風の中に
こたえはなくとも
道はひらく
Even if the wind
holds no answers—
the path unfolds.
I’m not an authority on anything, really.
Not in the way the word usually implies.
I don’t have a degree in peace,
a certificate in resilience,
or a badge for surviving the wild days of this strange life.
But if I had to claim expertise in something…
maybe it’s in learning to stay when it’s easier to run.
Or how to sit with the parts of myself that never got applause.
Or how to laugh when things make no sense and still take one step forward.
In that way, I suppose I’m an apprentice of hakuna matata.
Not the Disney gloss version.
Not the shiny hakuna matata that skips through jungles singing about worry-free lives.
No—I’m talking about the quieter kind.
The one whispered to yourself
when the bank account is low,
your lungs are tight,
and someone you love hasn’t called in weeks.
The first time I really heard it—hakuna matata—I wasn’t a child watching The Lion King.
I was in my twenties, on a bus in Zanzibar.
The driver had one cracked tooth and a radio that only played static.
When the road turned to sand and the engine sputtered,
he didn’t curse.
He just turned, smiled wide,
and said,
“Hakuna matata, rafiki. We go slow. Still we go.”
I never forgot that.
No worries?
It sounds naive at first.
But it’s not about ignoring the storm.
It’s about dancing in it without asking the thunder for permission.
It’s not about pretending you don’t feel fear.
It’s about not letting fear drive the car every damn day.
It’s not apathy.
It’s presence.
A full-bodied trust that the river carries even when we don’t know where.
These days, when people ask what I’m “good at,”
I don’t talk about skills.
I talk about the morning I lost my job
and still made miso soup for breakfast,
because nourishment matters even in collapse.
I talk about how I sat with my sister in silence
the day we both missed our childhood at the exact same moment,
and how we didn’t try to fix the ache.
I talk about the times I walked through the city at night,
no music, no company,
just me and the old streetlights,
learning to be okay with not being okay.
If that’s not authority, I don’t know what is.
I can’t tell you how to win at life.
But I can show you how to bow to it.
How to carry water up the hill
and still find joy in the splash of it cooling your feet.
How to light incense for no one,
just because the room feels better with the scent of patience.
How to live as if it all matters—
even when you’re not sure it does.
Haiku for the wind-hearted:
しんぱいを
手放したあとに
空が広い
After letting go
of the heavy weight of fear—
the sky feels wider.
So no, I’m not an authority.
But I’ve learned how to pause.
How to keep breathing.
How to smile with a cracked tooth
and say,
“Hakuna matata, rafiki.”
We go slow.
Still we go.
life 