Beyond the Grave: What My Grandmother and Father Left Behind| Survival Strategy by Natsu
I recently learned that my father passed away nearly ten years ago.
My parents divorced when I was just a baby. Raised by my mother, I had almost no contact with my father’s side of the family. Perhaps that’s why the news took so long to reach me—sent not by a relative, but by someone I didn't even know.
Living in America, I haven't been back to Japan in years. Between finding a place to stay and the skyrocketing cost of airfare for a family of three during school holidays, the trip feels impossible—even with the current exchange rates. When I moved here, I knew this was the reality I was choosing. So, when I heard the news, my first reaction was a calm, distant thought: "Oh, that time finally came."
But it made me wonder: What exactly is the bond between a parent and child?
To be honest, I don't have many deep, cherished memories of him. We worked together for a few years when I was an adult, so there are memories, but not the thick, layered history of someone who grew up in the same house.
And yet, I had an experience that defies logic.
A few years ago, out of nowhere, a vivid memory of my father hit me, and tears started streaming down my face. I couldn't stop them. At that moment, a thought flashed through my mind: "Why am I crying? Did something happen? Is he coming to say goodbye?"
At the time, I was drowning in the chaos of daily life. Chasing after my kids, rushing to work, battling against the clock. I didn't have a single second to sit with those feelings or dig deeper, so I pushed it aside.
Now, looking back, I believe that was a "mysterious experience" that science can't explain. Maybe it was the only way he could reach out across the ocean to say his final farewell.
If I had never met him at all, would I have felt that? If we had lived together but hated each other, would I have shed those same tears? I don't have the answers. My thoughts just keep spinning in circles.
We didn't have the "standard" life of a father and daughter, but for one intense, unexplainable moment, we were connected. Under the Japanese sky I haven't seen in years, he closed his chapter—and somehow, I felt it.
What exactly is a "blood connection"?
If I were to sit through a lecture by a world-class scientist explaining genetics and DNA, my head would start spinning. If I tried to read a professor’s thesis on the subject, the letters would eventually blur before my eyes until I couldn't see them anymore. So, instead of academic theories, I want to share my own personal truth.
It’s obvious that our physical bodies are made of halves from our parents. But I am certain that we also inherit things that are invisible to the eye. It is these unseen elements—things science cannot yet prove—that form the true, unbreakable bond between parent and child.
I don’t belong to any specific religion, but as a Japanese person, Buddhist teachings are naturally woven into my soul. We don't necessarily learn these in a classroom; they are rooted in our daily lives, passed down through generations. Specifically, I’ve been thinking a lot about the Buddhist concept of "returning to nature" after death. Buddhism is complex and multifaceted, but for now, I want to look at my father’s passing through this single lens.
How did my father, who passed away in Japan—so far from me here in America—return to nature and find his way to me? Even if I felt his presence and knew he had come to say goodbye, did he, in his departed state, have a "sense" of meeting me? Did he have an "intention" or a "will"?
If the deceased have a will that allows them to travel through nature, then it follows that all of nature must possess a will. The wind, the water, the soil, the sun, and the moon—everything. If that’s true, why is it that we cannot communicate with them more clearly?
Humanity has spent tens of thousands of years evolving, but has nature itself remained stagnant? If nature were to evolve alongside us, perhaps we would finally reach a point where we could truly communicate with those who have passed. Until then, we are left with these fleeting, unexplainable moments—like the sudden, heavy tears I shed that night—reminding us that the connection is still there, riding on the wind from a home I haven't seen in years.
How the Fear of Death Became My Reason to Live
Once I begin down this path of reflection, there is no end to it. My thoughts spiral, expanding into territories where my limited knowledge fails me, leaving me lost in a sea of questions. And yet, I wonder: by engaging in this deep contemplation, can we perhaps soften the blow of losing someone we love? Of course, different cultures and religions offer different comforts, and in the raw, immediate aftermath of loss, few have the mental space to ponder the philosophy of the soul. But for me, these questions are the only way to make sense of the void.
My confrontation with death began early. I still vividly remember the day my grandmother, whom I loved dearly, passed away when I was in elementary school. It wasn't just sadness that consumed me; it was a profound, paralyzing fear of death itself. Since that day, that fear has followed me like a shadow—constant, silent, and inescapable.
During my childhood, I faced darkness that no child should endure. I was abused by my mother and bullied at school. There were moments when the weight of existence felt too heavy, and the thought of ending it all crossed my mind. But I couldn't. The fear of death, born from the sight of my grandmother’s lifeless body, was far greater than any pain I was suffering in life. No matter how agonizing my circumstances became, nothing was more terrifying than the finality I witnessed that day.
In a strange, almost cruel way, that fear became my guardian. I often ask myself: Was this my grandmother’s final gift to me? A message whispered from the threshold of the afterlife, commanding me to live? Perhaps she knew that life would be hard, and she gave me the only tool she had to ensure I would never give up.
This brings me back to the idea of legacy. We often think of inheritance in terms of money or property, but the true inheritance is the message each soul leaves behind for their descendants as they depart.
Take my father, for example. We were strangers for most of our lives. I moved to America, built a life for my three-person family, and survived the daily grind of work and motherhood. I thought our connection was severed by decades and oceans. Yet, science cannot explain the night my heart suddenly broke for him, years before I knew he was gone. If my grandmother left me the "fear that preserves life," perhaps my father left me a reminder that "connection transcends presence."
We are made of the atoms of those who came before us. We carry their DNA, yes, but we also carry their unresolved questions, their silent strengths, and their spiritual energy. Whether it is through a sudden burst of tears in a quiet Los Angeles living room or a lifelong fear that keeps us from the edge of the abyss, our ancestors continue to speak to us.
In the end, humanity has evolved over tens of thousands of years, yet we still stand before the mystery of death like children in the dark. We wonder if nature itself will ever evolve to a point where the veil is lifted—where the wind, the water, and the sun can finally translate the messages of the dead into words we can understand. Until that day, I will continue to listen to the silence. I will honor the fear that kept me alive, and I will cherish the unexplainable tears that proved, if only for a second, that I was never truly alone.
Every departure is a message. The question is: are we brave enough to hear it?
Thank you sincerely for taking the time to read through my story and strategies today. I am truly grateful for your attention and support as I navigate this journey toward my goals. Every minute of your time spent here is deeply appreciated, and I look forward to sharing more of this reality with you soon.
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