There's something extraordinary - perhaps, magical even - about walking through the dense forests and then, trailing off full-speed ahead on uncharted paths not fully knowing where they led. I had my way of praying for safe passage. I talked to the birds and flowers. I sang when singing was not prescribed. Occasionally, I'd see foxes run unconcerned by my presence. I bowed my head often at anything and everything — the shrines, the trinkets clothed in algae, the Torii gates, the little water streams that flowed over smooth rocks and dirt before joining themselves at the river - to remind myself that I was now a guest in the homes of the deities and spirits that lived in these places.

I stood still repeatedly and for prolonged periods listening to the stillness. I marvelled at the sight of ancient cedar trees standing majestically; and when I knew I was completely alone, I would hug them. Around me, the wind blows carrying with it the soft whispers of past pilgrims. The leaves stir harmoniously following the rhythms set by the breeze. In the far distant, I could hear the faint sounds of crickets singing.

When weariness hit, as it often did, the trees call out to me and say, “Stay awhile, traveller, and take shelter in my shade.” As I rested my tired body at the tree stumps, the light flows down from their branches and onto my face. And then, they call again, “It’s easy,” they say, “you have come into the world for a purpose, to be in flow, to walk in nature, to be filled with light, and to shine.”