Big Harmony

Knees or Buns

2011-06-28T18:31:00.001-06:00

This week, I guest-blogged for a friend of mine at The Kitchen Door.

I met Mrs. M when, as a complete stranger, she commented on Big Harmony. A few back and forths later, it was the beginning of a beautiful cyber-friendship. (We finally met a couple of years ago and she is as lovely in person as in print.) A few months ago, she kindly sent me a book called Bittersweet, a series of essays about a young wife and mother coming to terms with becoming a bona fide adult, spiritually. She asked me to choose a chapter and write about it.

At first, I was (ashamedly) quite dismissive of Bittersweet. The author, Shauna Niequist, is in her twenties and details the heartbreak of losing a job and a few pregnancies. Her subsequent realization that God is with us in the dark places, even in the winter of our discontent, would probably have spoken to me more directly 15 years ago. Although her pain and deliverance are astutely woven into her stories, my first inclination was to think, "Been there. Done that. Nothing to learn here." That is to say, I haughtily ignored her story.

I laid the book down for a few weeks and didn't think much about it. As the deadline for this guest-blogging spot came about, I reread the chapter I had chosen to write about, "Knees or Buns".

It finally struck me. What I had dismissed was not only the importance of Ms. Niequist's writing or experiences...but also mine, from the past and the present. The guest blog details what I humbly learned from a woman almost half my age.

I would like to thank the divine Mrs. M for thinking of me when she started this project. (She is also much younger than me. Lately, this seems to be happening more and more. Dang it.) Despite being quite jealous of her abundance of collagen, I am profoundly grateful for her friendship, wisdom and insistence that the story be written. I hope that you will browse through her blog. She has a enviable knack for getting to the heart of a tangled matter and unravelling it, gracefully and insightfully. Happy Reading!

(And, if you would like my copy of Bittersweet, I'll send it to the first person who comments and asks. For the runners-up, a fabulous consolation prize awaits you. No, really. It's amazing.)

The Scientific Method of Raising Teens

2011-06-23T09:41:00.013-06:00

Nullius in Verba.
On no man's word.

Motto of the Royal Society

The girls performed well in school this year. In the last semester, we finally found the switch that ignited self-motivation in the youngest to remember to:

a) do the homework
b) turn it in
c) turn it in, in the right box
d) turn it in on time

This news could be disheartening for many parents, but I feel compelled to share the hard-earned wisdom that no amount of friendly cajoling or demonic yelling actually penetrates the preteen mental defensive system protecting its hidden moral core. Imagine, if you will, a scientist logically explaining to the contents of a petri dish how it should progress, or, conversely, screaming at the experiment when it heads in the wrong direction. I have conclusively found that fighting intense frustration with further frustrating tactics leads one to certain insanity. I do not recommend it.

No, one must take into account every conceivable variable with the rigour and perspicacity of a mad scientist following the scientific method. (Because, let's face it, parents completely lose their ever-living minds in the three weeks following the birth of their little experiment. All parents are, sadly and irrevocably, mad.)

First, when implementing the scientific method for raising teens, the question must be formed. For example, "How does one motivate preteens/teens without daily floggings?"

Second, background research must be accomplished. This research includes delving into the immediate and extended family history. Does the subject behave like one of your sibling's spawn? If so, what methods seemed to work with it? Also, one must strive to create an exhaustive mental catalog of all past parenting failures, detailing what almost worked, what didn't work and what was an abysmal failure resulting in buying screw-top wine by the case and locking oneself in a closet after swallowing the key.

Third, construct a hypothesis. This is tricky. One should be extremely careful in the wording, as neither to create more burdens for the scientist nor to offend the subject and cause it to shriek shrilly and slam doors: i.e., "I hypothesize a sack of hammers in the sixth grade would be organized enough to turn its homework into the right box on the right day." (Although counter-intuitive, it is exceedingly difficult to prove that a sack of hammers is smarter than your subject.) Refrain from adding, "Jeesh" or "Good God" to the end of ANY hypothesis.

(A better hypothesis: If I dangle this particular carrot without having to use tedious sticks, this behavior will result.)

Fourth, test your hypothesis by doing an experiment. The experiment should account for as many variables as possible, such as age of subject, temperament, emotional volatility, size of laboratory, weather conditions, etc. (For example, do not start a restrictive experiment in a 900 square foot apartment with a premenstrual female during a blizzard.) Keep in mind that, although you may have one main experiment in mind, that many might be needed in the end. If the mad scientist isn't stubborn enough, this will lead to ultimate failure and, even worse, a condescending smirk on the subject's face. AVOID THE SMIRK by having a plethora of back-up experiments and an evolving knowledge of how to mix carrots and sticks.

Fifth, analyze your data and draw conclusions. This part is easy. Did the subject exhibit desired behavior with nary a word from the mad scientist? Victory! My hypothesis is true. Did the subject lose interest in the experiment and escape the lab? Partial Victory! My hypothesis is inconclusive. Did the subject lose interest and the unwanted behavior returned with a vengeance? Failure. My hypothesis sucked. (Repeat the fourth step ad nauseam until victory is attained OR they create their own little experiments outside of your petri dish. Mock them relentlessly from afar. Encourage your grand-experiments to defy the scientific method.)

Sixth, communicate your results:

Come to find out, the youngest is easily compelled to "excel" with the promise of a $20 ticket to the local amusement park with some BFFs. Cheap, easy and simple. Why had I not thought of this before? Grades came up by at least 10 points--all A's, and strong ones at that. I only had to say, "Hope your grades are good. You know the deal. No A's, No Amusement Park." (I will not list all the failures leading to this victory or I will again suffer the debilitating effects of PPTSD--Parental Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. It could trigger the reader's, too.)

In communicating my results, I should also mention some unintended consequences for the scientist in charge: Partial blindness and temporary dumbfoundedness from all the fleshy, dimpled boobs, butts and bellies on view at the amusement/water park. Egad.

No experiment is without its dangers, afterall. It is also important to note that, in the case of parenting, results may not be able to be reproduced in a different lab under the same conditions. And, unfortunately, the same results cannot oftentimes even be reproduced in the same lab with the same subject. Alas, the emotional conditions rarely remain constant or predictable. Parenting a teen may therefore be considered an "art" rather than a "science".

In any case, take no man's word! Go forth, and experiment. Gird your loins. I wish you luck.

Saying So Long to Yes

2011-06-21T12:42:00.005-06:00

I thank you God for this most amazing day, for the leaping greenly spirits of trees, and for the blue dream of sky and for everything which is natural, which is infinite, which is yes. ~e.e. cummings

This time, I’ll miss the mountains.

Every time we move, I mourn something. I missed my nutty family when we moved from Oklahoma. Leaving Rhode Island, I was bereft having to say goodbye to my beloved faith community. In Japan, I left behind a group of crazy, loyal friends and a beguiling culture.

We have been in Colorado for barely a year. I have made a few good friends but I will not miss the community…by no fault of its own. I just couldn't fully engage with it this time. The effort seemed too exhausting, too psychically precarious. Sometimes in this vagabond Navy life, I feel like the Greek figure of Sisyphus—struggling to roll the boulder up the mountain each day, finally reaching the summit at nightfall, only to then helplessly watch it tumble inexorably back down to the bottom, all the while sick with the knowledge of having to commence the task again in the morning…at the next duty station.

Of course, unlike Sisyphus, the business of rebuilding one’s life and friendships is not a punishment. I have something positive to show for my efforts in the end. In fact, the friendships I make on the way up the hill greatly alleviate my burden. I do not have to say goodbye to them. Facing the rock in the depressing glare of morning, I am content knowing that my friends are only a button click away in this modern day of Facebook, email, and cell phones. I still feel weary though—weary of lacking them in my daily life, weary of the “no” that seems to replace their physical presence. I miss them.

But, this time, I will mourn the mountains.

Our neighborhood lies on top of a small ridge, affording us a splendid view of the Front Range. In the winter, after dropping the girls at school, as I turn back west and crest the hill, the mountains suddenly appear across the entire horizon—starkly white, rigid and alert in the pale yellow light of morning. In the summer, as the long days come to an end, their outline gradually softens into a purple ombre, coolly contrasting with the fiery orange canvas behind their peaks.

The sight of the Rockies never ceases to amaze me. I oftentimes become cross when they are obscured by gray or hazy weather. I know they are right there but they seem suddenly unknowable, aloof. I can’t stand that.

This weekend, we drove into them for possibly the last visit for a long while. It has been a strange year, weather-wise. Rain turned to snow as we exited Eisenhower Tunnel--the first pass into the mountains from Denver. Most of the ski resorts are still up and running and are expected to be open until at least July 4th. The snow still remains in deep pockets around the trees just off the interstate near the passes. In the valleys, the rivers are swollen past their banks and raging into Class 5 rapids around their rocky bends. Red rafts full of courageous (perhaps, stupid) folk bob haphazardly down the currents like ducklings on crack. (I marvel at the rafters’ chutzpah—ain’t no way, no how I’m risking going head first into that arctic cement mixer.)

