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Hachi waited for nine years. Every day, at the same time, Hachi sat outside the Shibuya train station. And his master never returns. Hachi dies at the same spot where he last saw his friend alive. A bronze statue commemorating Hachi--an Akita dog--was set up in front of the Shibuya Station after his death.
Born in 1923, Hachi (Hachiko) was first brought to Tokyo in 1924. From the start, he and his owner, Mr. Hidesaburo Ueno, were inseparable friends. Each day "Hachi" would accompany Ueno, a professor at the Tokyo Imperial University, to the train station when he left for work. Upon returning, the professor would find the dog patiently waiting with tail wagging. This spirited routine continued until one fateful day in 1925, when the professor was taken ill on the job in Tokyo, and regrettably dies before he could return home.
The movie Hachi moves the story to the northeast in the United States. Richard Gere plays the professor who befriends the puppy Hachi ("He didn't choose Hachi, Hachi chose him," his grandson tells his school class.)
Earlier this week I watched the movie. And the tears flowed without restraint. After the movie I cannot stop crying. (Yes, I'm a sucker for movies that tug the heart. I admit that I even cried watching E.T. It's fair to say that I may not be the most objective film critic. I saw one reviewer call the Hachi film "nothing but slushy emotion." But that's okay with me. In fact, count me in. After the movie I felt tenderhearted and knew that--for whatever reason--I wanted to live in that kind of world.)
Even so, I give myself a reality check for what I am feeling and why, and then it hits me that I can't tell a soul about my afternoon of tears without coming face-to-face with who I am pretending not to be and the energy it requires to maintain that image.
Can I let the tears flow? Or, do I need to figure them out? I do know this: we live in a world that discourages (and disparages) the discomfort.
We learn early to be distrustful (wary, guarded) about. . .
. . .whatever is out of place
. . .whatever seems inappropriate
. . .whatever is excessive
. . .whatever is inexplicable
. . .or whatever may be laced with sorrow
I am in the middle of my spring season, a travel agenda that stretches almost five months. Yes I'm tired. Sometimes to the bone. And susceptible to a raggedness of feelings.
After a recent workshop for two church staffs--where we spent the morning playing, coloring and sending Frog and Toad letters to one another--one of the staff members was overheard, while leaving the church, "Well, I wonder what that was all about?" "Well," said the other, "At least we didn't have to go to work."
You can receive 1000 kind words, but it only takes one barb. And no matter how grounded you may feel or how unreasonable the comment, it seems to find a place inside, where it will take root, smart and sting for a good while.
Of course I laughed when I heard about it. But then, I had to wonder why it bothered me so.
And I had to admit that perhaps there is part of me that is still a boy, and the boy is still afraid.
Afraid of being misunderstood.
Afraid of being unseen.
Afraid of being unheard.
Afraid that this Terry is not enough.
So, what is my choice? I can work harder at the projection of the Terry I want people to see. Or, I can learn to embrace this life by letting--or allowing--all of the feelings in.
"You become freer to be yourself," Kim Rosen writes. "Not because you finally found a place where you are protected from feeling what you don't want to feel, but because you welcomed those unwanted feelings and lived to tell the tale. Maybe your idealized image of yourself didn't survive, but you did."
It's a great quote. . .but what does any of this have to do with Hachi?
For nine years, Hachi went to a place where love sustained him. Where his heart led him. To a place where he knew he would find or meet love. That his master did not arrive did not stop Hachi. His devotion, his intention to live each day seeking love, and without fear, sustained him.
Fear says, "I'll make you safe."
Love says, "You are safe."
But here's the deal: If you live from the heart, it may (or will) hurt.
You may be misunderstood.
You may be called crazy.
People will shake their heads (or, like Hachi, pat you on the head) and remind you, "He's not coming back."
It doesn't matter who we are, there are times when we are certain that we are not enough.
What we say is not enough.
The work we do is not enough.
How long we wait is not enough.
Even so, I want to know, in my heart--like Hachi--that fear is not the final word.
I spent the afternoon driving from Scottsdale to Payson, AZ. The mountainous terrain, on the way to the Mogollon Rim (with the largest Ponderosa Pine forest in the country), is khaki brown and covered with Saguaro cactus, the hillsides looking like exaggerated pincushions. I spent the weekend with a group of new and old friends at the Franciscan Renewal Center in Scottsdale where we talked about gardens and grace, and the permission to tell our story. And we decided to tell all of it, even the untidy and messy parts. After all, that's where love is.
Be still:
There is no longer any need of comment.
It was a lucky wind
That blew away his halo with his cares,
A lucky sea that drowned his reputation.
Thomas Merton
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