ruthful

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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