A chill lingers in the sea air as I step onto the sacred grounds of Izumo Taisha, where ancient deities weave the unseen threads of fate. The gravel crunches beneath my feet, each step a quiet prayer for a new beginning. They say the gods gather here, deciding who belongs with whom. I clasp my hands, inhaling the cedar-scented air, and offer my wish—not for a fleeting romance, but for a love that feels like home.
Nearby, couples murmur in hushed voices, yet I stand alone, untethered, hopeful. A breeze stirs the white shide paper streamers, whispering secrets only the gods can hear. Some say coming here with a partner risks unraveling fate, but what of those seeking to rewrite their own? As I walk beneath the towering torii, I feel something shift—perhaps within me, perhaps beyond.
A fresh start. A quiet promise. And maybe, just maybe, the beginning of something new.
The rhythmic beating of the drum from the Honden pulsed through me, steady and deep, as if resonating with something buried within. I wasn’t sure how long I had stood there, lost in the haze of sound and whispered prayers, until a faint vibration against my palm pulled me back. It was Rumi.
I glanced at my phone. A message. “Lunch in 10. Don’t forget the sand. ;)”
Rumi had been the one to tell me about the Sagano-yashiro sand ritual—an old practice of exchanging sand between places of meaning, a quiet pact with the gods to connect one’s past and future.
Still wrapped in thought, I made my way to the small, tucked-away shrine. From my bag, I retrieved a tiny glass vial, the grains inside golden and warm with memory—sand from my favorite beach, a place where I too once stood at a different crossroads. Carefully, I poured it into the designated spot and, in return, scooped up a handful of Izumo’s sacred earth.
A trade. A quiet promise. I exhaled. It was time to meet Rumi. Stepping through the temple grounds, I wondered—was she still the same Rumi? Or had time rewritten us both, like waves smoothing over footprints on the shore?
In the early 2000s, Telegraph Avenue buzzed with its usual eclectic energy. I had just stepped out of Mezzo, savoring the last bite of their signature Berkeley Special sandwich—a delightful blend of homemade hummus and fresh veggies—when I first met Rumi.
Japanese Lessons: First hour free
Strolling past the vibrant storefronts, it was the sign that caught my attention, and then I noticed the donation can next to her. Rumi was collecting funds to support the Japanese Cultural and Community Center of Northern California, which had recently hosted the Nikkei 2000 Conference, the first national gathering of Japanese Americans to actively discuss the community’s future. Reaching out, I offered the last twenty in my wallet. “How much are the lessons?” Of course, she wasn’t charging nearly enough, but I made a reservation anyway.
Now, as I approach our meeting place at Izumo Taisha, the memory lingers like the scent of old books and Berkeley air. Just in case she’d forgotten, I wore the same shirt from that day. Some connections remain timeless. And some things remain unsaid—above words, beyond need. Rumi knew. She always knew. But we wouldn’t talk about him. We never had to.