A Wrinkle In Time

It's September 17th and I'm sitting in Seattle, Washington, USA; already several adventures on and neglecting the close of this blog. But so it goes, and here comes the final post.

I returned to Colorado on July 28th, and in an alarmingly short time Japan felt extremely far away--farther even than the reality of the physical distance. My friend Kaitlyn felt the same way, and called it a wrinkle in time. I don't expect this to continue forever, but right now it actually takes some concentration to remember and truly feel that I lived in Kanazawa for two years.

This is not to imply that my time in Japan left me unmarked. Absolutely the opposite. I made friends I hope to keep for a lifetime; I saw an unbelievable amount of Japanese cultural places and events; I (and if you've talked to me at all in the last few months you've heard this because I cannot resist bragging about it) lost 35 pounds; I took karate classes from a man I could barely communicate with; I learned about myself as a teacher and about how really, kids are kids no matter where you are; I brought my parents to Asia for the first time which had a profound and positive effect on our relationship; I played in a band and paraglided and rode a bike and ate okonomiyaki, yakitori, sushi, curry rice, and bee larvae. The distance and perspective that the experience provided caused me to descend into a crushing existential, ecological, and occupational crisis and ascend into a completely new calling in life.

Somehow, I knew very early on that I would not stay in Japan for the long term; I loved it there, but I never felt like I really got much closer to being a part of the community. I miss the smooth cleanliness and safety of public life in Japan, but I love the overtly unique personalities and idiosyncrasies of America (in all its shambling disorder sometimes). I miss the sense of novelty attached to my presence anywhere, but I love the anonymity of walking down a street now. I miss the beautiful temples and shrines and the mountains and rice fields but I love the feeling that I am free to dig in and create something lasting here.

I just started smiling wryly to myself, because writing this post has made me miss Japan like crazy. The grass is always greener, I suppose. It is immensely important to remember that every cultural or geographical attribute has a positive and negative side, however. 

I would very much like to return to Japan to visit, though I feel like it won't be for some time. Hopefully I can engage with the Japanese communities wherever I am and retain some connection to that life, because I value the culture and people very highly. I still catch myself bowing and apologizing far more than necessary; it feels nice, to be honest. If I can say in the future that I learned from and absorbed some of the best parts of Japanese culture to better synthesize a balance for myself, I will be quite proud.

But if there is one impression I could impart to everyone, it would be how little separates "us", Americans or "Westerners", from the Japanese. The cultural rules and gestures may differ, but it felt increasingly difficult and almost ludicrous to answer the question "what's the most surprising thing about Japan?"--a question posed both by my students and friends back home. I'd usually end up drawing a blank and muttering something about the food. Frustrating cultural differences cropped up often, to be sure--especially at work--but in remembering them all I can do is smile and feel a kinship. 

Very near the end of my time in Japan, I had dinner with my supervisor and friend Mr. Kondo and his wife. I had specifically requested to meet her, and he was very happy about that. He said later that in 25 years of teaching no one had met his wife--none of his JETs or even any Japanese co-workers. That's in fact very common in Japan, where work and personal life are kept strictly separate. She was truly moved to meet me, and we had a great time.

Midway through the dinner, she wrote her favorite Japanese phrase on a small scrap of paper for me.

今日一日が生涯

kyou ichi nichi ga shougai

The last two characters mean "lifetime" or "all of existence". The translation is "Today, this one day, is my whole lifetime".

It's now my favorite Japanese phrase too.

One final note. I'd like to reprint my friend Dipika Soni's poem. She was a JET and then ended up staying for more than 7 years in Japan. She returned to England in May, and wrote this poem for the art journal I produced. It sums up my feelings now as well as anything, and as a bonus it's gorgeous:

I cannot gather enough 

fallen petals 

before the wind carries them away

Two hundred delicate memories 

and more

Swept away as one cloud

Rained as ten thousand droplets 

of something

Meaningless to anyone else 

as they join

An inevitable river 

Meeting every other thought 

in the vast deep blue

Where I washed away those 

Lurking dreams

Where I started anew

This is my experience of The East

that lives in me

Where only now 

I begin to learn its secrets

In each blink of remembrance

In each discarded blossom

Caught in the wind.

Thank you all for reading. This is Crate & Barrel, Japan Division, signing off (I quite literally couldn't resist).

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Onagawa, Part 3

Yes, quite a significant gap between Parts 2 and 3. Being back in America has been much much busier than I anticipated. But here it is, my final (and shortest) post about Onagawa. I wanted to describe the story of how I became connected with Onagawa, and the project I did before going.

Stuck in Ishikawa, I wanted very much to do something to raise money to help Tohoku and the affected areas. Inspired by some of the other initiatives I saw going on, I collected all kinds of artwork from expats around the prefecture and combined it into a 50-page art journal. I then sold copies of the journal to people to raise money. Most of the people who read this blog regularly know about the journal, but you might not know about the interesting shift in my thinking that occurred in regards to where to donate the money I raised.

I had no real idea where the money would be going, but I had some vague sense that I would donate it to be used for buying blankets, food, and necessities. Perhaps the Red Cross, perhaps my favorite charity organization Mercy Corps.

Then, near the end of the production cycle for the journal, my friend Anna emailed following a weekend volunteer trip that she'd taken to Onagawa. Through her boyfriend Stephen, she met Fujinaka-sensei and heard about one of his many missions--to save two cherry trees.

Cherry trees carry enormous weight in Japanese culture, and they symbolize everything from rebirth to the samurai spirit to the transience of life. Two cherry trees near the center of Onagawa were almost destroyed by the tsunami but miraculously survived; Fujinaka and his friends had decided to save them and create a memorial park. Anna suggested that I donate the art journal money to that memorial park fund.

