“I am living in the land of Lamentations,” I said to myself last summer. I was sure of it. Joel had lost his job; his whole division had been dropped. The sponsoring company was not going to renew the work visa. I had not been able to secure the full-time job I had been hoping for. Sickness had pounced on me with wretched regularity. My son had been hospitalized thousands of miles away back in the States. He had finally, after years of teenage rationality hit his rebellion phase. His grades and our relationship suffered. My daughters were resenting the fact that they had to hunker down in this non-California Japanese desolation far away from their beloved friends. We were daily struggling with a seemingly untrainable, unrestrainable furry toddler with sharp teeth who resisted our efforts at domestication. I was struggling with the fact that my brain was no longer as spongy as it used to be and no matter how many times I needed to use it, the japanese for “Don’t worry, my dog doesn’t bite.” (kamimasen) came out sounding like, “Don’t worry, my dog doesn’t mind.” (kamaimasen). And in many ways the second sentence was more accurate. My dog still has not really learned to mind.

So the school year ended and off we went to the peace and rejuvenation of Lake Nojiri. One daughter was terrified of the giant hoppers and would climb up on my head whenever she saw one, and the other daughter caught an army of interesting bugs and brought them into the cabin for further study. One room was turned into the bug morgue and the odor was not pleasant. Our very large puppy, Bjorn, came along and to liven things up a bit at the lakeside, he plowed into an innocent bystander and broke her thumb. Not to be outdone, I broke my own toe, but then again, that happens every year. I was beginning to think that was losing my way in the wilderness of Lamentations.

I got sick, Laura got sick, Joel got sick. Elsa did not. Constant dirt under the fingernails does have the advantage of boosting your immune system. During the last couple of weeks up at the lake, I got an infection. I was not in a happy place and I’m afraid I was less than cheerful and I often took it out on the ones that I loved. I pulled others into my land of lamentations.

We went sailing, Laura and I. We entered a sailing race in pre-typhoon winds. We were going at a good clip when the sail came loose and the boom dropped on the deck. The winds were so strong, we could not re-attach the sail. We had to tip the boat sideways, drop the mast and sail into the water, and with the help of another boat and three people in the water, managed to tie the sail back on and finally make our way back to shore. I was so exhausted after that ordeal, I could barely stand. I hobbled back to the cabin with a bruised knee and continued my lamentations.

I had gone back to California with the girls in early July to get the house ready for two sets of renters; upstairs and downstairs. Clearing the basement had taken a long time, but it would be worth it if the rent would cover our mortgage. Back in Japan, I was relieved all that was over and done with. We had a renter for the upstairs and a new renter for the downstairs. I could relax in the peace and quiet of the lake. Joel called from Tokyo; he had some bad news. It was about the house. But, of course, what now? Apparently, the guy who had just begun renting the downstairs of our house back in California had been thrown in jail along with his girlfriend for possession of drugs. There was a big confrontation with shouting and guns and handcuffs. We were very apologetic to our neighbors. We told them that we will no longer trust the results of background checks. We are new to this landlord business. Our neighbors have had experience as landlords. “It happens,” they said, “not your fault.” Still, I felt like I had become a homeowner in the Land of Lamentations. And I wasn’t sure if I could afford the mortgage.

Joel came to rest at Nojiri on the weekends. He brought his bike so he could ride around the lake. It was relaxing for him to be able to get in some good long rides. His last ride was rather short. While pedaling fast up hill and cornering, his pedal hit the pavement on the downstroke and he went tumbling over his bike in a spectacular wipeout. And when he had picked himself up, the tire blew. At least there was someone there to see it. In fact there was a whole group of runners who saw the accident; they happened to be from Chofu, our neighborhood in Tokyo. They gave him a ride back to the cabin and we patched up his bloody arm and leg as best we could. He had to go back to work the next day, but on the train, of course, he discovered that he was ill. He had just cause for lamentations, but he was actually just happy that he got to go on a bike ride.

When he got home that Monday, he found that Elsa’s beloved hamster had passed on. Earlier, her second beetle had also died. True, Sally was elderly, for a hamster, but it was still a reasonable cause for lamentations. Poor Joel had to place the body in cold storage, in the freezer, and wait for a week until we could bring Elsa home for the funeral and burial. It was a sad procession to the cemetery. Sally, the hamster, was buried under a tree and laid to rest with a small handmade cross to mark her grave. Even for the small things in life, the lamentations can be large.

So what is the end of it all? Do my lamentations magically stop on the doorstep of some sun-drenched happy day in the future? Lamentations are a part of life. We live through them. Our tears stop. Some things heal quickly and other things take time. Weeping lasts but for a night; joy comes in the morning… or the next day… or the next month. God does not ever leave us. God carries us through. Sometimes we are oblivious even when God is obvious. So, even if I am traveling through the land of Lamentations, it does not mean that I have to buy a house here. One mortgage is enough. I will keep traveling.

I am enjoying the perfect dog nap. Cozy and furry with that friendly dog aroma settling around me like a blanket. Breathe in. Breathe out.

For a long drowsy moment it does not matter that I seem to have lost my life’s focus, or that I am desperately trying to knit the future together before I fall into it. For now, my canine friend is content to lie with his back to my belly and his warm muzzle on my forearm. Breathe in. Breathe out.

The rain falls. The refrigerator hums. The clock ticks. The list of things that must get done has worked its way down between the cushions of the couch. Breathe in. Breathe out.

