ruthful

I’m sitting at my computer, looking out the bleary window at the needle-rain outside. I am forced to stay here and continue to type since I do not want to leave the only warm room in the house. No central heating here in our Tokyo home, and it’s FREEZING downstairs. I trot downstairs to search for chocolate. “It’s not cold,” drawls Joel, stretched out on the couch, laptop on his lap. I put my frigid fingers on his chest just to prove my point and he sucks in air through his teeth. Doesn’t yell though, cuz that would validate my statement. Instead, he asks me to get his soda pop out of the freezer where it’s been chilling. Brrr! I need mittens just to pick the bottle up. How can he drink freezing soda on a day like this? I quickly put my down jacket on over my turtleneck and sweater, shuffle over to the couch in my poofy slippers and hand him his ice-cold refreshment.

I’m guessing that our fridge is running very efficiently right about now, since the temperature in there is about the same as the temperature in the kitchen. By the time I get back upstairs (with my down jacket on) my fingers are so cold and stiff, that I can’t type… so I sit on my hands for a while. At least my butt is still relatively warm. I’m realizing that I am a reptile who has married a mammal. Of course, his warmth is one of the reasons I did marry him in the first place, so now I must resign myself to these inevitable temperature negotiations. Living with a hottie has its drawbacks.

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On November 3, 2009, I became a victim of a well-orchestrated, completely effective and precise manoeuver that I call… Slumber Sabotage! At 9:23 pm, after wobbling out of a very hot, very deep tub of water (“ofuro,” as they call it in Japan) loose and relaxed as a jellyfish in a bowl of wine, I melted into my futon bed on the floor, pulled up the layers of covers, gave a sigh of contentment, and closed my eyes. Ah. I did forget to fill up my water bottle. “Joel, could you fill up my water bottle when you come back up?” Finally, in bed before 10! Sigh.

I think it must have been the sigh that touched it all off. Mothers aren’t really supposed to relax; at least not until they’re installed in a couch at the old folks’ home. “Do you know where the credit card is? You used it last.” “It’s on the table.” “I looked on the table and didn’t see it.”

Okay, so I was the last one to use the card at the grocery store to buy food since we were almost out of yen. I knew that feeling of contentment was never really meant for me. I had stolen that sigh from somewhere; from someone who deserved it more… from someone who consistently put things back.

I toss back the quilt and within two seconds, I have lost the accumulated warmth. Two imperatives drone in my head: Find the card. Get back in bed. I start to count as I head downstairs… one, two, three, four… Within ten seconds I have located the “missing” card. Well, it was hidden under a lid… a TRANSPARENT lid. I turn to recapture the embrace of warm blankets.

“Do you know where my backpack ended up?” “No.” “And my iPhone AC adapter?” Oh, great. I was the last to use that too. “Isn’t that it on the table?” I point to some white cord thingy with flattish connectors at both ends, hoping that I can slip away before he sees that it is not the requested bit of technological flotsam. “It’s the one that plugs into the wall.” Yes, I know that, but I just want to go to sleep. I shove my hand into my own backpack, (I know where MY backpack is) and miraculously pull out the requested cable. I put it on the table next to the card and head back upstairs.

Sigh. It’s 9:34 and I’m ready to drift off. Wait. Wasn’t that my daughter still sitting at the table downstairs when she is supposed to be in bed? Out of bed once more… and it’s not just a matter of swinging my feet over the edge of the bed onto the floor. I am laying on the floor. I have to stand all the way up. Down the stairs, with empty water bottle in hand, to pack the progeny off to bed, refill the water, and collapse back into bed. Big sigh.

It’s 9:39. I am drifting off to La-La Land. Slumber is such a blessing. SMACK! I have slapped myself awake. The sound of a mosquito suddenly whining right next to my ear has prompted this reflex action. At least I killed the mosquito, although my ear is still ringing from the blow. Stupid mosquito. Stupid reflexes. Back to the business of sleep. It takes longer to drift towards slumber, though, after you’ve been slapped up the side of your head. I take one last, drowsy glance at the clock… 9:45… ahhh. I’ll be asleep before 10.

BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP… Aaugh! Who is setting off a car alarm at this time of night? Sounds like our car alarm. How is that possible? Who cares… they can steal the car. It was a free gift anyways and we usually use our bicycles. The alarm stops. It was Elsa who set it off looking for her phone. “Have you seen Elsa’s phone?” I am NOT getting up to look for that phone. I AM ASLEEP!

