In 2012, I went to Japan. One day I went on a long hike through the mountains to some Shinto temples. I got to one temple and really had to pee, but I couldn’t find a restroom anywhere. So I finally asked someone, “Is there a restroom somewhere?” And they pointed—downstairs.
I went downstairs. The stairs were stone and went down into the mountain, very, very deep, and it was so dark. When I reached the bottom, there were thousands of candles lit. Thousands! This is where they kept the small porcelain urns of ashes from all the villagers in the neighborhoods around that mountain who had died. They sat here in this basement. There was a caretaker, a Shinto priest, whose job was to keep all the candles lit. At the end of the hall there was an altar.
Buddhist altars, especially Shinto altars, usually have a textile hanging in such a way that you can’t see the face of the deity, unless you bow down really low and look up. So I did what I usually do when I see an altar—I went to light some incense and bow, but this altar, when I looked up, had a round mirror so that instead of a deity, I saw my face. I began crying. What am I bowing down to? My own life. It’s the punch line of this practice.
At the end of the day, it’s just you. You grow into your own life.
(I never did find the restroom.)