Up close, though, the mountains don’t seem the least bit dangerous or imposing as they sometimes do from a distance. Their slopes are decorated with dark swatches of Ponderosa pines, interspersed with patches of slender ivory trunks and the bright bamboo-green of the newly born Aspen leaves. It is still spring in the highlands but summer has finally arrived in the lower places. The valley floor has replaced its stained, stiff white carpet with a new soft grass and wildflower rug. From afar, the mountains communicate impassibility and strict privacy. But once inside, they invite you to put up your feet and get comfortable: Yes, you may stay. As long as you like.

Every time we drive up to Glenwood Springs, I fantasize about being a giant in a tall tale, taking a break in the summer sun, relaxing up against the range—my arm casually extended along the ridge, absent-mindedly brushing my hand across the bristly ridges, watching each tree spring back up. I oftentimes wonder if the sensation would be as pleasurable as when my dad used to slowly rub my small hand against his five-o-clock shadow. It tickled.

The mountains do that to you. Although they make you feel small, they inspire you to dream big.

At another crossroads in life, I guess that I am a little afraid of what may follow in the hustle and bustle of our new home in the big city. Without the view of the infinite from my back porch, will I get trapped by all of life’s finite duties? Will I get too busy and get tricked into living the “no”? Will I feel big but dream small?

Ultimately, I don’t know. Worrying about the boulder falling back down the mountainside probably doesn't make much sense. Perhaps, this view from the summit should just lead me to be thankful for this amazing day.

Semper Gumby

2011-04-27T08:45:00.003-06:00

A friend of mine, a Navy wife stationed in Japan where my family lived for the past five years, described the last month as a roller coaster ride. This seems like an accurate analogy except most people have never been on one that doesn't provide a restraint system.

This is the United States military. You jump on and after 20 years of flying upside-down through dark caves, feet dangling in space…you are allowed to get off, i.e. retire. Most military folk and their families love the thrill of adventure and quickly become accustomed to the sharp drops and stomach lurches that accompany a deployment or stressful move across oceans.

When the ride gets scary, though, we Navy people tend to follow the Marine Corp's motto. No, not Semper Fidelis, or Always Faithful. Rather, Semper Gumby. Always Flexible. I met a couple in Japan who told me their story of moving from California to North Carolina. While stopped at a hotel in Mississippi overnight, they received a call that, oops, they were needed in Japan instead. Operation Semper Gumby thus commenced.

Flexibility is crucial for surviving military life. This trait has recently been heavily called upon to get people through the trio of disasters that have literally rocked Japan to its core. Military personnel stationed there have been very lucky. The earthquake only rattled nerves and broke a few dishes. Although heart-broken for the Japanese people, our family was overjoyed to hear that our close circle of Japanese and American friends remained safe.

Then, the ride took a turn into a completely different, not-so-amusing park. Concern started to mount about the extremely likely possibility of a nuclear melt-down. Although roughly 200 miles south of the Daichi reactors, the base could still be affected if the wind shifted. In less than a day, the schools shut down and Navy families were instructed to pack their lives into one bag each, leave all their household items and wait to be transported out of the country. With the active duty member deployed in the relief effort or just remaining behind to do work, this meant that most evacuees would be traveling alone with their children, unsure of where exactly they were going or when they would see their spouse again.

Rumors spread like wildfire, practically a fourth disaster. The base might close forever. People’s households, left behind, might get contaminated. Would they ever see their things again? Would they ever be able to return to Japan? Trying to get their affairs in order in under 24 hours, most people wept at the thought of having to leave without saying goodbye…to their friends, to the country they had come to love, to the life they had built. For many of their children, Japan was the only home they had ever known or remembered.

In the end, the evacuation was voluntary. Most families with children decided to return to family in the states until the nuclear risk had abated. Although military families always enjoy a trip back in the summer to see friends and family (and more importantly, to shop at Target and eat at Chik-Fil-A) this time the mood had changed. Life took on a quasi “refugee” status. Neither here nor there and hauling bags from relative to relative, many lived the vagabond life--with no knowledge of when they would be able to return to Japan, to normalcy.

As I write this at the end of April, the government has allowed family members to travel back to Japan. Many are jubilant. Some are confused. Without any substantive knowledge about how long their exile would last, many parents enrolled their kids in school in the states. Now they face the decision about whether to twist the children’s lives in a knot…again. At this point, no matter what happens, everyone just wants to get off this insane ride.

For those who have returned in the last few days, they have celebrated the best part of military life: the reunion. They are “home”, not just with their spouses but within a country unlike any other. Many Americans prefer to stay in Japan because their Japanese neighbors have been so kind to them. Random Japanese citizens have helped jumpstart our car at IKEA in Tokyo after valiantly searching for jumper cables for thirty minutes. As we have stood bewildered in a station, they have stopped to ask us if we needed help. They oftentimes discontinued their own travels to direct us to the correct train. In broken English, they have complimented my husband on his “nice women” while waiting patiently to take pictures with our girls.

These experiences are almost universal for those military personnel willing to venture beyond the base gates. We have been warmly welcomed into Japanese homes and fed deliciously bizarre foods. (Pickled octopus, anyone?) One friend of mine even gave my husband and me a two-day private tour of Kyoto. She wouldn’t allow us to help pay for the rental car or meals because she was “returning the favor” of Americans having been so kind to her family when her family had lived in the United States many years ago. Twenty years later, that kindness circumnavigated the world and manifested as one of the best weekends of my life. Americans are good folk, too.

In the end, it didn’t surprise me that our Japanese friends politely rejected our invitation to come visit us during this turbulent time. Predictably, they are managing just fine. Due to gas shortages, they don’t mind walking because it’s “healthier”. Lacking their beloved rice, they are “enjoying” pasta and potatoes. Even as their country endures a prolonged mourning, they write to tell me about how they are enjoying the cherry blossoms. In the end, each one thanked our family warmly for our offer but explained that they are content to follow their government and their “destiny”…and that is to make do with what they have, where they are, at this moment.

This attitude gives me hope for them, as their broken country heals…but also for the many American service people who continue to veer haphazardly through space and time, oftentimes with only thin strands of flexibility and commitment holding them fast to their seats. All in all, both situations remind me of a Japanese saying:

“Fall down seven times, rise up eight.”

Semper Gumby, indeed.

Throwing Out the Baby

2011-04-14T15:38:00.004-06:00

Once upon a time, a baby was born. He was a typical baby, adorable in every way. His parents were a bit disappointed in him, though. He possessed many endearing qualities but they couldn't keep him from pooping, peeing and puking. So, they washed him in a little tub every so often. Dismayed that the water was always filthy after his soak, they decided the baby was the main problem. He would have to be pitched with the dirty water. But first, they scolded him heavily for having a far too liberal agenda. The end.

Once upon a time, a baby was born. He was a typical baby, adorable in every way. His parents were a bit disappointed in him, though. He possessed many endearing qualities but they couldn’t keep him from pooping, peeing and puking. So, they washed him in a little tub every so often. Dismayed that the water was always filthy after his soak, they decided that the water was the main problem. They cursed the water supplied by rich conservatives and the baby grew up thinking that he could not possibly be responsible for the dirty water he was sitting in. The end.

Once upon a time, a baby was born. He was a typical baby, adorable in every way. Although he was a handful, his parents loved him. He possessed many endearing qualities but he would not stop pooping, peeing and puking. They realized, of course, that shit happens. So they bucked up, washed him in a little tub every so often, disposed of the dirty water, dressed him in clean clothes every night and cheerfully started over the next day. They didn’t blame the rich people in the mega mansion on the other side of town who complained about supplying the water nor did they demonize the poor family one block over who griped about only getting a trickle, mostly because they didn’t know either family very well. Plus, they were moderates and therefore sane. The end.

Little Deaths

2011-04-13T13:22:00.004-06:00

For some reason, I haven’t written in my blog for several months. I have written several essays about Japan’s recent suffering and how its essential nature will allow it to eventually triumph. I submitted them to the Denver Post. Much to my delight, I received a phone call on a Thursday asking me to send in my photo because one of the columns would probably run in the Sunday paper, if the editor could “find the space”. She sounded very hopeful.

So was I, of course, because that’s what you are when a dream is about to come true, right? On Sunday morning, I sprinted in my bare feet across the frigid driveway to grab the paper. I spread it out on the kitchen table and looked through the op-ed section. Nothing. How about the regional section? The Arts? The Sports, for crying out loud?

You know the answer. Although the scenario is slightly akin to scurrying downstairs on Christmas morning to find an empty stocking and no presents under the tree, feeling sorry for myself doesn’t seem to matter much. After all, there are people on the other side of the world whose loved ones are still missing beneath a torrent of mud. So, my dream got a little dusty. Big deal.

