Pedestrian Heaven, 11/3/2024 (JST)

Take a moment, no matter where you are, to bask in power.

The easiest way to do so is to go to power spots. That's partly why you see so many tourists in Okinawa.

You've heard of the popular places. Sefa-utaki, once visited by past Ryukyuan kings and their priestesses. Kudaka Island, where Ryukyuan myth says the goddess Amamikiyo first descended with her divine purpose to create the Ryukyu Archipelago. Somewhere in the waters surrounding Ryukyu lies the Dragon Palace and Nirai Kanai, but—I get it—you're not looking for our places of myth.

Instead, you might visit a waterfall in the northern jungles of Kunigami, or the thousand-year-old gajumaru tree on Ishigaki Island. Or you might head south past Yaese and Nanjo to see the limestone caves of Gyokusen-do. You might even consider the more traditional temples like the Gokoku-ji in Naha or Futenma Shrine.

(A point of personal opinion: Naminoue Shrine is so overrun by tourists, the sanctity of the grounds have long since vacated the premises. What remains are those hovering in between, begging or pranking or cursing for recognition. Be careful.)

I, however, don’t think you need to travel far for these “power spots.”

I think a power spot exists wherever you can anchor your feet and look up at the sky, breathe, and feel the air course from the top of your head through your veins to the tips of your fingers and toes. It's wherever you become a beacon and the sun has no choice but to look directly at you.

It's Sunday afternoon in a sunny and humid November, during the hours of "Pedestrian Heaven" (歩行者天国, “hokou-sha tengoku”). Closed to drivers for these truly heavenly hours, Kokusai-dori has been freed from its normal gridlock, but the pedestrians perusing the gift shops and restaurants stick to their normal safety habits.

But I won’t miss this opportunity. I'm heady with pride after watching Shuri Castle's annual re-enactment of the royal procession, with my soul nourished by a bowl of Okinawa soba and the first Orion beer my uncle poured for me.

It's been over 20 years since we last met family in Okinawa, so I had nervously anticipated cold civility and awkward platitudes. I waited for the fast fade of alleged excitement into indifference, but my family—my aunt and uncle—drove straight to our Airbnb at the earliest opening in their schedule. The sobs and hugs I shared with my aunt and mother and sister, in the middle of the asphalt on our Airbnb’s doorstep, still ripple in me like a cleansing chime.

Oh, I remember thinking, this is my family. And my family loves me.

So I feel powerful. If cars were on the road, I'm the kaiju crushing those tin cans underfoot as I strut along the division lines. When I stretch my arms, I can touch the sky. Nothing stands in my way. Ahead, my mother shares another round of laughter with my aunt. My sister and uncle exchange stoic recognition: "They really are sisters, aren't they?"

And then the sun peeks from behind the buildings on the left. Humidity prickles my skin, and I feel a little out of place because I'm the only person wearing sunglasses among the locals and tourists. I take my optometrist's recommendations seriously, you know.

But because I'm sticking out, I know where I am in this world: grounded and anchored to the soil on which I was born, as though a ley line has tuned perfectly to me. I'm part of the sea and wind and even the concrete and coral that forms the streets and city blocks.

I'm home. Loved and at home. Rooted at the perfect place, time, and angle to feel the resonance of home through my bones. Home is my power.

And the sun, acknowledging this, hides just enough behind that building to let me bask in this gentle geyser of love and home and power, this moment I stand on top of my world.