need to find answers to everything. Every moment is an ichigo ichie 一期一会 moment, if you know where to look. Ichigo ichie moments sound like this: Treating experiences and encounters with people as though they are our first and last time. Being focused on the present and not let the fear of the future and the nightmares of the past distract you. I know it's easier said than done. I took a long time before finally adjusting to this frame of mind, this perspective that I never thought would be such a valuable guiding philosophy in life. Truth be told, I believe a lot in fate, in destiny, in chance encounters and serendipitous moments. I let things happen because I know that there are reasons why, even if I don't know why right now. I am fearful of many things, but I have come to realise that fear is part of human nature and the only way to overcome it is to accept it and go ahead with it like a bulldozer. What I mean is, just do it. Don't worry about what would happen. Things are going to happen anyway and we wouldn't know how they are going to unfold. Bad things have happened to me. Good things too. But I have also seen the potential of growth from experiencing the bad ones. We don't know how much we are capable of growth until we have gone through awful moments and have emerged from them, more resilient, confident and have our own stories to tell. I don't consider myself a pluviophile, a lover of rain, or someone who finds joy and peace of mind during rainy days. But when it comes to hydrangeas season, the rain brings out their beauty more than anything else. It washes the soul and mind in ways I never thought possible. The same also applies to people who have surmounted their challenges. Perhaps it was the sound of rain cascading in the forest, coming down through the canopy layers, and then subsequently reaching the ground. How the sounds reverberate in the woods; from the pitter-patter on the leaves forming the tiny pools of water to their eventual descent to the leaf litter. The forest is a playground for the rain. What would my journey be like if I were a tiny raindrop traversing through the forest layers and sliding off leaves, branches and trunks?
I can only imagine. All I know is this, every forest is different. Every moment is different. It might feel similar, but the place and time have changed. I have changed. I have grown older. Nothing is ever going to be the same. With this in mind, how I am going to live my life makes a whole world of difference.
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