Here’s the crux of the matter, though: Rejection really sucks. Like, literally. Even life’s little sorrows steal the breath right out of you sometimes. You know that the odds are against you and that failure looms large on the horizon. Somehow, magical thinking overtakes this logic and convinces you that the impossible is quite possible. You take the plunge with nary a thought to the psychic consequences.

It might be a comedy act floundering in front of a tough crowd or a boy getting turned down by his crush or an apology rebuffed…the fact remains that when you put your heart out there, the inevitable squashing of it smarts like hell. Your mind, of course, warned you. Justified, it immediately starts up that old 45 with the skip in it, the one that invariably gets stuck on the annoying refrain: “I Told You So, You Stupid Idiot”.

Poor heart. It dies a little for being so wrong. No one likes death, not even a miniscule amount of one. Deaths, including the petite variety, are scary because our logical brains inform us that the darkness is unknowable and permanent. Faced with this fact, the heart retrenches. It makes perfect sense for the mind to protect its dominion, especially the vulnerable bits.

Apparently, it also makes absolute sense to add more grease to an already raging fire of self-doubt, since I was thinking about this “fact” the other day while running. (“Running” is a loose term for what I do. Realistically, I jog phlegmatically.) I’ve been training for a 10K for the last three months. At this point, I’m running three 17 minute cycles with a minute rest in between which is the longest I’ve ever gone.

A few days ago, two minutes into the third interval, I quickly began to lose my will. My mind, perfectly dressed for the occasion and not the least out of breath, jogged up beside me and commenced its logical tirade, in a polite whisper at first:

“Excuse me, Nancy. It is Nancy, right? Do you remember me? We haven’t talked very often since the girls were born.”

“Uh, huh”, I panted in reply, “What do you want?”

“Um, yeah, I thought I should let you know that this is painful. Why don’t you just cut it out?”

“I know. This is crazy. I’m almost there, though,” I replied, my voice wavering with exhaustion.

Like a dog sizing up a tentative mailman, Brain sensed weakness and fear. His tone got a little more snippy and insistent.

“Nancy, come on now. Really. You are not an athlete. You’re closer to a writer and look where that’s gotten you. Why don’t you just be realistic?”

“I know, right? A 10K does seem like a bit much. I’m thinking 5K is more doable. But I really want to do this.”

Brain sighed deeply. “For Pete’s sake, the old dude walking behind you in the plaid shorts and black knee socks is practically lapping you. Your pace has dropped by a full minute and a half. Just stop and get some water and rest. What are you trying to prove?”

Slowing down further, I considered the reasoning. “You have a point. What will happen on race day? I don’t think I can do this. I’m going to get halfway done and have to walk. That will be beyond embarrassing.”

“Exactly!” exclaimed my brain. “Why don’t you just stop at that water fountain up there and take a long rest?”

I veered off the track and stopped. After a quick drink, I forced myself to start jogging again. Since I was now running practically at a standstill, Brain, who had been left regarding his fingernails at the fountain, caught up and passed me. Then, the little jerk turned around and starting jogging backwards--all the while lecturing me, with his hands on his hips (and not a drop of sweat on his condescending brow).

“Seriously, you gave it your best, kid. Really. You’re barely a jogger and definitely not a runner. You can finish the last 13 minutes some other day. It’s no big deal. Just quit. No one will know, except you and me.”

Beaten down and incredibly weak, I weighed my options. Obviously, it was time for something radical. I looked past the naysayer loping ahead of me, tilted my head to the ceiling and actually…prayed. This is strange because I don’t often feel comfortable petitioning God on my own behalf. I certainly don’t do it while I’m running. But here’s what I said, pleaded even:

“Oh, God. Just let me finish. I just want to finish today. I don’t care about the 10K. I just want to finish, TODAY. Please, God. Help me suffer just 13 more minutes. It’s just 13 stinking minutes of my life. People suffer all the time, for much longer and for much more important reasons. I can slow down even more. I simply can’t quit. I really want to quit. So bad. But I’ve done all this painful work and now I just want to finish these FU#&ING 13 LOUSY MINUTES!! OKAAAY?!”

About a minute later, a lightning bolt hit me. Not a hot smiting one, which would be expected (and, let’s face it, deserved)…but a cold one. My whole body lost warmth and went tingly. I started running faster. I could breathe. My legs felt light. As my mind became quiet, I picked up my pace. By the time I passed the five minute mark, I was running, incredibly, two and a half minutes faster than before.

My heart did a brief happy dance at the finish line…something akin to Elaine’s awkward display on Seinfeld. It was definitely more exuberant than skilled.

Brain might have called this miracle a “runner’s high”. I couldn’t find him, though, to ask what he thought. I have no idea what happened to him. He just faded away. I’ve run this interval set again since then. He popped his head around the corner of the track and yelled, “Hey, you. You suck”, and then wandered off somewhere, probably to get a pina colada protein shake at the juice bar. He loves those things. My guess is, he’ll be back in force when the intervals climb to two 30 minute cycles. Until then, I’m enjoying the peace from the arrogant little bugger.

This mini victory has started me thinking that I need to approach writing like I do running. I can’t quit when that logical voice starts its fire and brimstone sermon: “Nancy, decidedly, your cup does not overfloweth. You can’t even get published in the Denver Post. Therefore, you can’t even think about writing a book. What are you going to write about? Your credentials are an abomination. You didn’t graduate from Princeton or Stanford with a writing degree. There are thousands of real writers out there who can’t get published. Get over thyself!”

Oh, Brain, why don’t you get over yourself? My heart might be a tad timid but I now understand that you can be silenced. It will just take practice…and quite possibly some irreverent prayer. Maybe I will never become a “real” writer, but on account of these seemingly insignificant sufferings, I have learned some important personal “facts”:

Entrenchment is not an option. And, out of these little deaths, I will find life. I just have to keep running towards it.

The Invasion

2011-01-27T20:02:00.023-07:00

What do you get when you combine--8 pounds of spaghetti, 6 loaves of garlic bread, 8 litres of soda, 2 gallons of milk, 3.5 gallons of homemade pasta sauce with 4 pounds of meat, three cavernous bowls of salad, 80 Toll House cookies, dozens of Little Debbie Treats (and assorted leftover Christmas Candy) and mounds of grapes and apples--with 30 female high school swimmers fresh from a two and a half hour practice?

Nothing. You get nothing. At all. Leftover.

One minute, I surveyed the idyllic domestic scene with satisfaction...pasta gently boiling on the stove, meat sauce bubbling merrily away, whilst the heavenly aroma of warm garlic cheese bread filled the still and quiet air.

Then, in the blink of an eye, all hell broke loose.

A car drove up. Door after door slammed. I heard the shrieking long before the horde descended. I swear, the sun was blotted out from the sky.

They came. They devoured. They giggled without ceasing. An hour and a half later, after beating back wave after wave of them with a wooden spoon, the husband and I wearily looked up from our sweaty post above the steaming pots and pans and timidly regarded what remained of the bleak landscape...several crumbs, a smattering of sauce, a few stray noodles.

We ventured outside the house to check if the wood siding had been compromised.

As we were trying to restore order to the kitchen, their team captain organized her swimmers and had them quickly vote on which girlie game to play. Tim and I took this as a sign. We quickly cleaned up, retreated upstairs, collapsed on the couch and proceeded to eavesdrop without shame.

The planned games rapidly degenerated into socially unacceptable subjects. Each new anecdote about farting in the high school halls, vomiting in friends' cars, period woes, peeing in the well (diving pool) when no one was looking and finding the perfect homecoming formal was met with riotous laughter.

"Girls seriously talk about this kind of stuff in big groups?" Tim asked innocently. "Yes, dear," I responded. "When we get to be adults, we level up the bodily fluid anecdotes to childbirth horror stories. If we don't have children, we recount our dating mishaps. In detail, if you know what I mean."

"They sure are having fun," he replied, looking a bit shell-shocked. "Although I'm not sure how anyone can hear what the other one is saying."

I snickered. Silly, silly boy. We aren't trying to communicate profound insights. Each new story serves the purpose of raising the energy. Soon, the fervor becomes fever pitch--a feeding frenzy of hilarious anecdotal one-upmanships. (At the end of the fun, spent from all the laughter, our sides actually feel as if they will be compromised.)

This is the female tribe in all its glory...momentarily without a care in the world, free from all the world's constraints and expectations. We are ribald, obnoxious and unconcerned about how we "should" be acting. All that matters is laughter. Laughter leads to trust and trust leads to communion--a filling up of the soul, nourishment in its most simple and profound form.

My husband, although exhausted, loved the experience. He was tickled to get a glimpse of the mysterious teen female in her natural environment. "It's much more rude than I would have thought," he remarked, with more than a bit of admiration in his voice.

Me, I was giddy with remembrance; of the sleep-overs in my youth and of the ladies' cocktail hours in my adulthood. In Colorado for just one year, I miss communion with my girlfriends in Japan. (Soon, though, I will be together with them again and we will fill up on all those spiritually fattening conversational carbs that sustain us through the long race. I can't wait.)

