There is a Japanese bath that sits quietly, in a tiny mountain town called Arima, just outside of Kobe. I held my husband’s hand tightly as we walked in. I was scared. New things scare me sometimes. Our feet touched the tatami mats and I knew I was in for something special. Something I wouldn’t forget.  We approached the front desk and the man graciously pointed to the right and said, “Women”, and then pointed to the left and said, “Men.” I am on my own, I thought. I stepped into the changing room, a large space with lockers and several Japanese women; many were grandmothers. Frizzy gray and black hair, bodies that had lived through many years of birthing and raising children, and smiles that sang peace.

I found a locker and began putting my things in it. I was moving in slow motion, my nerves getting the best of me. That little voice that says we need to know everything, and do life perfectly, even shows up in a Japanese bath, hundreds of miles from home. I undressed and stuffed everything in this little metal box, except for my large, tropical colored beach towel, that stood out significantly in a place where most things came from nature Herself. As I prepared to enter the bath, I looked to my left and saw a wise woman shaking her head, pointing to my towel and mouthing, “No.” I thought I misunderstood, and I kept moving forward, but then I heard a little whistling noise and now three grandmothers were mothering me. “No”, they mouthed as they pointed to my towel, then my locker. Please understand, my towel was my only barrier to being totally and literally naked. I had no idea what I was doing, but at least I wasn’t totally butt-naked. I had a thread of security still. But the grandmas wanted me to ditch my security for something more. And I did.

As I set my towel down, the grandmothers swooped in on me and surrounded me. They hemmed me in. Two had me by the arms and they led me into the bath. First to the washing area, you wash yourself before entering the actual bath. As I began to sit down on the bucket that you actually use to wash yourself with, along with a brush, they brought me the proper stool. My embarrassment melted into a surrender. I let the grandmas take care of me. Then, they moved me towards the rust colored bath, steam rising off it’s surface. I put my foot in and the heat penetrated my body. I sunk myself in slowly, as I lost my breath from the heat.  The women who shared the bath with me and I, did not speak the language of the other, but we spoke a deeper language together. We laughed a lot. As I prepared to leave, I noticed my head was on the shoulder of the woman next to me, and hers on mine. Shoulders and hips touching side by side. When presented with such softness, such openness, I can feel how guarded I really am. How hard it can be to loosen my jaws and let life in.

This is a story of willingness. The love that I experienced that day, was a love that can only be received and given when one is willing. Willing to be in need. To be led. To be washed. To be helped. To be touched. To laugh without understanding. To live without barriers. To be naked, and held by the women and the water.