Joel comes to bed. Sigh. Finally. My personal heater… comes with computer attached?!? He settles in to watch a download of “The Daily Show.” I just want to sleep. “Do you have headphones?” I ask pointedly. He takes his show elsewhere. Finally, peace and quiet. I creep slowly to the edge of that welcoming, fuzzy land of sleepy-pie. Almost asleep… come to Momma… shh.

“I got you some water!” Aaaargh. I am wide awake again. “I already have some water,” I snap “No, I brought it. It’s right by your bed.” “Yeah, next to the bottle that I just filled.” Too tired to argue, I look at the clock… 10:48 pm. Sigh. Completely different kind of sigh. Sleep Sabotage Mission Complete.

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I have a feeling that my neighbors here in Tokyo get a lot of mileage out of me. It’s probably a local pastime by now, gaijin-watching. “What is she up to today?” they chuckle to themselves. I give them food for gossip and behavior puzzles to ponder over their miso soup in the morning.

I know that I’m supposed to try to fit in, and do things the proper way, but in my life, things just happen and I have to adapt. It makes perfect sense to me that because I will not have time in the morning to hang out my laundry, (which had finished in the wash cycle at 8pm because I started the laundry when I got home from work, but had to do the dishes, check email, look for Elsa’s calculator and a myriad of other tasks before finally getting to the hanging up of the laundry part), now I still need to hang out the laundry on the back porch before going to sleep.

“So what is she doing now?”
“Well, you’re not going to believe this, but she’s out on the balcony hanging out her clothes.”
“You’re kidding! It’s 10 o’clock at night! Doesn’t she know that you only hang out your clothes in the morning after viewing the weather report that clearly tells us whether it is a good laundry day or not?”
“I don’t think they have a TV?”
“No TV? Well that’s just not possible.”
“No, I take that back. They do have one TV, but it’s in their car.”
“Yeah, well… lots of cars have TVs in their dashboards along with their navigation system.”
“No, I mean it’s their only TV.”
“You must be mistaken.”
“It’s true. When the Olympics were on, they all sat in their car and watched the opening ceremony.”
“They were probably just sitting there ‘cuz they’d been driving around and wanted to watch the rest in their driveway.”
“Nope. I saw them all come out of the house, get into the car, watch the show, and then go back inside.”
“Wow. That is goofy. Don’t they know how silly that looks.”
“Oh, they’re oblivious, you know. They’re gaijin… foreigners.”

At least I don’t shuffle off to the local store at night in my jammies to pick up a carton of milk. I get dressed… in shorts and a T-shirt. (I guess I’m not really supposed to wear shorts.) And take my own little plastic bag. And I bring my dog along who has learned to run alongside the bike. He puts his nose close to my leg when he has to stop and take a roadside potty break. I am ready with a bag to pick up after him. Someone is always nearby to make sure treasures are not left on the sidewalk. And this is a good thing, I think. Most of my behavior fits the norm. It’s just that things seem to happen to me…

“I think you should come over here and see this.”
“What is it this time?”
“She’s climbing the walls up to the second floor and going into her house through a window.”
“Don’t be silly. Even I know that gaijin don’t climb up the side of their houses to get in. They use the front door just like everyone else.”
“Look! She hauling herself over the side of the balcony.”
“Yikes! Look at her balancing on the railing. What if she falls? Do they have insurance?”
“She made it in. Now what’s she doing?”
“She’s letting the dog in.”
“That big dog? Into the house?”
“Yep. She crawled over the railing and into the house, just so she could let the dog in.”
“Weird. Why doesn’t she just use the front door.”
“Maybe she’s entertaining the dog.”
“Or us. Ha-ha-ha.”
“It’s fun living next to a gaijin.”

Sigh. First thing I need to do is put a key in my backpack so this doesn’t happen again.

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This was the photograph (or close to it) that caught my eye as we wandered about in the atrium of our school. The teachers were engaged in a creative learning exercise, and we were told to choose one photograph… pages of National Geographic magazines were scattered along the walls, waiting to be chosen. I was drawn to this singular image, like space debris to a black hole. Yeah, sometimes I feel like debris. So I snatched it up and then tried to figure out why. Why was this suddenly my corona?

