Change is incredibly unsettling.

When I was in elementary school, I remember watching The Birds by Alfred Hitchcock. I was terrified that at any moment flocks of birds would break through the windows of our home and attack us. At night I thought about all the places I could hide. Under the bed, inside the closet – nothing seemed safe enough. For weeks, I was paralyzed with fear.

Though the birds never came and I never had to run for my life, the illusion of a safe and predictable world began to fade. When did the innocence and beauty of childhood begin to crack?

The moment that comes to mind is of my grandmother – at that time still so young and vibrant – standing tall in the middle of our living room, holding the telephone receiver in her hand. It was our doctor, letting her know that my grandfather had passed. Her response has always stayed with me. Surrounded by her children and grandchildren, in a country thousands of miles from where she was born, she did not shed a tear in front of us. She took a deep breath, hung up the phone, and walked away to her room.

I watched her do this my entire life: face crisis and upheaval without fear, with a faith that she never explained the origin of. She was my first teacher. This is how I navigate change – I always push forward.

In fact, for much of my life, I think I chased the thrill and growth that upheaval can bring. Instead of fearing the unknown, I leaned into it. I left home for college as soon as I could. I worked abroad for years soon after that. I’ve seen the beauty of the world. After over a decade of teaching in the classroom, I left it to pursue instructional leadership. And for years now, I have rarely stayed in a school or a position for longer than three years. This constant change and movement has come to define who I am.

It is no surprise, then, that I have hit a wall. I am exhausted.

It requires a different kind of strength to stop moving, to stay still, to become attached to and fall in love with a place or a community. To believe in the safety of building a world. To believe that it is possible to feel like you have finally arrived home.

I am very much at a crossroads.

Life will continue moving and, in this moment, I have to continue moving with it – with the resolve that I’ve inherited. I have a feeling, though, that sometime soon, I will need to pause longer than I’ve ever given myself the chance to do, and truly face the questions and fears that lie just beneath the surface.

What makes us whole? What does it take to be complete?

Making her way gently
down the side of a mountain
the jagged edges of leaves and
the sturdy branches of trees
tugged at her heart.

Was there a before?
This feeling
that there was,
was the truest thing
she had ever felt.

From the edge of a cliff
she leapt forward
plunging into a pool
of light and shadow
to find someone, waiting.

Beside her, a man
weary and lost
lamenting aloud
the fate of two river rocks
separated by a stream.

It was impossible
to console him
sure as she was
of where those rocks
would one day be.

For the first time
she wished
that she could stay
still enough, long enough
for him to know the truth.

Taiko is saving my life. 

I would love it if I could practice two to three times a week, rather than just once. I would love it if I could return to my little apartment in Nariwa, return to Bitchu Taiko, spend some time with my old team. Reminisce. Play. Be lost. 

I miss Japan. I miss the time and the space I had there, in the middle of nowhere, to disappear. To study a new language. To be a foreigner. To pause and consider who I wanted to be.

I would make my way to Taiko practice by driving along the main road in town beside the Takahashi river, at night, in every season. Along icy roads in the winter. With the windows rolled down in the summer. Upon arriving at the middle school auditorium where we practiced, I was met with a loud chorus of hellos. We would unload the drums from the closet. Warm up. Dive in to our song rehearsals. Play for a few hours, until blisters and callouses formed on our hands. It was magical.

I began playing Taiko, as a form of escape. To escape my loneliness, to escape from the responsibilities that awaited me at home, to be fully present rather than fret or worry about my future, my career, my relationships. It grounded me and was profoundly healing.

Makoto Taiko, the group I just joined, is excellent. It has been twenty three years since I’ve played and to my surprise, my body still remembers.

I leave each practice happily exhausted. I love the drills and the physicality of it all. It is wild to feel the entire room echo and crescendo like that in unison. There is nothing else like it.

I’m grateful that for two hours I am fixated only on movement and sound. It is a source of comfort for me during what feels like such a tumultuous time.

I’m learning how to use my core, my breath and the movement of my entire body to strike the drum. I’m learning how to remain fluid. Learning how to keep going even when everything aches.