Day #008

Osaka.

The Price of Pilgrimage: Thank You, Lil Bear

Every pilgrimage begins with leaving.  

Goodbye, Jess.

I love you.

You are trusting me with something I don’t yet understand.

Thank you.

Our goodbye didn’t feel dramatic. It felt heavy. We didn’t say much in the cab – after the past few weeks, not much more needed to be said.

But when we reached the airport, the certainty of two diverging paths settled in:

You were leaving. I was staying.

We hugged like it was the last time. Not because we believed it - but neither of had has the words to make it feel otherwise.

We covered a lot of ground these past few weeks. Let's just enjoy this moment together.

I watched you disappear through Security at Kansai International – passport in hand, green backpack slung over your shoulders, your eyes scanning the crowd one last time.

To see me.

In an airport of thousands – somehow you and I were on our own stage together.

We exchanged hearts through the plexiglass. We blew kisses. Waived.

I saw you wipe away tears from your eyes. I’m not sure if you saw me do the same.

And then you were gone.

Airports manufacture goodbyes. They’re factories of separation.

I linger for a minute longer – irrationally, stupidly – hoping I’d somehow see you again.

One more moment. One more glimpse.

But although Osaka's immigration line is many things - poetic isn't one of them.

It's efficient.

It's filled with the sound of silence that happens after the goodbyes. After the final glimpses are made.

And then men like me – midlife, privileged, playing the part – are left standing there.

Pretending this is all part of the plan.

Letting the person you love walk away.

We’re taught that love means staying.

But maybe love – the lasting kind we’ve developed with each other – sometimes asks us to go.

To grow.

So I ask myself: Is it okay for me to love you and still leave – not forever – but long enough to find a missing piece of myself?

Because I have you - and we have a beautiful life.

Who walks away from that?

Apparently, me. God help me. I'm a pilgrim of one.

I keep turning this over in my head: These trips are entirely about me. About my peace. About my growth. About my healing.

It's incredible how selfish that is. Truly.

Moreover, there’s guilt in that – real. Tangible.

I chose to leave the woman I love to go on a journey that centers entirely around me. No work. No crisis. Not some grand emergency.

But me.

How does self-actualization coexist with deep, enduring love? What do we owe ourselves and - in doing so - what do we owe to our partners?

These pilgrimages – the Kumano Kodo and the Camino de Santiago – are said to be spiritual. Ancient paths through forests, through mountains, through time.

They were once paths to the divine. To the enlightened. To the whole.

They're a different way of pouring gold into fractures.

But this isn’t just about walking ancient trails. It’s about remembering something forgotten or discovering something in myself I haven’t dared to admit.

Somewhere along the way, I became fractured - I lost the resiliency to live the best version of myself. I no longer felt aligned with the man I had tried to be.

I was fractured - not in some catastrophic way - but in a slow, quiet drift.

And so I walk.

I’m just another pilgrim walking to become someone that can love himself better. To find whatever part of himself that got lost in the shuffle between ambition and obligation.

I'm leaving not like a warrior - but as a man hoping he might finally hear himself think.

This is not heroic - it's human.

I’m in pursuit of something I can’t easily articulate. Something just beyond language.

And I’ve left my best friend – my soul mate, my Lil Bear – behind to chase it.

You’ve shared your own worries and listened to some of mine.

You were right at lunch today – I was thinking about the challenges that lie ahead…and – yes – you heard the fear in my voice when I said, “It’ll be okay…”

And – you squeezed my hand. You looked at me in the eyes. You said Go.

That’s the part I carry now – heavier than any pack.

The price of chasing something sacred is not the miles. Not the blisters. Not the pain.

It's this moment - standing still while the person I love walks away.

Saying goodbye to you.

Every pilgrimage begins with leaving.

But we leave – not to escape the people we love...

but to return to them more alive.