Contrary to what some early humans believed, having the sun blocked out in your part of the world (or in a temporary portion of your life), does not mean the end of the world… it is actually an opportunity for a new perspective… a chance to see what is not always visible in your life. The corona, the crown of the sun, is only visible during a total eclipse. Some opportunities or qualities in your life are only visible during the times of deepest darkness. And you know, often the life darkness does not last that long… just as in an eclipse, when you have only a few moments to see that shimmering halo around the sun, your moment of seeing in the dark can be fleeting. Get the most out of it.

One of our group members mused that she did not recognize it as an eclipse at first. It looked to her life an extreme close-up shot of an eye. The black circle was the pupil. Interesting how one thing can represent two opposite concepts. It is either the very solid moon blocking the circle of life, or the window to the soul; the pupil that, with its blackness absorbs everything it sees. An impediment or an invitation. So many things in life go either way. So many times, it seems my life could go either way… sucked down into the black hole and being absorbed into emptiness or absorbing everything that an eclipse of my life has to teach me.

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My bicycle died the other night. It did not go quietly. It screamed out its death throes through the crowed streets of Tokyo and all the way through Tama Cemetery before giving up the ghost.

My daughter, Elsa, was spared the gruesome symphony. She had biked on home alone, earlier in the evening, and I followed later. As soon as I started off, the moaning began. Every time I pedaled forward… creak, creak, creak. I thought perhaps that the chain and gears had gotten rusty by being out in the rain. Just gotta loosen the bike up a little. I pedaled faster. The screeching got louder. Pedestrians turned to stare.

When I stopped pedaling and merely coasted along, the grinding stopped. At least I could control the cacophony to a certain extent. I coasted past a clump of commuters waiting at the bus stop. Blissful silence. But I was losing momentum and soon had to pedal again.

The squealing, grinding sound started in again, louder than ever. It was the loudest sound that I had ever produced on the polite streets of Tokyo. It echoed off the buildings and drowned out the sound of the busses and cars. It was louder than those obnoxious sound trucks that roll through the streets before every election, prompting plots in my rattled brain that involve rocket launchers and explosives. But now, I was the obvious source of the noise pollution. By the dark looks that I was getting, I’m sure that more than a few were hatching plots of their own.

I coasted past some fellow bikers. I didn’t want to cause an accident. It is rather difficult to steer a bike when both of your hands are desperately clapped over your ears. I wanted to plug my own ears, but then I would have to stop and at that point, I wouldn’t be noisy, so what use would that be?

I squealed sheepishly into a bike shop and stopped behind the proprieter who was watching TV. “Sumimasen… excuse me…” He turned to look at the gaijin, the foreigner. I explained the problem in the best Japanese I could muster, and then demonstrated the horrible noise. He knew exactly what had happened and reckoned that the cost of overhauling the bearings in the pedal crank would not be worth the cost considering the general condition of my poor old bike.

“It will eventually just freeze up, you know,” he counseled. “You won’t be able to turn the pedals.” “So, I’m about 20 minutes from home still,” I told him. “Do you think I’ll make it?” “Probably… maybe,” he said, trying to sound hopeful. I got back on the bike and continued to screech through the streets.

“Just let me make it to the bottom of our street,” I prayed quietly, “then I’ll get off and walk so as not to disturb the neighbors.” It was a relief to finally make it to the wide, empty, dark roads of Tama Cemetery, one of the largest graveyards in Tokyo. The raucous scraping sounded even louder with no other noises with which to compare decibels. It was loud… yes, I couldn’t help but think it… loud enough to wake the dead. Fortunately, most of the grave sites there are inhabited by ashes which might only be disturbed by a strong wind, not a loud sound.

I made it to the other side and the quiet of the stones, lanterns and long wooden prayer sticks closed up behind me, thankful to be rid of my racket, I am sure. I few more turns of the pedal and I would stop at the bottom of the short hill. Sure enough, on the last possible stroke of the pedal, the bearings seized up and would not move. I coasted to a stop and rolled my bike to its resting place. It has been there, leaning against the wall ever since. Maybe I’ll bury it in the cemetery.

