a small flame sways slow
steps scatter on empty roads
shadows stretch behind
I have never thought of myself as a leader. The word feels too heavy, too full of ceremony and posture. Leaders stand on platforms, raise their voices, point in fixed directions. They speak in absolutes, as if the world were waiting for their orders.
I have only ever thought of myself as someone walking a little ahead, holding a lantern. Not because I know where the road leads. Not because I have a map. But because I happen to be curious enough—or restless enough—to take a few steps into the dark.
If the light from my lantern helps others see their own way, that is enough.
I remember a night in Kyoto, years ago, when I wandered along the Kamogawa River after midnight. The city was quiet. Neon signs still glowed in the distance, but here by the water the world seemed half-asleep. I carried a small flashlight in my hand, though the batteries were dying. The beam flickered weakly on the stones beneath my feet.
Behind me, two students followed at a distance. I hadn’t noticed them at first, but when I paused, they paused. When I crossed to a different path, they crossed too. For a while I felt strange—why were they following me? Then I realized: they weren’t following me. They were following the light.
That was when I understood: carrying light doesn’t make you important. It only makes you visible.
Leadership, if I can use the word at all, is not about commanding others. It is about showing possibilities.
I think of it as being a guide, or an explorer, or perhaps a senior scout on a trail. Not someone who dictates the route, but someone who says: I’ve been a little further ahead. I don’t know everything, but I can tell you what I’ve seen. If it helps, take it. If not, find your own path.
In Slovenia, I once hiked with a group of friends up a mountain trail near Triglav. The path was narrow, the rocks slick with mist. I happened to be in front. At each bend I called back, “It’s safe here,” or “Watch your step.” I wasn’t leading them. I was simply reporting what I had already encountered. A guide, not a commander. That day I realized how different the two feel.
The future, too, is a kind of trail. Unknown, foggy, littered with stones. You can’t pull people into line and march them toward it. But you can point, lantern in hand, and say: Look—there’s a path here. I don’t know where it ends, but I’ve walked a few steps. You’re welcome to join me if you like.
I often think of life as a lantern-lit walk through a foggy village. You can only see a few meters ahead. The rest is hidden. If others walk with you, their shadows stretch and bend, merging with your own. And perhaps that is what people mistake for leadership—the simple act of not stopping when the road vanishes into mist.
Once, on a ferry crossing from Kagoshima to Yakushima, I stood outside on the deck, wind cutting against my face. The sea was black, restless, unbroken. A small boy beside me clutched his father’s hand. The boy asked where the island was. The father pointed into the darkness and said, “It’s there.” The boy looked and saw nothing, but he nodded. He believed the gesture more than the proof.
That moment stays with me. Leadership is not showing certainty. It is pointing into the unknown with enough quiet conviction that others feel brave enough to keep looking.
I’ve noticed that true guides rarely raise their voices. They walk a little ahead, carry their lanterns, and let the light speak for itself.
In Tokyo once, I met an old man in a second-hand bookstore. He wore a faded hat and moved slowly, almost invisibly, among the shelves. At the counter he noticed the book I was buying—a volume of essays by a writer I had never heard of. He tapped the cover with one finger and said, “This one… will change the way you notice rain.” Then he left, disappearing into the street.
He wasn’t trying to lead me anywhere. But his lantern glowed for a moment, and it lit my path. Years later, in the rain, I still think of him.
I do not believe in leaders who march at the front of armies. I believe in lantern-carriers. People who explore quietly, who illuminate possibilities, who remind us that the road extends further than we can see.
Sometimes I walk ahead with a lantern. Sometimes I walk behind, watching the light of someone else. Both roles feel the same: necessary, temporary, human.
The world is too wide for commands. Too unpredictable for orders. But it is just wide enough for lanterns, scattered across the dark, each one casting a circle of light into the fog.
And maybe, if you look closely, you will see that the lantern you thought was lighting your way was only showing you your own reflection, already waiting at the edge of the path.
life 