A Reflection — When the Fire Returned

Two weeks after retiring, I didn’t fade —
I lit back up.

It didn’t happen in a meeting.
It didn’t happen in a classroom.

It happened early one morning, just past six,
with a breeze through the window
and a very clear signal from my body:

You are still very much alive.

I stood, stretched, and saw him again —
the old ceramic tanuki outside my genkan,
belly round, pouch swinging proudly in the breeze.

Still smug.
Still grinning.
As if to say, Told you. You’re not done.

⸻

I brewed my tochucha strong — bitter and clean.
Shouldered my SUP.
Paddled hard, past the reef, letting rhythm break whatever fog remained.
Sweat soaked my shirt. Salt dried on skin.
I dove in.

⸻

In a cove I found by instinct,
I swam with fish among the rocks.
Climbed out barefoot.
Hiked a cliff soaking wet.

Wind on skin.
No phone.
No noise.

Just the pulse of a man who remembered
what it feels like
to move toward something again.

⸻

Later, I lifted iron —
not to sculpt,
but to claim.

Grilled meat.
Simple.
Primal.

And then I laughed.
Not at anything in particular —
just at the sensation
of being fully back in my skin.

⸻

This wasn’t lust.
This wasn’t youth.

This was vitality without apology.

The fire hadn’t disappeared.
It had simply waited —
beneath obligation, caffeine, polite self-editing,
and years of being the answer guy.

⸻

I’m sixty-two.
And the fire is back.

I’m not trying to reclaim youth.
I’m living presence —
day by day,
cove by cove.

For those who wonder if it’s too late —
it’s not.

The edge is still there.
You just have to go far enough
to meet it again.

⸻

I now live by the sea in rural Japan.
I host retreats, lift while the crows watch,
drink bitter tea,
and sometimes talk to a smug tanuki.

The place is called Aoba-an.
It’s not about healing.

It’s about remembering.

⸻

If you feel the fire stirring — even faintly —

Reach out.
Or don’t.

Just go outside.
Lift something heavy.
Dive into the sea.

And let your body remind you
who you still are.

⸻

Somewhere between lifting, paddling, and laughing at the tanuki —
I remembered:
this is what wholeness feels like.

“Somewhere between lifting, paddling, and laughing at the tanuki — I remembered: this is what wholeness feels like.”