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Every once in a while, I am struck by the astonishing grace of a moment in time. It hits me with a comforting thud in the middle of a mundane moment. Like tonight… lounging on the couch (what a luxury that it… not often indulged in and so it remains a luxury) and listening to father and daughter practice the pace of strumming a ukulele. They pass the instrument back and forth, teaching and learning, easily and with (surprisingly) no conflict. The song fits the laid-back evening with its simplicity. Nothing else is needed. The blessing of the moment washes over me. I am aware of it more acutely, perhaps, since my older daughter will leave for college in less than two weeks… and we will not see her again for a whole year.
Thankfully, the pace of my life has slowed so that I can enjoy these evenings together. Last year about wore my strings out, I was strumming so fast. Now I can relax into a saner rhythm that includes time to simply be with my family. Nighttime crickets, drying laundry, silky dog ears, and breathing next to my husband in bed; moments of grace in a stressful world. Moments that hold me together.

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On my first day of work as elementary school librarian, I watched as small groups of young students trooped in and plonked themselves down on the carpet to absorb the library vibe and meet the new librarian. I introduced myself and explained about story time and the exciting prospect of being able to borrow books. “And if a class is really good about listening to the read-aloud, and if they are very quiet, you will get to meet some of my puppet friends who live in the library.” Their big eyes scanned the top shelf where the various puppet animals were perched, waiting to speak to them.
“Do they talk all by themselves?” asked one little girl. “No,” I replied. “They are a bit shy. They only talk when they’re right next to me.” Well, that made perfect sense to them. Still, they studied the puppets for any signs of movement while they sat very still.
As one class stood up to file out, a little boy raised his hand very high in the air. “Yes?”
“Quiet,” he declared, “is coming!” Quite a statement from a Kindergardener who are not typically known for bringing quiet to anything. He had determined that he would be so quiet, however, that the puppets would be brave enough to speak. We’ll see if he succeeds.
Little did I know how prophetic that statement would be. I had learned to associate school with noisy, engaging, relentless activity. As a teacher in a self-contained classroom of 5th graders, I was always listening and looking in several directions at once. I had learned to distinguish productive noise from distracting chatter. I could sense conflict almost before it happened. I could hear someone being excluded from group work. Working in the library is much different. The quiet was coming, indeed. I often wonder if the students are still in the building, it’s so quiet. The background clamor of the playground does not penetrate the glass walls and stacks of books. The quiet is here. It picks me up off the ground and I sometimes feel as if I am a spirit, floating among the shelves, silently sliding volumes back into their spaces.

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It’s amazing how a little thing can mean so much. I was almost done with my grocery shopping, just an afterthought wander through the local store after having dropped off Joel’s only suit jacket at the dry cleaner’s. (Note to self… fix the small hole in the right sleeve that the sharp-eyed counter lady pointed out.) Turning in to the frozen confection aisle, I was thinking about lemon ice cups, when I felt an insistent bump at my left hip. An intent face turned up towards me. “Konnichiwa!” It was the little girl from down the street who often shows up at our door looking for 12-yr. old Elsa, who is usually kind enough to play energetically with her outside. I didn’t know how to tell her, in Japanese, that we were finally back from the lake and that Elsa would be home once again. I wondered how many times she had turned up on the door step during the three weeks that we were away. How many times had she stood and knocked with no one there to answer the door? But now we were back and school would be starting once again.

She put her hand up in the air and solemnly waited for my hand to meet it in a “high-five.” I met her hand and our fingers interlaced in a friendly, easy embrace. Her mother came around the corner as we exchanged greetings and she smiled warmly as if to say, “Kindness to my child is kindness to me.” With children, the language barrier does not seem so vast or insurmountable. The brief clasp reminded me of the gift I’ve been given. Even though the past year had tattered my confidence, the gift was still there, as solid as ever. There was that flash of understanding, a kinship with children that allows me to be young and old at the same time. Kids know that I get them. It’s easy to pay attention to them; to understand what they are saying. So much harder to understand the parents; always a struggle to stay on the adult wavelength when a child is there with so many important and honest and intriguing things to say.

Another school year starting. A year of listening and learning from the children; of finding out how to teach and reach each individual. A puzzle and a challenge worth solving. Once again I know that teaching is my bliss. It is why I am here.