As the evening came to a close, the girls slowly trickled out. As they found their shoes and meandered out to their cars, every one of them made sure to thank us for the meal. "It was our pleasure," we called back, waving from the doorstep.

And, it truly was.

In the Defense of Tiger Moms (And Housecat Moms, Too)

2011-01-20T16:03:00.015-07:00

A few days ago, I called both of my kids, "dummies". You don't need to know the gory details. I snapped because they were careless after I had reminded them to be careful about something obvious. Twice.

Voices were raised, doors were slammed...we all went to bed in a huff.

I apologized the next day. In return, the girls verbalized their regret about provoking me by ignoring me. After the dust settled, I decided to retract my application for Mother of the Year from the governing association, Perfect Parents, Perfect Kids. Sigh. Now I have to wait a whole year to reapply without falling into some other boneheaded parenting trap. It's embarrassing. For some reason, 15 years of experience has not kept me from retaliating against my children's childishness by being so completely...childish.

At the same time that the dirty deed was did, the story about Amy Chua, author of Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, broke wide open in the media. Quite coincidentally, I also became engrossed reading one of my most excellent Christmas gifts: The Tiger: A True Story of Vengeance and Survival by John Vaillant.

The synchronicity of these three occurrences has inspired me to think deeply about my role as a parent. Whereas many people are up in arms about Ms. Chua's alleged abuse of her children and others are predictably calling for "balance" in parenting, I am unconvinced that either opinion is really helpful in the long run. Let me explain.

Ms. Chua is of Chinese descent and the Amur tigers in Mr. Vaillant's book live in a small, strange biosphere on the Sino-Russian border. A good deal of his narrative speaks to how culture influences the lives of both humans and animals. Both types of animal are fearsome and strong, able to surmount seemingly impossible physical obstacles in the quest for survival. Like that of the tigers, life is still extremely brutish and short for most Chinese and Russian people. While we Americans pontificate about which cell phone app will work out best for us, most of them are wondering where their next meal is coming from. We go to the grocery store. They head to the forest.

For people trying to survive in a wildly unpredictable world, the tiger symbolizes the cunning, virility and grace under fire needed to succeed, i.e. live.* Tigers are considered by many in these cultures to be living gods...beings worthy of veneration and appeasement. The people respect the tigers who survive to adulthood for their hard-earned experience and subsequent wisdom.

This culture deeply informed Ms. Chua's parents' beliefs and, unsurprisingly, her own. For time in memoriam, life has been downright medieval for most Asians. If the offspring do not "listen", if the parents fail to impart their wisdom, by hook or by crook, the children are set up for the ultimate failure: Death.

Isn't that what all parents are trying to avoid? Western parents, for the most part, mercifully no longer have to warn their kids about apex predators. Yet, we still have to scare the bejeezus out of them about "strangers" who are actively plotting their demise.(Not so, in Japan, where 5-year-olds ride the train without an adult.) Maybe we don't have to worry about our cheeky kids mouthing off to some government official and risking dismemberment or death but we do have to guard against them provoking some random psycho with a handgun.

For the parents over-coddling their kids, to the parents calling them "garbage" for disrespecting them, it's all about trying to control the environment for their ultimate safety. If I give my children everything, they will have great self-esteem and thrive. If I ride my kids hard, they will respect me and survive. For some, they come from a culture of "surthrival"...and others, survival. To quote Cloris Leachman in the movie Spanglish, "None of it works."

The fact remains that it is extremely difficult to find balance raising little ones in a continually shape shifting universe. Conditions change and one strategy will succeed. They change again and the same approach will be considered villainous.

The cliche is annoying but true: The best we can do is to do our best. We can try to do no harm, to our own kids or to other parents who are just trying to get their cherished ones to adulthood. Sadly, we will do harm, no matter what our strategy. The affectionate, permissive parents will continue to screw up their kids in ways that are very different, but equally burdensome as the Ways of the Tiger Parents.

After beating myself up about my tiger ways, I think that getting past the "dummy" remarks, for both sides, is difficult but not impossible. Good communication allows for all parties to atone for mistakes and have greater understanding for each other. This is my ultimate Western Parent Wish for my children. One day, if I don't completely bungle my job as a parent AND we are all very lucky, my kids will raise their own imperfect babies...and will come to understand that I loved them just as desperately. The only thing I know to be true about parenting is quite simple: I love them more than life itself.

*(Guess which "enhancement" drug derives its name from the Sanskrit word for tiger, vyaghra?)

Unspeakable Acts

2011-01-09T14:25:00.036-07:00

Lizzie Borden took an axe
And gave her mother forty whacks.
When she saw what she had done
She gave her father forty-one.

Do you remember this skip rope song? As an innocent first grader growing up in the seventies, I didn't know who Lizzie Borden was much less the grisly story that inspired this tiny piece of American folklore. The rhyme was tight, easy to jump to and hinted at something terrifying and gruesome. Kids do indeed love implicit violence as long as they feel safe in everyday life.

Now, as an adult who is aware of the Lizzie Borden story, I marvel at how these brutal murders made it into a little recess ditty. This kind of violence must have been so extraordinary, so utterly unthinkable in Victorian times, that it became permanently etched into our nation's psyche and, subsequently, its folklore.

When I reflect on my own childhood, I remember most scary things operating in the same fashion as the Lizzie song...movies and television certainly evoked a sense of violence but it was rarely shown on screen or explicitly discussed. It was, in fact, unspeakable.

After every barbaric act like the one recently committed in Arizona, some public official decries it as an "unspeakable act" of cowardice and violence. I have to wonder though, is it really unspeakable?

Television series trumpet sensational murders and crimes. Movies depict people feeding body parts through wood chippers. Songs glamorize raping women. Video games encourage players to shoot as many of the "enemy" as possible for points, even those begging for their lives. In all forms of entertainment, people, young and old, male and female, are shown being ripped apart, maimed and killed.

Make no mistake about it. We speak violence everyday, boldly and fluently.

Random, raw violence has become so mundane in our society, so horrifyingly graphic in all media, that I have to question whether we have forever lost the ability to use the term "unspeakable" when referring to it.

We continually steep our brains in savage imagery but then, incomprehensibly, are shocked to find that our particular cultural brew of liberal gun laws, graphic entertainment and hostile speech is bitter to the palate. If the saying, "where the mind goes, the body will follow" points to the secret of our self-healing, it can also be turned upside down to speak of our self-destruction. We are violent in our thoughts, words and deeds because we allow our minds to wallow, numbly, in the morass of our most base instincts.

Of course, upon playing some violent video game or watching a Coen brothers' film, most Americans will not run out and mow down their ideological "enemies" in a barrage of gunfire. But, we must stop fooling ourselves. We do become desensitized to the effects of random meanness on our psyches. We, like our childish brains of the past, enjoy the thrill of danger but don't really understand how the violence, once explicitly manifested, eats away at our souls.

I see little evidence that we are better people for all our mindless entertainment. We have become less empathetic of another person's pain. We casually sweep human bloodshed under the table. Five days later, we forget that a nine-year-old was murdered by a maniac. This is the tragedy, the psychic violence, that no one dares speak of...

I don't know about you, but I don't feel comfortable anymore with movie mayhem or even political vitriol. In this every day life, I am simply terrified of how many whacks it will take for this nation to be shocked into civility.

My Top 5 Christmas Joys of All Time

2010-12-09T11:54:00.017-07:00

After having read my last post, my husband called from work and wondered, had I screwed up dinner? "No...well, at least, not yet," I replied. After all, it's not rare for something to go terribly wrong while I'm in the kitchen. There is a reason why my two-year-old daughter always screamed, "Pizza Guy!", when the doorbell rang. Two Christmases ago, I beat the sugar cookie recipe in with the butter. You can see why he might have concern...

No, no, no, I'm not considering offing myself during Advent. I just decided that this year, instead of dreading everything I have to do for Christmas, I would fully explore Advent. Not only does it signal the start of the new church year for my faith community, it is also an occasion to spend some time in the dark while waiting for the light of the world to be born/reborn.

I recently blogged about my top Christmas gripes. I also wrote about not noticing the sacred or the joyful in life and how that ends up desecrating everything. So, in the grand spirit of recognizing all that is good, here are my top 5 (really, five) Christmas joys of all time...

1. The lights. I love Christmas lights--the subtle white ones nestled in fresh greenery and the kitschy Las Vegas ones that cause light pollution. Although I would never outline every angle of my house (I don't like ladders and I'm lazy), when I see an over-the-top production down the street, I think, OHHHHH YEAAAAAAAAH!! I also think, SUCKAS! HAVE FUN GETTING THOSE DOWN!

