How a Japanese Folktale Saved Me From Myself
By: Shourya Agarwal
Tags: Self, Spirituality, Lifestyle, Relationships, Mindfulness

How a Japanese Folktale Saved Me From Myself

I realized that I had gotten self-love all wrong

The summer of my senior year kicked me right in the solar plexus. Walled up between sixteen-hour workdays, I found myself brewing the age-old recipe for disaster — pushing people away. The missed calls became dropped texts, and soon everything was replaced with the abysmal silence of a damp workstation. I just puckered up and kept going at it. Within six weeks, I had frustrated myself into an insomniac, coffee-drowned troll who had slowly begun to crumble from within. Thankfully, right before I hit rock bottom, someone threw in the rope. Which in my case was a single folktale from Japan.

One day, my parents forced me into grocery shopping to get me out of my room. After nearly six weeks of solitary confinement, I stepped into a crowded bus heading downtown. Slouched in a corner, I was too busy ‘planning’ the future to notice the brilliance of that summer morning. Next to my seat lay a deserted magazine. Three stops to go. I started to flip through its pages when my eyes fell on a quotation.

“There’s a Japanese folktale that says your present face is the face of someone you loved the most in your past life”

As the words flashed before my eyes, the message hit home. Glancing beyond the magazine, I saw myself in the window. A shimmering image watered down by self-inflicted loneliness. The longer I looked the more unfamiliar the reflection seemed to me. I was increasingly becoming aware of a deeper, more authentic part of my being that lay below my skin. Looking in the mirror, I felt a strange responsibility to that face. As if it was here to serve a purpose of its own, much beyond my beck and call.

It no longer mattered if this legend had even the slightest grain of truth. The realization was simply too beautiful to let go. Until now, I had always thought of self-love as optional. An act, I would occasionally indulge in while largely hitting the snooze button when I needed it the most. But the folktale made me think of self-love as a responsibility. Something which I owe to the people who care about me. And that special somebody who chooses to be recognized with my identity. On the slight chance that we are indeed playing this giant game of pass the parcel, in a lifetime not too long ago, this very face kept me up past dawn. I cannot help but wonder all the lengths I must have gone to, all the battles I must have fought, just to shelter this countenance from harm. If the past me was even remotely similar to the present version, they would be pissed off with the way I was handling their possession.

Long after completing the errand, I kept thinking about the legend. Just like how someone is entitled to carry on with our identity, we too should seek out things that matter to us. Only after passing over thousands of experiences, will we find the moments that define us. Only after losing our way on thousands of roads can we truly find the current and next versions of ‘ourselves.’ But first and foremost, we must tear down the walls and let in all those who care.

As the bus drew to a screeching halt, I shot a last glance at the window. Apart from the dark circles, I was happy. More importantly, I looked beautiful. On reaching home, I lurched for my cell-phone. Disarming a bunch of useless reminders, I reached out and dialed.

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