Tokyo is a city that could have abandoned its relationship with nature entirely. It is one of the most technologically sophisticated places on earth — a city that in many ways genuinely does feel like the future. And yet, woven into its fabric, at a density that you only notice when you start looking, are these anchors. A shrine between the towers. A forest planted by the dead for the living. A solar crow perched in a business district, reminding anyone who stops to look that there is still a path through the tangle, if you're willing to let something wiser than your own anxiety lead the way.

In Shinto, the divine does not live in a distant heaven. It lives in the old camphor tree. In the moss on the stone lantern. In the particular quality of light through a forest canopy that someone planted a century ago knowing they would never see it.

The Yatagarasu watches from above. He has always known the way. The question is only whether we're willing to look up from the noise long enough to follow.

“There's a song most of us know—a song that has lived in us since childhood, though we may never have asked why.

And it longs for a time, unhurried, unscheduled, where closeness doesn't have to wait its turn.

We know every note. We feel it in our chest before the first word is sung. And the reason it moves us so deeply is that the place and time it's longing for aren't somewhere we've never been. They're somewhere we've already been.”

These words from Dr. Carl Nassar, who wrote an excellent, short article about what I prefer to call “The Symphony of Belonging”, or perhaps “The Song of Belonging” and how we humans have been separated from this song… and yet how we instinctively reach for it, long for it. We both see the opening movement of this musical piece of human existence through the lense of Joseph Campbell and the hero’s journey— "the separation from the world the hero was meant to inhabit” and the resulting decision all humans face: do you start on journey, the ultimate adventure, to rediscover the Song of Belonging and your part in the symphony?

What does it take to answer the hero’s call? The adventure starts with a single, daring step—a separation from the familiar, a leap into the unknown. This is where the magic starts: the call, the hesitation, the supernatural aid, and the moment you cross the threshold into a new world.

If you’re curious about this Symphony that ties all things together, whether you can’t fathom it or you find yourself tapping your toe to it from time to time, let’s talk. It’s the most important music one can learn to hear, but it takes practice and courage. Through it you will find belonging and purpose. (Would you believe me if I told you it’s always playing, especially when you’re outside).

Cheers,
Rob

P.S. I like to suggest resources and here’s a good one— the Joseph Campbell Foundation, where you’ll learn more about the Hero’s Journey and the importance of myth. Their recent MythBlast Newsletter seeded this blog post and I recommend signing up for their thought-provoking email that is anything but spam.

Photo Credit: Ri_Ya

Deep inside I knew this wasn't a great idea when my arms felt like a bitter mix of jello and pain while I furiously paddled to catch a forming South African wave. It was day three in Cape Town, where the Atlantic and Indian Oceans meet in a stunning setting ripe for surf adventures. I figured this would be the best day of the trip, except I was in a bad way: exhausted from jet lag, arms smoked from a multi-pitch climb up Table Mountain the previous morning, followed immediately by a fast eight-mile surf ski kayak with world-class competitor Kira Bester. 

My heels hang over the open abyss as cloud and mist blow under them. I'm several hundred feet off the ground, secured by rope and metal tools to the granite of Table Mountain. Above me I hear Tommy starting to panic. He's saying "I can't do it. I can't do it." There's a quiver in his voice that I know all too well: the sound of fight/flight/freeze beginning to take over. 

Unfolding below our rock perch were the hills, mountains and oceans of the Western Cape, South Africa. Before it was named anything in English, Afrikaans, or Dutch, his ancestors called this area Camissa, which means "place of sweet waters." Chief Kingsley is an elder in the Gorachouqua tribe, one of the original tribes of the Khoi-San clans.