2. The cards. Like Charlie Brown, I wait by the mailbox. I love them all--photo montages, cheesy brag sheets, religious ones, funny ones...even the ones that rain excessive glitter on my floor. (Recently, I read that glitter is the "genital herpes of the crafting world". It still makes me happy.) I simply like hearing from my friends and family this time of year. Of course, this is the first year I've gotten my own out in recent memory so I don't receive as many as I used to. That's Stop Number One on my Anti-Grinch List for the years to come.

3. The baking. I am not a joyful cook but I do like baking for the holidays. Baking reminds me of my mother who was no Martha Stewart either, unless it was for Christmas or our birthdays. Although I hated being her sous-chef and chopping nuts, I loved it when she made gingerbread men. I would decorate them however I wanted with raisins and frosting and candy. She used to compliment my artwork and then hang them on the tree...

4. The tree. Oooh, the sight of the brightly lit Christmas tree with silver tinsel and a bizarre menagerie of hand made ornaments and a mismatched light-up star...aaah, the comforting smell of homemade gingerbread cookies festooning said tree...eeeek, the sound of mom's blood-curdling shrieks as she came down one morning to find the cookies and candy canes covered inky black from a swarm of ants. That was the first and last year we had a live tree with a root ball. (To add insult to injury, we planted it in the back yard. It died.)

5. The music. Nothing, of course, by Mariah Carey, Celine Dion or their ilk that can get stuck in your mind and cause cerebral hemorrhaging. I'm talking The Messiah, by Handel or The Nutcracker Suite by Tchaikovsky, or the entire soundtrack to A Charlie Brown Christmas, and/or especially "Santa Claus Wants Some Lovin" by the blues great, Albert King. My kids are strictly forbidden to listen to or sing Christmas music between New Year's Day and Thanksgiving. Some might consider this harsh. But, I think this music is joyful because, like all joyful experiences, it is transient, fleetingly appreciated...not in our world for long.

The Joy of Cooking?

2010-12-08T14:34:00.024-07:00

There are no unsacred places; there are only sacred places and desecrated places.-- Wendell Berry

I have a friend whom I love and I have only met her once. We met online when she commented on Big Harmony. We exchanged some pleasantries and thus started a modern epistolary friendship (facebook, email, comments on blogs) much akin to the one between Julia Child and Avis DeVoto, excepting for the fact that I am not very fond of cooking.

The aforementioned quote resides on the margins of her blog. When I visit her site, I always smile when I read its message but have failed to actually approach it, pick it up, turn it around. I think this is why my efforts normally fall flat in the kitchen. I don't pay attention. I don't notice when I'm missing an ingredient until it's too late and then I just have to make do with a substitute. Or, I add too much of an ingredient, and when I realize my mistake...it has already incorporated into the greater whole. The dish is never quite spoiled but it's never quite memorable, either.

I remember a few meals in my life that were a "religious" experience, perhaps even sacred. The chef, the restaurant owner, the servers all combined their love of and dedication to food to create an atmosphere of, well, profound love for others. I loved the careful combination of flavors. I loved being surprised by the chef's creativity. I felt welcomed and appreciated by those serving us. Humbled but lifted high at the same time, for me to share this friendly contradiction while in the company of people who really know me (and still love me) made for a transcendent experience.

During this time of Advent, this time of "coming towards", I am embarrassed to say that, in my life, I create few of these experiences for others. I seem to be coming towards nothing in particular except my own pleasure and comfort.

The cold, hard, dark truth is that this inclination permeates, violates, desacrilizes absolutely everything in my world. Here I am, awash in a world expressly created to be full of meaning, relationship and joy, and I can't be bothered to recognize it unless it brings me comfort and joy.

Damn. No wonder I no longer look forward to Christmas. With all the missing elements and substandard substitutions, I've let my inattention become the main ingredient in my life. With few exceptions, I have made almost every aspect of it incredibly unspecial, unnoticeable, blah.

Perhaps I need to stop wondering when my own personal Joy of Cooking will arrive or where the joy of Christmas went. Noticing, nurturing, serving--combined in unexpected ways, this is the food for the soul I've been craving in a world where everthing tastes so bland, so joyless.

My Top 5 Christmas Gripes of All Time

2010-12-07T09:59:00.020-07:00

I'm seriously considering giving up on Christmas. Not Advent. I like the waiting, the preparing, the expectation that the light is coming back, that the darkest night of the year is over. But, I'm worn out from all the Christmas crap. In the spirit of the movie, High Fidelity, here are my top 5 Christmas gripes of all time:

1. The ubiquitous commercialism that implores me to buy, buy, buy my and my family's way to sublime happiness and cheer. If I get one more Kohl's flyer shouting that ALL KITSCH IS 50 OFF...TODAY ONLY...AGAIN, I'm going to puke red and green at the front of their store on Christmas Eve.
2. The mind-wracking searching for the perfect gift-that's-in-my-small-budget-for people-who-can-afford-to-buy-what-they-want-anyway. Seriously, are there any surprises after 16? Do you know anybody in your circle of family or friends who actually NEEDS something? Nine times out of ten, I fret about a gift and the person already owns the stupid thing.
3. Stepping around people's religious or atheistic/agnostic mine fields. I am way weary of sorting (in my already DEFCON 5 brain) to whom I should be wishing Merry Christmas or just Happy Holidays. Will this person think I'm a religious nutball if I mention the peace of Christ? Will that person judge me for taking the Christ out of Christmas if I don't? This makes me want to take the Lord's name in vain. Even for someone as irreverent as me, I think that's a bad thing. Especially this time of year.

Okay, I lied. I only have three major gripes.

After my dream (see previous post), I am pondering whether I should just cut out the kvetching and do something about my vitriol. This makes me extremely uncomfortable, even afraid, because I have a choice. It might not go over well with some folk.

Do I stop buying stuff for my extended family, excepting the children for whom I think the magic of Christmas Day was actually created? They might think I'm cheap. Do I write my adult family and friends a letter telling them not to send me gifts and instead take the time to explain to them how much they mean to me? They may think I'm a hippie do-gooder. Do I take all the money I would be spending in the stores and donate it to people who desperately need things, like coats and blankets and food? I know I don't give enough to the poor, the oppressed, the hopeless. This makes me feel poor, oppressed and hopeless, too.

Do I enthusiastically wish people the peace of Christ on Christmas and just hope that they understand that I am not some mindless zealot trying to oppress them with my beliefs...I'm just wishing them some love and joy because they are my neighbors? They might think I'm one of those Christians. You know, the kind that is oblivious or dismissive of all other religious holidays.

The cold hard truth is, at 40 something, I'm still afraid of what other people think of me. I've mostly gotten over caring about how others might judge my parenting style or my appearance. But I still care about what the "cool" people, the intellectuals, think about me. I want to love God with all my heart, mind and soul because I believe in a divine force. Yet...

I don't want to look like a fool in front of others. I don't want to be embarrassed about my beliefs in front of God. I just want to be me. So, this Advent, I could care less about Christmas day. I am commmitted to the waiting...waiting for the light to shine into my life and show me what to bring forth and what to let fade away into the darkness.

The Dream

2010-12-06T15:43:00.018-07:00

I had the strangest dream in the wee hours of the Saturday night before Advent commenced. It was peculiar in several ways. First, nothing wakes me up at night, especially dreams. Second, I hardly ever dream except for wacky little vignettes that usually start right before I wake up. Third, if I do dream, I rarely remember the plots at first light.

But on that curious Saturday night, I awakened at 3 a.m. with a start. Neither scared nor upset, I sat up in the dark...surprised, yet serene. The most peaceful feeling had overcome me in my sleep, something I have never experienced in my dreaming life.

I think I was talking to God in my dream. Yet, it wasn't a conversation. I was listening, not communicating with anyone. The narrative, the voice, seemed like it was originating in me, but then again, not. The dream offered no setting, no tangible clues as to where I might be. It was as if I were in a deep, friendly...void. I was not afraid.

Because I have no other words to describe a conversation that was neither with myself nor with others, I would have to describe the experience as an epiphany unfolding gently, as a lotus flower slowly opens when the light coaxes it to accomplish what is in its very nature to do.

This is what my dream revealed to me: We humans are always looking for miracles. They elude us because we don't know what they really are.

I want to witness seas parting, people surviving in the bellies of whales, oil lasting an astounding eight nights instead of just the one...a human walking on water or turning it into the finest wine. I want "signs". My Epiphany, however, seemed unconcerned about such things or whether they actually, factually happened or will happen again.

It wanted me to understand that the greatest miracle in this worldly life is not in overcoming our physical reality...it is in not fearing it.

The revelation was quite clear in its intent--If I want to witness the sacred on this earth, I can not let fear transform me. Instead of waiting for God to give me a sign, I have to create the miracle myself. When faced with "my people" being hurt or destroyed, I have to boldly plant my staff in the ground and transform my fear into something more powerful than the natural constraints of this world. I have to let go of everything that scares me and simply surrender to trust. The miracle, after all, is not in the survival but in the living through the fear, with dignity.

