In Transit: Grieving in the Bardo of Travel

Jindaiji Temple in the suburbs of Tokyo

I travelled to Japan in mid-March for a trade show, followed by a week of vacation. Just before my departure, it became clear that my mother’s journey in this world would be coming to an end very soon.

Sure enough, I had just arrived at my hotel in Tokyo, turned off the lights and was about to fall asleep when my brother called to tell me that she had passed - just thirty minutes earlier. Later, I learned that my teacher’s, Lama Linda’s, father had also passed that same day. I cannot help but feel the deep interconnectedness between us.

My mother’s passing did not come as a surprise. In many ways, I had already been grieving over the past years. I had said my goodbyes. I had even been able to see her one last time while already on the airplane, on my way to Japan, held somewhere between worlds. When I saw her, I knew that death was near.

Our relationship had not always been easy, and her passing made me wonder where that now left us. I didn’t have a clear answer. But I felt a sense of peace. I believe she did too and had been able to let go.

Preparing for death between worlds

On my flight to Japan, I had recited 10,000 Om Amidheva Hrih Svaha mantras, consciously preparing both of us for death. Somehow being in a bardo state myself - the bardo of travelling - at some point, a quiet certainty arose within me: we were both ready and at peace. We would be okay. We had released each other.

The days that followed were intense - filled with constant social engagement at the trade show, and the subtle effort of learning the rhythms and customs of a country I had never visited before.

The trade show ended on a Thursday. The following day, March 20, marked the spring equinox in Japan, a holiday that also honours our ancestors. Many people visit family graves that day. I did not know this in a rational sense, and yet something in me felt that it would be a good day to visit a Buddhist temple and pray for my mom and for Lama Linda’s father.

Taking refuge: Praying at Jindaiji Temple

Over the previous days, I had become friends with a Japanese colleague who had lived in Canada for many years. Since she had an interfaith background, she felt like the right person to speak to, so I asked her where I might go. She immediately knew and generously offered to go with me.

On Friday morning, I left my hotel and took a local train to meet her. Together, we made our way to Jindaiji Temple, a historic temple in the suburbs of Tokyo, known for its spring water and its dedication to Jinja Daioh, the deity of water. It was a cool, rainy day and Jinja Daioh clearly seemed to be present.

Upon arrival, my friend shared some of the temple’s history. The area is also famous for its soba noodles, with traditional buckwheat mills scattered throughout. The purity of the spring water and the quality of the flour are said to determine the taste - and later, at lunchtime, I would discover just how true that is.

I wanted to recite my daily Bardo prayers in the shrine room. As we approached, the head monk was just concluding a ceremony dedicated to honouring the ancestors. My friend carefully greeted him and explained our presence. Without hesitation, we were invited into the space which was otherwise closed to visitors.

We removed our shoes and entered the shrine room. It was one of the most magnificent shrines I had ever seen. I offered three prostrations before the central Buddha. The head monk knelt at the front, and later my friend told me that he had prayed for my mom.

After he departed, I quietly asked where I might sit for my prayers. I took a seat among the chairs arranged in a simple, almost church-like setting, and recited my Day 4 Bardo prayers for Daniel and Angelika.

Soba Mills & Restaurants around Jindaiji Temple

Deep gratitude and unwavering trust in the universe

Afterwards, we sat with a senior student, a young woman who had joined us. My friend gently reminded me that this was a good moment to offer dana. In return, I was given a book sign with an image of the temple’s historic Buddha statue, Hakuhoh Buddha, and a tablecloth. I was very surprised. I had not expected anything in return given that I was profoundly moved by the generosity and kindness I had already received.

The student told us that we had arrived at the perfect moment, just as the ceremony was ending, and that she did not believe this to be a coincidence. To me this was one of those precious, luminous moments on the path, moments that evoke deep gratitude and an unwavering trust in the unfolding of the universe.

I asked the student about their practice and lineage. I also shared about ours and the fact that Clear Sky had basically been born in Japan. I learned that the temple follows Tendai Buddhism, a Mahayana tradition rooted in the Chinese Tiantai school. It emphasizes “One Great Perfect Teaching” - the understanding that all Buddhist teachings are ultimately unified and non-contradictory. I couldn’t help but think of the Rimé approach within our own lineage.

At the heart of Tendai Buddhism lies the Lotus Sutra, and as the student mentioned, there are also “hidden” aspects - esoteric, tantric elements woven into the practice. Sounds familiar? I felt somehow at home.

My friend later reflected that effort - one of the paramis – is always rewarded. The 90-minute journey to the temple, the walk through the rain, the intention behind it all - none of it had been in vain. It became increasingly clear to me that my friend was deeply spiritual, and I felt an immense sense of gratitude for having met her. Trust the universe.

We ended our visit with a warm bowl of soba noodle soup and sweet rice cake treats – a simple, grounding joy.

Resolution in the dream bardo

That night, I dreamt of my mom.

She asked for my help. She needed to go to the washroom. I took her arm, but she struggled to walk, so I lifted her up and carried her in front of me like a baby. She felt incredibly light.

In that moment, there was only love - pure, unconditional, and complete. A deep care that transcended everything that had been difficult between us. On a feeling level, my son and my mother became one. Ich liebe Dich, Mama.