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Lake Nojiri in Nagano-ken, Japan, is the best place as any, I suppose, to lose one’s soul. “All who wander are not lost,” says Tolkien, and it is true. The dirt paths that criss-cross the steep hills along the north side of this clear lake will always lead homeward. The cabins here are often the only fixed mark that mobile missionary families in Japan can call home. Neighborhoods and deputations change, but the family cabin at Nojiri stays the same, right down to the warped wooden floors and pit toilets that bring us back each summer to an honest and humble outlook on life. A lost soul at Nojiri need not despair. Step up onto any porch and you will soon be found and welcomed. Any place on the cabin-dotted hill is a perfect spot to sit, soak up the silence, and let your soul wander a bit.

And my soul has wandered a bit here, but this was the first time that I had actually stepped out of my sole. I had known it was loose for some time. It was catching on the mossy steps and folding under me occasionally as I walked. Finally it was barely hanging on. I asked my friend, who was walking beside me, watching my gradual detachment, “Helen; could you just step on it for me? I’d just as soon have it all the way off.” She stepped on my sole and I pulled free of it.

“No, no! You can’t carry that!” My husband was quick to intercept my friend who was reaching down to pick my muddy sole up off of the soggy path. “I’m the one to carry my wife’s sole.” And so he did. My soul mate carried my sullied sole all the way home to our rustic cabin on the hillside.

My sole is still laying there, flopped down on the porch. I don’t think it can be reattached. I suppose I should just leave it there, even after we head back home to Tokyo after our summer at the lake. That way, I can always tell someone, “You know, it’s good to be back home, but I left my sole at Lake Nojiri. ” And they might know exactly what I mean, or they might not understand at all.

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So many things struck me as being very funny when I first came to Japan. Now that I have lived here for three years, I’m getting used to it all and I don’t even need to stifle a guffaw or a gasp… at least, not usually.

So I want to keep a record of the things I encounter that I still find bizarre. I fear that, eventually, I won’t even notice them.

In the Japanese-style house that we rent here in Tokyo, everything is designed for a much shorter inhabitant. When I wash my hands in the tiny sink next to the bidet-style toilet with optional warming seat, I do not see my head. I don’t even see my neck in the mirror above the sink. My shoulders and torso along with the upper part of my legs are reflected in the mirror, reminding me every day that here in Japan, I am too tall. At least I am short enough that I do not whack my head on the door frame. My oldest daughter, (who says she is 5′-11″) and my first-born, Alec, (who is 6′- 2″) do tend to clonk their foreheads when they’re not careful. Our home washroom is, however, much closer to the American style lavatory than many other places here. The range of potties found in Japan is intriguing.

Today, I took my younger daughter to the doctor, and when I went to the washroom, the very clean and modern bathroom had clear directions for using the commode. To be sure, directions were essential, what with all of the buttons, screens and options. My needs were simple, but even so, as I sat down, the sound of rushing water automatically began to play from the speaker next to me. The recording gurgled on in an apparent attempt to mask any awkward noises, and then finally stopped. Even if I hadn’t had much of an urge to go before sitting down, that insistent sound of flowing water would have gotten me going, that’s for sure. I stood up, and following the instructions, passed my hand close to an infrared sensor and the toilet flushed. Ta-da. Mission accomplished. Good thing I had so much technology helping me.

Nowadays, Western-style, sit-down toilets are everywhere. Most places give you an option. Older Japanese folk often prefer the traditional hole-in-the-floor; you just hunker down and go, assuming that you are still able to hunker. In case this fleeting description does not paint the picture for you, here it is in plain English. An oval hole in the floor which slants away from you is equipped with a flusher on the floor or near the end. You must straddle the hole, one foot on either side, drop your drawers, taking care not to drag any material or dangle it in the way of the jet stream and then in that dignified position, you relax and proceed with your business.

One could argue that these old style toilets are actually more hygienic since you don’t have to touch any public surface to use them. You can even use your foot to flush. There are obvious disadvantages, however…. like when you’re nine months pregnant. I remember having to use old-style toilets when I was pregnant with my first. We were living in Sendai in the 1980’s and Western toilets were few and far between. When you are heavy with child, especially one who is leaning perniciously on your bladder, you do not take your time searching for your favorite style of potty. The problem is, once hunkered down, there is no getting up. Having no idea what Japanese phrase I might use to help me out of this predicament, I just pretended I was one of those spandexed, bulging Olympic weight-lifters and deadlifted my bulk off the floor and escaped with most of my dignity still intact. So much for the “Squatty-Potty.” Although I do appreciate many things about Japan, I gravitate towards the sit-down variety of rest stops.

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