I have been turning this revelation over and over in my mind for a few weeks, now. Although I tend to be a trusting person, an independent and modern woman in charge of her own destiny, I am coming to the realization that fear has been flourishing in the dark corners of my mind for too long. It has kept me from being who I have wanted to be and who I think I am, presently. It has been barring me from being the person I think I can become.

Was this dream just a little nighttime pondering of the subconscious or was it a message from God? Or was it both? I suppose it doesn't really matter if I ever know the truth. All I know is that, right now, during this Advent season, I feel compelled to look in all those dark places where I've let fear grow unnoticed and unchecked.

I'm truly afraid of what I might find. I'm even more scared of what I might have to do once I find it.

Pondering Veterans' Day

2010-11-10T10:56:00.010-07:00

Valor is stability, not of legs and arms, but of courage and the soul. ~Michel de Montaigne

Some people, myself included, struggle with the concept of Veterans’ Day. At first glance, the parading of war heroes and lofty political speeches about sacrifice and honor can seem a bit, well, militaristic. Even as a spouse of an active duty sailor, I struggle with our nation’s obsession with glorifying the hero’s sacrifice in the pursuit of “shock and awe”. War is deeply unsettling to me because it is so unholy…yet here we have a “holiday”, a marked holy day on our calendar, commemorating those who have served in the very system that violates the sacred core of the Golden Rule.

No matter how conservative or patriotic we might be politically, at the heart of every good human is a pacifist--a person who does not want others to suffer the twin indignities of shock and awe, wrack and ruin. A multitude of reasons exist for why a person swears to uphold the Constitution of the United States and enlists in the Armed Services. It has been my experience that few soldiers, marines, sailors or airmen join the fight in order to destroy others.

Most service people do have one thing in common, however. No matter what their economic, social or political reality, they are ultimately willing to do something most of us are not…act holy. Like Gandhi, even though they may be terrified, they still act bravely. Like Jesus, when there is a paucity of hope, they remain faithful. Like Buddha, they are committed to the present, to the task at hand, with no regard to what suffering the future may bring.

How many of us walk the same walk in our daily lives? For this reason, I would like to thank all the veterans, past and present, who have shown us what valor, what strength, really means. For those who have paid most dearly with their lives, or those who are willing to do so at this very moment, we salute you as heroes. Not war heroes. But human heroes. Not just because of what you have sacrificed or may sacrifice in death, but rather, because of the way you have lived…exceptionally.

I wish you all a happy and most soulful Veterans' Day!

Nocturnal Confessions

2010-10-16T15:59:00.018-06:00

The Bat that flits at close of Eve
Has left the Brain that won't believe.
The Owl that calls upon the Night
Speaks the Unbeliever's fright. --William Blake

I am a sound sleeper. Upon reading this statement, some of you are undoubtedly laughing quite heartily because you have, at some point, tested the veracity of this fact...and suffered the ugly consequences. When I say "ugly", I'm speaking about my countenance AND attitude. My children learned at a very tender age to never, ever, ever wake mommy because whatever their ailment or nightmare, it wasn't half as painful or terrifying as a prematurely awakened moi.

I also routinely sleep through natural disasters. One time, during one of those impressive midwestern late-night thunderstorms, lightening struck our house. Tim recounts the awful cracking noise, the blinding light, the sharp smell of ozone...and the equally horrible realization that, as he was floating mid-air over the bed from the fright, my breathing hadn't changed, nor had I flinched. Years later, in Japan, when an earthquake would strike before dawn, I would only awaken to him shaking me, shouting, "Did you feel THAT?!" The fool. The FOOL.

Currently, we live in a rental house that backs up to a busy freeway. For the past 8 weeks, we've had no need for air conditioning and have slept with the windows open to let in the cool Colorado night air. The traffic noise does not bother me a bit. The other night, though, I heard something that put me instantly on alert.

Although I had never heard it before, live and in person, I instantly recognized an owl's forlorn call...its deep, repetitive who whooooo, who whooooo, was being answered by another creature of the night nearby. "Oh, isn't that nice", I sleepily thought to myself, "Along with mountain lions, we have owls in our suburb." Then, in response to the two owls, came this high-pitched whistle, like a coach blowing through his middle fingers to get his players' attention in the backfield.

I sat up in bed. The noises repeated two more times: hoot, hoot, piercing whistle. I stumbled out of bed and looked out the bedroom window. Nothing moved. Not even the traffic. I ran around to the windows in the front of the house and peeked through the blinds. It was dark but the moon illuminated the driveway and front yard. I started to worry that the windows weren't locked downstairs and that the intruders might be communicating about how to get in...

Tim quietly called from the bedroom, "Are you okay?". Hovering in the doorway, I nervously responded, "Shhh! Can you hear that? They're talking to each other. They're casing the house."

He sat up, rubbing his eyes: "What the hell are you talking about?" I started to explain that there were three people outside talking to each other in...owl...and...they were going to break...into...our house?...through an open window...in our...laundryroom? I believe it was in the moments following his utterance of the Lord's name in vain, that I realized that my fear seemed an eeensy bit loony.

I felt a little more sheepish the next morning when I did some quick research on the web about native Coloradoan owls. The lurker was most probably a Horned Owl. They hang out on rooftops in suburbia, prefer to hunt right before dawn and happen to shriek...sometimes eerily like a human.

Surprisingly, I could not find any information indicating whether or not this breed has a propensity to break into suburban homes in small gangs and steal valuable Asian knick-knacks and dirty laundry. Just look at the little thug's smug face, though. You know he wants to.

Seasons Behaving Nicely

2010-09-06T19:44:00.025-06:00

Would that life were like the shadow cast by a wall or a tree, but it is like the shadow of a bird in flight.--The Talmud

In Oklahoma, where I come from, summer can be a petulant, passive-aggressive jerk. Every year, millions fall for its easy-going charms and laid-back lifestyle. Hang out with it enough, though, scratch its surface a bit, and one quickly finds out how neurotic it can be. Complain just once about its annoying habit to go to extremes and it digs its heels in and refuses to budge. I always feel a bit guilty about this change of heart since I had seemingly, just moments ago, embraced it with open arms. However, when lengthy negotiations to talk it down from its ledge carry into late October, I secretly wish it would just jump already.

Imagine my surprise this weekend, in the Rockies, when I watched summer bow out...gracefully. There were no histrionics or middle fingers tossed as it left. Like a pleasant house guest, it graciously made its bed, started the coffee and then quietly slipped out the back door while everyone was still sleeping. One summer afternoon, we drove into the mountains and marvelled at the uniformly green slopes and then, magically, the next day, the verdure turned to lovely golden and amber hues. The change coincided efficiently with the calendar year's symbolic end to summer, Labor Day.

During the drive back to Denver, I contemplated how quickly and quietly summer had exited. The whole experience reminded me of a sunset I saw in Maui--so gorgeous, it bordered on obscene. I remember trying to will the rapidly slipping sun back into the sky in a vain attempt to prolong the pleasure of watching it settle into the ocean. I could have kicked myself. Why hadn't the same sun and ocean captivated me as profoundly for the previous 13 hours? Why, in the last fleeting seconds, did it not allow me to look away?

It's funny. We spend an inordinate amount of time trying to build solid, lasting shadows in this life but it is usually the ephemeral that ends up capturing our attention. When something overstays its welcome or hangs on unnaturally long, we oftentimes bristle at its impertinence. In our core, despite our wish to prolong it, we fundamentally understand that life is fleeting.

In the end, I guess that I am ultimately comforted by gorgeous sunsets and the efficient change of seasons...it's strangely soothing to get a brief glimpse of a bird's shadow in flight.

And Pfffft, It Was Gone

2010-09-01T10:38:00.009-06:00

Thanks to a recent Facebook thread, I can't get the Hee Haw song, Gloom, Despair and Agony on Me, out of my mind. It has been repeating in my head, over and over, just like my old Rhinestone Cowboy 45 with the skip in it. My brother gifted me that record for my 6th birthday because it was all the rage in our neighborhood to have memorized the lyrics in entirety. That same birthday in 1975, I received a record player with an uber hip "denim pocket" carrying case. Life was sweet and complete.

It seemed simpler back then, too. Every Saturday afternoon, I used to watch Hee Haw reruns with my brother on our couch with the scratchy red cushions ("Wool is so durable!", mom exclaimed when we complained about skin breakdown). We had different reasons for tuning in to Hee Haw. Six-year-olds could understand the corn pone humour whereas 17 year old boys could appreciate the country girls in their Daisy Duke shorts and tight tops. The cast, who I am sure were actually drinking moonshine from their prop jugs, seemed to be having such a good time being cheesy. Still, to this day, I watch it and just can't help giggling. Although not particularly funny, it remains ridiculously fun.

We watched the show in the den, almost always having to jump up and adjust the heavily tin-foiled rabbit ears to get better reception. Remember dens? Those mismatched rooms with furniture and decor cobbled together from wildly disparate eras? The carpet, and there was always wall-to-wall carpeting, was usually blue. Or green. Or red. (You know, to hide the dirt.) These rooms provided the prototype to the family room and then, the more illustrious, Great Room, where everything bought on credit goes together. Perfectly.