I liked the story of the trees, and I liked the connection of an art journal going to support something meant mainly as a metaphor, but I had reservations. Wasn't it too soon? Didn't people need food and supplies first, survival? Nonetheless, I talked more with Anna and was convinced that it was a worthy cause. Still, I didn't quite understand or get it in my gut. That changed immediately when I traveled through Onagawa and then stood in front of the trees.

The town is a trash heap, and its survivors live in the higher surrounding areas. In a very real way, there is no Onagawa anymore. What is it that makes a town a town? What binds a community? What is home, and why do we stay there? Onagawa needs rallying points, symbols to remind people about the town they loved and that rebirth is possible. Certainly, the cherry trees are not the only rallying point, and clearly people are taking inspiration from many other sources, but I felt immensely humbled and happy to have been part of that process. I think there is a time for food and supplies and utilitarian survival, and a time for the deeper meanings that make that survival worthwhile. 

Flowers planted by local elementary school kids to begin the park.

Once and future sakura.

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Onagawa, Part 2

In this post I'll start by posting some pictures and talking about the work I did in Onagawa.

Moving donated tatami mats between gyms to give to refugees.

Volunteering happened in two shifts each day, 9-12 and 1-4. I had to bring all my own food, but water, energy drinks, and much of the equipment was provided by donations.

The first afternoon I went with the crew to a fishing warehouse on the waterfront. The job was essentially sorting rubble: metal, wood, clothes, electronics all in different piles to be taken to the mountains of trash. Japan in July is extremely hot, so a lot of care was taken to stay well-hydrated.

Another day I spent most of the time in the Onagawa hospital, moving couches and chairs and disposing of hospital beds and other damaged equipment. Something very impressive to see was that all the clocks in the building were stopped at the same time, reflecting when the tsunami came through.

My friend Stephen had a contact in Onagawa, a friend of a friend named Fujinaka. Mr. Fujinaka is a middle school science teacher, but speaks great English and is involved in almost everything going on in the town. He's now living in one of the container homes, as his house was destroyed by the tsunami.

One morning Fujinaka-sensei took me, Stephen, and Stephen's girlfriend Anna on an early morning hike on the ridges around Onagawa.

I love you, Japan. That's the outline of the Tohoku region (northeastern Japan), rendered as a smiling hiker.

The fishing warehouse I worked at is the third dock jetting out into the water here.

The fourth day of volunteering, we went to a small fishing village on an island off the coast called Izushima. The cranes hadn't been to Izushima yet, so it was in a similar state to how it ended up after the tsunami.

By this point I had gotten close with the group of volunteers. They were happy, hardworking, and extremely welcoming to me and the other two foreigners (we were the only foreign volunteers in Onagawa at the time, except for a group of Scientologists (seriously) who stuck to themselves and worked from a different base in a different part of town). Some of them had been there for almost three months, and there were frequent late evening get-togethers with beers or sake around a table where I learned a ton of interesting Japanese, like the proverb that was translated to:

"When I want to see my lover's face, I wish the moon was a mirror to reflect her image to me."

It's a lot prettier and simpler in Japanese.

The work on Izushima was heavy. We cleaned out another fishing warehouse, moving all the trash and rubble outside of the building so it could later be taken away by heavy machines. During the lunch break, the local fishermen (and woman) caught sea urchins off the dock and gave them to us to eat. This was my first experience with raw uni, and it was pretty delicious, if weird. You just turn them over, crack them open, and either pull or lick out the meat. Apologies for my hair in these pictures.

The kicker was that even after I ate this little dude's guts, his spines were still moving around autonomously...

Dock cracked by the earthquake.

Our warehouse near the end of the day.

On the way back from the island.

One great thing about the sports center was all the kids around. They were playing, going to school where they could, and getting on with life. We played with them for a while one afternoon, going down a slide on the hill above the center.

My last day volunteering I spent hauling boxes of supplies in an elementary school. Dozens of messages and letters and pictures from Canada and America were posted up on the wall.

I spent a brief bit of time in the photo room before I moved on to the school, and I came back later to take some pictures, as strange as that felt.

When clearing rubble, we trashed everything except pictures. Whenever we came across pictures we would put them in a separate bin and bring them back to the center. There, they were cleaned and sorted and put in new albums. One picture from each album was put up on a steadily growing wall where people could come and look to see if they could find their pictures.

It was an amazingly poignant representation of the lives of a group of people. 90% of these people are still alive, but so much of the structure and detail of their lives has been washed away.

But here's the thing. Onagawa is teeming with new life. Certainly not in the devastated city center, but there is rejuvenation everywhere.

There was an incredible sense of connectedness and community at the center, everyone saying hi to each other and welcoming whatever new members moved in and out as the days passed. There are all sorts of new ideas moving in and around Onagawa, not just about how to rebuild the town but about how to make it better than it was when it does get rebuilt.

There's a new radio station, staffed by local guys who used to be shut-ins. There's a local newspaper, a first for Onagawa. A national education activist has moved there to generate and use new ideas to completely reform and redirect Japan's rigid, destructive school system. The people who work there know who they're working for and why, there is no ambivalence and very little bureaucratic red tape. It was thrilling to join that even for a few days and see that these people weren't sinking into their tragedy or dwelling on it, they were looking ahead and moving to the future.

"Fight/Stay strong"

"Fight/Stay strong, Onagawa!"

I'll post a third part soon about my own contribution to Onagawa and the symbolism of cherry trees.

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