“Years ago, she led what many would call a normal life — a government job, a baby, a predictable future. But everything changed in 2011.”

There’s a mist rising over the forested mountaintop, curling through the trees like breath on a cold morning. The rain has been falling off and on, beading on leaves and dampening the soil, but nothing that would suggest the climate catastrophe gripping Okinawa. Yet, images online tell another story—raging floods, mudslides, and swollen rivers carving through forests and infrastructure.

A Kingdom of Its Own

Torrential downpours pummeled Okinawa in November, dumping four inches of rain in just one hour on a Saturday morning. Officials urged residents to stay cautious, warning of road collapses and landslides. These warnings have become routine, as human civilization falls wildly short of climate goals, like Wile E. Coyote strapped to an anvil, plummeting off a cliff.

Still, there are places where hope lingers.

By the time I arrive at Yanbaru National Park, the worst of the weather seems to have passed. I’m here to meet Hiro, an Okinawan-born shaman. Access to this part of Yanbaru is restricted; only a limited number of visitors are allowed, and only with a guide sanctioned by the local tourist bureau.

Walking the Sacred Forests of Yanbaru

To the uninitiated, we’re going on a hike. But that word is discouraged here. The forests of Yanbaru are home to utaki — sacred natural spaces, often caves hidden within mountains. They’re considered sacred in the eyes of Okinawa’s Indigenous religious practices. The word roughly translates to “from where the gods come.”

Most outsiders associate Japan with Shinto and Buddhism. But Okinawa, 400 miles south of the mainland, was a sovereign kingdom for centuries, with its own language and beliefs. That heritage lingers in places like this, where Hiro moves with reverence, as if listening to something just beyond human hearing.

She stops suddenly, clad in white rain gear, and kneels before a small clearing. Without a word, she pours a measure of Okinawan liquor into a glass set on the earth. I follow her lead, pressing my hands together and closing my eyes. There is no chant, no scripted prayer. Just silence.

I risk a glance and meet Hiro’s eyes. Later, she tells me that one of the messages she received from the deities was that I might have the ability to communicate with trees. But first, I need to be open to the possibility.

A Calling from Nature

The rain picks up again, so we take shelter in a hut. As we sit, Hiro shares her story. Years ago, she led what many would call a normal life — a government job, a baby, a predictable future. But everything changed in 2011. During her maternity leave, an earthquake struck northern Japan. Refugees fled to Okinawa, and Hiro volunteered to help them.

Listening to their stories, she realized her job no longer aligned with the life she wanted. She remembered her teenage years when she contemplated life as a farmer. It was a time when she felt deeply connected to nature. Even then, she had sensed something — a quiet communion with plants, a gift she had never fully understood.

Four or five years ago, she began traveling to pray at the utaki. Other shamans told her she would learn from the deities. They would be her mentors.

Last summer, she experienced her most profound moment. In Asumui, a region of Yanbaru believed to be a gateway for divine visits, she heard it — a symphony of nature. The unified vibrations of rocks, trees, and soil.

Hiro describes Nirakanai, the realm of the deities and ancestral spirits. Not the heaven of Christian belief, but a place where life itself originates. Spirits from Nirakanai visit the utaki, bestowing blessings, ensuring bountiful harvests. Distilled down, Hiro’s belief system is simple: nature is sacred.

The Message from the Deities

As our journey nears its end, I ask Hiro the question that lingers in my mind. What can we do in the face of the climate crisis?

By now, winter should have arrived in Okinawa. Instead, summer heat and humidity cling stubbornly to late fall. The heavy rains have been called a once-in-50-years disaster.

Hiro considers my question. I listen to her response in Japanese, trying to pick out familiar words from my months of DuoLingo. One stands out: Hana (はな). Flower.

“She says to plant flowers,” translates Ai Mutakata, our local guide.

I let the answer sit with me.

At first, it seems too simple. Surely she doesn’t believe eight billion people planting flowers will solve the climate crisis. But the more I think about it, the more her words settle into something deeper.

A year ago, climate anxiety had me in its grip. Then my wife and I started composting. It wouldn’t end our addiction to fossil fuels, but it gave me a sense of agency. Without that calm, I’d be paralyzed, unable to advocate for anything.

So I will listen. I will reconnect with the land, with the trees. And yes—I will plant flowers.