While we relaxed in the den watching syndicated boob tube delights, my parents would take a much deserved nap in their room, formerly known as the Largest Bedroom, now referred to as the Master Retreat. We didn't dare bother the masters in their retreat, for surely that would have meant premature death. We knew that, they knew that...everyone was happy, or, at least, content knowing their place in the world.

I wonder if this is the source of our country's current conservative malaise? To be conservative means that, well, you want to hold on to or conserve the past. This strikes me as a normal response to modern life. Somewhere deep inside, each generation secretly yearns for the practical sofas of its youth, for TV shows (or books) that are silly instead of edgy, for rooms that are a little messy. We miss knowing our place in the world as it was once defined.

Maybe all this gloom, despair and agony being touted by the Tea Party is just nostalgia for what once was and can never be the same again. Realistically or not, life seemed more simple, somehow better, in our youth and then....pffft, it was gone. I get that. Although I am an unabashed progressive, looking forward to what is to come and become of our great country instead of focusing on our excessive misery, I have compassion for those who like to "remember when".

So, to quote the ending line of that silly, syndicated, piece of TV perfection: "May your pleasures be many, your troubles be few." THAT'S ALL!!

Honorable Intentions

2010-08-27T11:59:00.018-06:00

What does the word "honor" mean to you? How do you define that which is honorable? Is it merely a combination of lofty principles, such as honesty, fairness and integrity? And/or is it the action of integrating these principles into one's life in the service of others?

I ask this question, of course, because Mr. Glenn Beck has planned a rally on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, 47 years to the day after Martin Luther King Jr. gave his "I Have A Dream Speech". He has explained that this rally is not political. He intends to only honor military families, past and present, for their steadfast sacrifices in the line of duty for the citizens of the United States. For a more noble cause, one would indubitably have to search far and wide.

I wonder, though, why now and why there? If this rally is to honor service people, why not on the anniversary of VJ Day that just passed? Why not on Veterans' Day in November or Memorial Day in May? These are all fitting occasions for launching a fund raising event for military families. A few steps away from the the Lincoln Memorial, lie the memorials erected for those who served and lost their lives in the Vietnam and Korean wars. They are stark, beautiful and haunting--perfect backdrops to showcase honor in action.

You just can't beat the significance of honoring military personnel and their families' sacrifices in front of that endless, shiny wall of names. I get goosebumps thinking of what it would mean to those who have served to be recognized in front of those statues of American soldiers in the Korean War. Fanning out in formation, with worried concentration permanently etched on their faces, knowing that their time is coming very soon but still having to move inexorably forward...these men are a powerful symbol of honor, indeed.

Martin Luther King, Jr. and Abraham Lincoln offered up their lives, too, after decades of living their principles. They did not stoop to slandering their political opponents. They did not paint their political and ideological enemies as miscreants and idiots. Their Truths were self-evident and lived every day, publicly and peacefully, for all to see.

I am also confused why the rally would be named, "Restoring Honor", when honor has not been stripped but rather heaped on the military by both political parties. The United States government and citizens have made every effort to praise military sacrifices. However, if the rally's organizers are intending to give honor where honor is due to the Vietnam vets, I would enthusiastically applaud this gesture. These men and women, who gave everything in an unpopular war and then were summarily ignored, deserve some public applause. Their standing up to demand recognition for their sacrifices led to our citizens being more aware of supporting our military personnel in wars they cannot win. Now, that's honorable.

I have a sneaking suspicion, though, that what Mr. Glenn Beck wants to really restore is his own ideological beliefs. If this is true, more power to him, that's politics. But if he wants to talk about honor, he has to act honorably and with integrity, himself. He has rarely judged his political opponents fairly. He is being untruthful about his political agenda at this rally, or he would have named it something like "Revealing Honor" instead of "Restoring Honor". The choice of the word "restoring" is telling...it intentionally leads his followers to believe that honor only rests in their convictions, under their watch.

Mr. Glenn Beck and all the other political pundits, conservative and liberal, may understand how to manipulate the principles of honesty, fairness and integrity for their own gain but they haven't the first clue about how to live them. Those who are honorable are willing to sacrifice their very lives in order to serve greater principles that benefit all humankind. Political pundits only serve their own self interests under the guise of serving others...and you can't get any more hypocritical, any more dishonorable than that.

Home Again, Home Again

2010-08-25T10:55:00.014-06:00

Despite missing Engrish and onigiri, I'm enjoying being back in the United States. It has taken me some time to write about reentry into the American atmosphere, but not because it has been overly fiery or bumpy. There is simply no rushing recovery from the disorienting effects of watching solid ground rapidly greet a craft, that just a few hours ago, was languidly floating in space.

I think I've been in quarantine long enough and life is almost up to normal speed. I know this to be literally true because American drivers have stopped flipping me off for going under 60mph...and figuratively so because I can go into Costco and Target without suffering sensory overload in under 10 minutes. Sadly, I still have not mastered The Mall.

My perspective has also started to center. For example, when we first got back, Tim was walking with the girls to the grocery store when they spied an old dude with a beer and burrito belly driving his riding lawnmower down a major Denver artery. He finally reached his destination--a 7-Eleven parking lot, where he puttered into a handicapped space, got a Big Gulp and headed back home. You don't need to ask, he was indeed wearing tidewater overalls.

Perhaps a few years ago, I would have been indignant about the nerve, the cheek...the utter laziness of it all. But now, I revel in its unadulterated "joie d'Americaness." People may arrogantly complain to the salesclerk that the local American Girl shop is not as big as the one in New York, and therefore, "disappointing". They might even loudly ask their preschooler in TJMaxx, for people to hear aisles over, "Will you stop whining if I buy you something!?" God bless them all, for they know not what they do.

All of this really bugs me for a second or two. Then, I remember where I am. And why people do what they do. I'm in the promised land...a place whose population has not directly suffered the physical effects of war in over 150 years. I live in a country where people can afford to bribe their kids but don't have to bribe their politicians to get basic civic improvements. I belong to a people who can freely let their freak flag fly and enjoy some amazing freedoms without too much static from their fellow countrymen. Incomprehensibly, mysteriously, bizarrely, it works for us.

In the end, even if someone has hung an ugly picture or moved a favorite chair to an inconvenient spot, I am pleased to report that you can go home again.

Baffled, anyone?

2010-08-20T19:33:00.023-06:00

baf·fle (bfl)
tr.v. baf·fled, baf·fling, baf·fles
1. To frustrate or check (a person) as by confusing or perplexing; stymie.
2. To impede the force or movement of.

[Perhaps a blend of Scottish Gaelic "bauchle", to denounce, revile publicly, and French "bafouer", to ridicule.)

This verb has been bothering me. Recently, in response to the controversial subject of the Muslim community center/mosque being erected near Ground Zero, I have seen numerous facebook entries using the word baffled. It has been used to express astonishment in response to those opposed to and supportive of the building. For example, "I am baffled that people are unable to differentiate between moderate Muslims and those who perpetrated the attack on 9/11." Or, "I am baffled why the Muslims need to build their center there, of all places."

My gut response to this bafflement was to become baffled myself. And as a result, a little frustrated. And then a bit angry. How could anyone not understand why people might make a connection between the moderate Muslims of New York and the terrorists who have declared war on the West? After all, as a recent reader questioned, "What about the London bombings? The Madrid bombings? The Bali bombings? What about the Turkey bombings a few years ago? All Muslim." Oh, let's not forget the Lockerbie plane bombing, either.

On the flip side, how could anyone not do a little reading (myself included) and realize that the plans for this center/mosque were in the works before 9/11? And that American Muslims also died in the bombing? And that the center will incorporate recreational spaces for all kinds of people to convene in peace? With a little poking around, you would think a person might figure out that there will be a contemplative space for all people to access that will honor the victims of terror. And as for the mosque? Don't the Muslims who live and work in that area, who raised the capital to buy the space, like every other Christian congregation, deserve a space to worship quietly?

At the heart of being baffled is a judgment. It's not the same as confusion, which is a lack of clarity. Rather, bafflement starts simply with a person becoming frustrated when he or she hits a barrier of understanding. This person becomes stymied by an opposing person's mindset. Generally, this block impedes the force or movement of the person's own "logical" ideas. The Baffled One ultimately judges that the other person's viewpoint is worthy of ridicule.

It's interesting that the original French and Scottish Gaelic meaning of the word was to "denounce or revile publicly." We humans (not just Americans)have a hard time being just confused. Instead of seeking clarity through discussion, it is infinitely easier to be baffled, to be stymied and then fill in the obscurity of understanding, the blanks, with judgment.

