LIFE CAN CHANGE so quickly. It’s beautiful and sad and wonderful to say goodbye to what we know to make way for what’s to come. It’s hard to believe that I just spent my first week living in Tokyo.

As I write this, I look around at my studio apartment, which quickly became my home. I love my new spot. Books on the shelf, pictures of travel on the walls, scattered tokens of things which bring me joy.

Right now, I’m looking at a letter given to me by two of my dearest friends, Santana and Kauru. Our friendship is an unlikely one that spans ages, backgrounds and cities, and damn, does that make it rich.

It started in Osaka and emanated in waves from there, as I’m now in Tokyo and Santana’s in the States. Written on the letter by Kauru, but I imagine inspired by Santana, is a quote by the 19th-century philosopher and naturalist Ralph Waldo Emerson:

This letter, a piece of art given to me by Kauru before I left Osaka, means so much to me. It’s not just a thing, but our way of life — our essence — distilled into silver ink on purple parchment. They knew these words would matter to me; they couldn’t imagine how much.

Moving in and getting to know my neighborhood this past week was quite exciting, but there were also countless moments of uncertainty.

What the fuck am I doing here, in this random pocket of Tokyo by myself? I often wonder.

What am I doing here. I don’t know; but I’m here, and right now, it feels like I’m meant to be. I’m going where there’s no path, not one that I can see; but I hope to leave a trail, so others too may go where their heart directs, even if — perhaps especially — it veers from what is known.

Before I left Osaka, I gave one of my best friends, Joe, ​the chawan​ that ​Santana gave me before he left Japan ​last summer. I cherished that chawan — a cup for drinking matcha — everything about it. Its size and shape and frosty iridescence.

The chawan typically embodies the Japanese philosophy of wabi sabi, representing what’s simple and real — a cup; what’s sacred and eternal — the art of tea; what’s beautiful and lasts — hand made pottery.

It was Santana’s. He loved it, yet he gave it to me.

So I did the same, giving away something which filled me with sincere joy to make way for what’s to come. Yes! said Santana when I told him this. We are the brotherhood of the traveling chawan.

I fuckin’ love that.

I gave Joe my copy of ​Shogun​, my all-time favorite book, which years ago ignited my interest in Japan and inspired me profoundly as a writer. This year FX released the television version of Shogun, based on the book, and it’s… dope.

A few nights ago, tears came to my eyes as I watched on screen a pivotal moment that had lived in my imagination for years. The episode ended. Right on cue, it started pouring rain outside. A wave of disbelief roared through me.

This is what I’m doing here.

This.

I’m living my life in Tokyo as the rain pours outside, watching a show I’d dreamed about watching for years, based on my favorite book which takes place in Edo era Japan.

I’m paving my way and leaving a trail.

And the trail is the traveling chawan, the book, the memories which mean so much more than the things, but the things mean something, for they remind us of people, places, times in our lives which in the moment may make no sense, yet in the end, all serve to fill us with love.

Maybe we don’t need a reason to go where our heart directs. We simply go and give the reason an opportunity to present itself.