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Illustration by Marley Allen-Ash
Hiking the Kumano Kodo Trail, Japan’s ancient pilgrimage route, coincided with two milestones in my life: my wedding anniversary and a transition into empty nest-hood.
Japan, my heart and my relationship with my husband are all inextricably linked. Thirty years ago, back when my boyfriend, now husband, and I first whispered our shy commitment to each other, I had accepted a job in Japan. My husband has Japanese heritage and we marvelled at this unexpected connection. High on youth, I ignored the advice from my cardiologist who recommended staying in Canada. He pointed out that my congenital heart condition needed intervention.
Before we began, my husband and I were told that while on the hike, one was to have no judgment, just a pure heart. Climbing the ancient, moss-covered steps left me shaking slightly, reminding me of my days as a child, before my life-saving heart surgery, when any physical exertion gave me chest pain. Placed on the sidelines, I felt that I was being held back from life. Even this climb, this pilgrimage was difficult. I began to reconsider if it was even feasible for me to complete. But I took it slow. One foot, then another.
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Stone markers along this imperial 75-kilometre trail signalled the distances we travelled. To pass the time, we used these symbols to recollect our years of marriage. I had started an anniversary photo album back in those days, one picture for each year. Years one, two and three were the heady days of making a home and being parents in quick succession to three children. Years six through 16 were the heavy-lifting years. There is an image in the album of us lifting a glass of something bubbly. Our heads are bowed toward each other, our eyes closed in thanksgiving.
As the ancient distance markers rose in number, we shared memories of more recent anniversaries. We blushed with the blessings we held close and sighed remembering the difficult years, where the worry of the well-being of family members and the self-doubt of professional dilemmas seemed to block out all the stars. We kept climbing, eager to reach the level paths up ahead, to catch our breath and reach for a kiss.
One morning, when it felt like I couldn’t go any further, the power of the pilgrimage put into stark relief a memory I have carried with me for more than 40 years. The recollection is of a family holiday as a child in Germany where we visited Neuschwanstein Castle. This invariably meant walking up steep steps, and there, just ahead of me, as clear as it was 40-plus years ago, was my father. I could hear his voice urging me to take care, waiting patiently with no judgment. Together we walked up the vertical slope, one foot, then the other. As I brushed aside the tears of this memory, I found new determination to complete the trail.
On the last day of our hike, my heels and toes blistered from walking, I met a woman. She was stronger than me, an experienced alpinist. As we got closer to the top of the final rise, a refreshing breeze relieved us from the intense humidity and the skies cleared. We spoke about our shared transition from busy parents into this new phase of empty-nest-hood. She told me that the first year had been a type of euphoria, of letting go of all the responsibilities that came with parenting. Then she started to see images of her sons’ little hands and feet, the sounds of their voices.
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This fellow pilgrim told me that these memories are critical to recall because when they were happening, parents are often not able to fully feel these experiences. We could not imagine a last request to sleep in-between parents, a last unselfconscious holding of hands. She had tears in her eyes as she spoke. Yes, they were sad, she said, but there was also joy. Joy at seemingly to have made it, to have reached the top of the arduous journey of parenting.
The night that we finished the hike, I checked my e-mails. I was surprised to see one from my heart surgeon, the man who saved my life 30 years ago and made it possible for me to even dream of a time when I could climb, love and parent with my mate. This trip, which had reopened memories of our marriage and parenting, and pushed my body farther than it had ever been pushed, ended with kindness from my surgeon. “Take good care,” he wrote.
We are all pilgrims trying to get across our lives. I know that I will keep moving one foot in front of another. My husband and I are alone but together, we are changed people looking for the next adventure and parents to adult children who are missed. We will stand just ahead with no judgment, just open hearts.
Suzanne Scott lives in Vancouver.
