Learning by Waiting and by Grace

It was a long and uncomfortable wait, but after a series of stuttering announcements, Japan finally confirmed this week that it will open on October 11 to tourists (and pilgrims). It was not an easy wait, but it was an informative one. I could say that i have learned more by hanging in the discomfort of uncertainty than by any other aspect of this journey so far.

Before I left the US, I started a conscious practice of asking, in the face of obstacles and other difficulties, how might this be of benefit, how might this perceived challenge be turned to good account? The obstacles were many at that time—no need to rehearse them now, barely remembered as they are—but each apparent downturn appeared, upon reflection, to have a serious upside. Even getting COVID in early July turned out to be astonishingly well timed. Had I gotten it earlier or later, the consequences would have been far worse, and I left for my months of walking recovered and with better immunity than I would otherwise have had.

I left at the beginning of August confident in my well-planned itinerary. And then everything fell apart—or, not everything, but the ostensible purpose of the trip as a whole, anyway. Japan appeared poised not to open. I was hanging in space, flailing really. Japan would almost certainly not open. What to do?

I tried to trust that with my willing involvement, there could be no bad outcome. And I listened as best I could for openings and possibilities. A number of loved ones appeared with brilliant suggestions and unasked for planning help. I kept feeling the pull of one place above all others: Mustang, the place where Nepal borders Tibet. One could say, Nepal’s twin to Ladakh. High desert, centuries-old monasteries, cave retreats. I had time to “kill”—or rather to bring to life—so I set about finding a way to get to Mustang for two weeks of trekking.

More obstacles. Mustang requires trekkers in pairs, I was alone. Committing to Mustang would scramble the original Japan plans, on the slim chance they reopened at the start of October. But still, in the absence of more information or clarity, Mustang insisted.

So I leapt off the hundred foot pole and found a way to get a permit, with abundant help from Nepalese friends and the buddhas and ancestors. I knew there could be difficult consequences, but I also listened to the insistence, and did my best to trust it. No matter what, I decided, I would be a pilgrim in Mustang and take it from there.

The permit arrived, I went off for a few days of serious RnR, and then, over the past week, even though we had definitively cancelled Japan, the tide moving toward reopening turned and built. I could feel the pressure all around and within me: something is going to happen. Each day it looked possible, and then each day the news: Japan will reopen … but When?!

Finally on Thursday the news came as I woke—October 11. The first possible day to arrive right off the end of the Mustang walk. Mustang disrupted nothing, and an opportunity opened that would not have been there had all of these scrambled plans never happened. There are challenges still—i will return to the States later than planned and had to break a commitment to people I love dearly to be back by Thanksgiving. But in the end the commitment to walk as a pilgrim in Japan turned out to be the deepest one of all.

Now it feels like there has been nothing but grace at the heart of the flailing. Time opened, Mustang appeared. Japan will happen after all, though in a slightly shorter form—the traditional 88-temple Shikoku pilgrimage, rather than the expanded 108-temple version. This, too, seems just right. Part of being a pilgrim, my teacher reminded me before I left, is about being ordinary, nothing special. That part of me that leaned toward the supersized version: she can be quiet right now.

There was much other grace in the past days: rest, care, the equinox, the mountains appearing in fuller form, beauty, temples, more rest. And so many learnings—to trust events as they are unfolding, to trust that everything can be turned to good account, to trust the deep listening and the possibility of grace.

This is not spiritual bypassing: the notion that everything happens for a reason. Many things do, others do not. But there is importance to learning and practicing the skill of turning obstacles until we can see possibility. And, for me anyway, there is this mystery called grace, supporting me in every way when I allow myself to be supported.

Machhupuchhre appeared again this morning, for the third time. I do feel that great untameable spirit winking at me, supporting me, teaching me.