The cool air reaches my nose through the filter of fur. Reality must first make its way through the beast protecting me, lying across my threshold. My friend softens the onslaught and guards the door. Gazing in, and finally gazing out, I leave the warmth, find the list and begin.

So we’ve lived here in Tokyo for almost a year… hasn’t it been a year yet? Sometimes it feels like a lifetime. I guess I’m in a contrary mood, grumping about this inconvenience or that, although, to be sure, we don’t have it so bad. Food, shelter, chocolate; we have all the neccessities of life here. And now, to add to our luxuries, we have a toaster to boot. We did without a toaster for ten months and now we have one. A salvage item from another family relocating back to the States. And now, we no longer have to sing for our toast.

Up to this time, we toasted the bread slices in the little oven grill under the gas burners built into our tiny kitchen countertop… and if you didn’t sing while those bread slices were toasting, it was inevitable that during the hurly-burly of morning scamperings, you would forget the bread was in there and before you knew it, your breakfast was toast. Carbonized toast, that no amount of butter or jam could possibly save. The singing reminded you, and anyone else who had the misfortune to be listening, that you were attempting to make toast and you didn’t want to forget what you were dong.

Now, when we open up our pathetically small loaves of presliced-six-slices-to-a-bag-no-heel bread and pop one of those slices into our toaster, it actually reappears a decent shade of brown instead of black as volcanic soil. And we don’t have to put up with someone’s butchered version of a Broadway musical number… “I’m sing’in for my toast, Just sing’in for my toast, ‘Cause carbonized bread ain’t what I love the most…” There are worse ones, believe me. Although it was sort of nice hearing any kind of singing in the morning.

So convenient, those toasters. Now, I suppose I can more easily put up with the other inconveniences… no central heating, no car, no shoes in my size, biking in the rain and frequently intense wind, sleeping on the floor and, the most heart-breaking inconvenience of all… never being able to find decent cheese. Mmmm… cheese. I miss my cheese. Guess it’s getting late. Time to curl up on the floor in a little furry ball and go to sleep. Next year is the Year of the Rat. Maybe then we’ll get some decent cheese.

If I were to ask anyone, “Which do you consider to be more dangerous, a spider or an earthquake?” they would most probably answer, “An earthquake.” Then they would avoid any further conversation with me because only a loopy person would ask such a silly question.

Yesterday, my ten-year old daughter, (the bug-loving, future herpetologist), found a dead spider. (I believe it was the one I had previously dispatched of with a fly swatter.) She came waltzing into the kitchen with the spider carefully tied onto the end of a thin string. “It’s a dead Jumping Spider!” she happily announces. Even though it is dead and all curled up, she can still indentify one of her beloved arachnids.

Later, as I head upstairs, I see her on a chair in her big sister’s room, the string in her hand, reaching up to the top of the door frame. “What are you up to?” I ask. She explains that she is doing something fun with the spider. Hmm. Fun for her; maybe not so fun for her sister. Still, practical jokes are an old family tradition, so I let her be.

Later, sister Laura gets home and heads up to her room. We hear a shriek and Elsa giggles triumphantly. Big sister pummels little sister who is still laughing, but she is forced to remove her offending critter from the doorway. It later appears inside her sister’s computer. Another pounding. This time the spider has to go.

Spiders are anathema to my fifteen year old. Even if the spider is the size of an ant, the reaction is always the same; revulsion, fear and an inability to deal with this unspeakable danger. She simply cannot abide spiders.

About an hour after the spider incident, an earthquake struck. The house shivered and rolled a bit and then it stopped. “Earthquakes are fun,” muses Laura. “I like to sit on my bed and feel them rolling me around.” I’m thinking, “Um, earthquakes are much more dangerous than spiders,” but I know it’s useless to point out such an obvious thing to a teen who is terrified off her tuffet whenever she sees eight legs.

It is embarrassing to write this, but honesty is more important than dignity…I suppose. After ranting at my ten-year old for leaping out of a tree and onto a wall and doing her Humpty-Dumpty impersonation, I went and did the same sort of fool-hardy thing. I guess the tree doesn’t fall far from the apple.
On Friday, since there was no school (and thus plenty of time to get into trouble), youngest daughter, exuberant dog and reluctant mom biked over to meet eager friend at playground. Bjorn (the dog) and I sat and barked (I sat, he barked) while the two pals clambered about, finding a very satisfactory place to sit high in the branches of a wisteria bush.
“You have to come up here mommy!” says the little monkey. After declining politely several times in a very mature and adult manner, daughter finally climbs down and urges me once more. “It’s beautiful up there. You’ll like it. I’ll even hold Bjorn for you.”
“Fine,” I think, “I’ll climb up and she’ll stop pestering me. The other two adults sitting in the park won’t mind.”
So up I go. It feels so easy and natural to climb and the view from the top is rather nice. But then, I start to think, perhaps a grown-up perching up here is a bit odd. Better get down before one of those responsible citizens with a large katakana “Patrol” sign on their bike basket comes by and scolds me. So I choose the fast way down; hanging from my long arms and dropping to the ground. I do not look down before I drop. The ground is farther away than I had reckoned. My knees do their best to absorb the shock, but my back tells me that I am, after all, forty-four and should not be dropping from the trees.
The only other woman in the park sees me. She smiles and tells me I look like a monkey. Well, I feel like one too now, thanks so much. I go home to lie flat on my back and do my old-lady back-strengthening exercises. From now on, no more dropping out of the trees. Only very young and green fruit can take the hard landing.