We almost always fill in these dead spaces with a negative, with revilement. Humans rarely believe that the "The Other's" intentions come from a good or positive place. Most recently (okay, probably always), conservative AND liberal politicians have used these lapses of understanding to their own advantage. At the moment their constituents start to wonder why...they quickly fill in the gaps with ridicule of the opposition's intentions. Modern high-speed information media just help them get the job done faster and more efficiently.

Today's powers and principalities, aided by the media, would like everyone to believe that a "liberal" viewpoint does not care about solid principles but only vague, emotional concepts. Liberals are selfish and not to be trusted. Likewise, the "conservative" viewpoint is too obsessed with traditional principles and could care less about how those rigid beliefs affect real, modern people. Conservatives are all bigots and are not to be trusted.

What would happen if we stopped trusting the media (liberal and conservative) and the politicians who have honed these stereotypes to a sharp point? What might happen if we gave The Other the benefit of the doubt until his or her intentions are clearly stated? Unless the opposition says, "All Muslims are scum" or "People are so stupid, they need to just get over it", we ought to pause a minute...30 minutes...24 hours...a week. If a person is not being impolite, we could take that time to get some more information. We could seek out and kindly questions someone who doesn't agree with us.

Americans are not just liberal and conservative stereotypes. We are generous and demanding, impatient and caring. Instead of baffling or impeding the good yet competing forces of one another's best intentions, we could just take some time to listen to one another. As Americans. For America.

Killer Grizzly!

2010-08-19T10:03:00.011-06:00

I am scared, pardon my French, shitless of bears. Some people might call this fear "irrational". They are correct. Chances of me being consumed by an Ursus Arctos are exceedingly slim. But in my defense, bears are oftentimes quite hungry.

Do you remember that horrifying 1970's "film", Killer Grizzly...the one where a maniacal 18 foot grizzly bear goes on a rampage through a national park? Well, I do. That's why, even though it seems like a quaint notion, I refuse to camp in the Rockies. Also, did you know that there was a 1983 planned sequel to this movie, aptly named Grizzly II: The Predator, starring Charlie Sheen and George Clooney? Thank goodness it wasn't realized because then my feeble mind would have linked terror to George Clooney and that would be devastating. I am already spooked by Charlie Sheen, so that's no loss.

It's a shame, really. Bears have cute noses. They also like to hibernate which, lately, I can totally relate to. I admire my industrious beaver friends, who, when faced with environmental stressors, just get busier. Me, I prefer to eat a lot, head for the cave and live in my PJs. I used to beat myself up pretty consistently about this inclination but now I am mostly at peace with it. I can do a lot of uninterrupted thinking about what I would actually prefer to do after the winter of my discontent has passed. As a result, I can make real changes in my life instead of change making me. (That's my story and I'm sticking to it.)

So, after five years in Japan, change has come with the shocking force of a freak blizzard in the fair month of October. My recent mental snooze has produced some results...I know I need to blog more. Without being able to detail the many ways I am "enamorated" (long live Engrish) of the Japanese, I was at a loss about what to discuss. As it turns out, though, we Americans are a quirky folk, too. I think I'll attempt to make Big Harmony out of what I am experiencing as a quasi-foreigner in my own land.

Also, I will begin the process to become an accredited high school English/French teacher. Hopefully, by the time we hit DC next year, I will be ready to take my final coursework and do my student teaching. I've decided that, other than writing, I absolutely adore those darn kids and teaching them above all else. My greatest wish is that, at some point, I can combine all three passions.

So there you have it. My plans. If you catch me indisriminately stuffing berries (or nachos) in my mouth and looking sleepy, please gently remind me that winter is still a long way off. And for heaven's sake, don't let me rampage through campgrounds. That's just rude.

grizzly photo compliments of freephotos.com

Hallowed Ground (The Fear of Talking About Fear)

2010-08-18T21:59:00.010-06:00

I’m a religious person. I consider myself a Christian, not because I believe in some stock credo that Jesus died for my sins but because I believe he died, bravely, for his beliefs. His unwillingness to give into fear and loathing, even unto death, inspires me and always will. But, this is not a religious issue.

I’m an unapologetic liberal. I believe in and defend all the issues important to any good little liberal--a homosexual’s right to marry, a woman’s right to an abortion, and the right for all Americans to have basic health care, to name a few. I don’t believe that taxation is necessarily evil or that walls should keep out Mexicans. But, this is not a political issue.

It’s an American issue. The current hullabaloo over the Muslim center being built near Ground Zero has deeply disturbed me, as an American. I feel for the peaceful Muslims in NYC who long for a quiet and dignified space in which to worship and convene. I feel for those who compassionately support their fellow Americans’ right to this space. I feel for all of us who were traumatized by watching thousands of innocent people be terrorized and then ultimately killed in the twin towers’ collapse.

We Americans have been running scared since that terrible day in September, nine years ago. Currently, we don’t need to be reminded that all we have to fear is fear itself. We are not the World War II generation, isolated from the world and skittish about entering a global conflict. For better or for worse, we now literally attack problems. And, unfortunately, one another.

Currently, there are two camps pitted against each other concerning the Muslim center’s position near Ground Zero. The first perspective is that, as Americans, Christian or Muslim, liberal or conservative, if we start to place restrictions on a citizen’s right to practice his or her religion freely, we invalidate the Constitution and indeed, our core American beliefs. This is fact. If we eschew our core national beliefs, the radicals have “won”. This is not an irrational fear. Every American should sit up, pay attention and acknowledge this as a legitimate threat to our national identity.

There are others who believe that Ground Zero is “hallowed ground”. To place a mosque in this area dredges up our worst fear that we will be attacked from the inside. Many people who oppose this building are being labeled as xenophobic zealots and/or anti-Islamists--people who think that Islam is out to destroy Christianity and thus “American values”. Surely, there are a few of these folks in the debate but, as a whole, I respectfully disagree. I think the vast majority of those who are voicing doubts about this structure are just afraid.

For example, I read a recent blog that took issue with Sarah Palin’s assertion that Ground Zero is a “hallowed” space by pointing out that the surrounding area is also home to “profane” delights such as adult entertainment, gambling and fast-food franchises. In the blogger's defense, I also distrust Ms. Palin’s reasoning and intentions. However, the author might also be missing the point that for many Americans, this “hallowed space” is not in the physical blocks surrounding the site--it’s firmly fixed in our emotional memory. Fear is a natural and logical response to a known danger. It is not political.

Make no mistake about it, radical Muslims live in the U.S., train in the U.S. and are constantly trying to gain access to this country in order to destroy it. This is a fact. They are becoming astute at infiltrating moderate communities. Although we shouldn’t think that blocking the center will protect us from terror, we also ought not to gloss over the obvious: Radical Muslims will stop at nothing to destroy us, our families and our friends. This is also not an “irrational” fear.

So, we are caught between two scenarios, equally terrifying. One allows complete religious freedom but could arguably allow enemies into our house to attempt to destroy it. The other doesn’t include all Americans in the “pursuit of happiness” and therefore encourages our enemies to start disassembling the house, brick by brick. We could just continue to point fingers at one another. We could throw up our hands in frustration and disgust. Or, we could stop a moment and acknowledge each other’s fears as legitimate.

I sincerely believe that this “war” will not be won in the dusty foreign terrain of the Middle East, but rather, here, in the fractured American psyche. If we are weak today, it neither has anything to do with the strength of one religion over another in our country nor which political party is in power. It’s because we refuse to acknowledge one another’s legitimate fears, discuss them intelligently and then purposefully act on them. We can be accepting of religious diversity AND recognize that extremists might be hiding in the shadows of our freedoms. To be eternally vigilant and protective of our freedoms, we must start to work together for each other.

Recently, moderate Muslims in New Jersey heroically ousted (and reported to the FBI) a young man from their faith, who, despite counseling, still became radicalized. I would expect the same out of Christians if one of their believers were plotting to bomb an abortion clinic. If moderate Muslims continue to seriously ramp up the information about their faith and their efforts to discourage radical thinking among their believers, those among them wishing to do evil will be driven from the shadows. Other Americans, religious or not, could also begin or continue to build strong and lasting ties to moderate Muslim communities. In this way, perhaps our national fear could be neutralized…our national identity solidified, in this little space in Manhattan.

If so, it truly will become sacred ground.

The Button Box

2010-04-18T18:55:00.006-06:00

I entered the NPR 3 minute fiction competition, but with 3,800 entries, it's highly doubtful mine will be chosen. We were required to write a story in 600 words or less that used the common words fly, plant, button and trick. I thought I would put it on Big Harmony and see what you all think. Thanks for reading!

If I asked permission, on rainy days, I could play with it. Everything else in the tidy bedroom was off-limits; the dainty Victorian perfume bottles stained amber from scents long evaporated, the oversized clip-on earrings resting in crystal dishes (only gypsies get their ears pierced was her credo) that ladies of a certain age like to wear, the dresser drawers that were never left ajar, not even in haste.

From time to time, my feet would trick me and I would suddenly find myself in this religiously quiet space, its air as still and lifeless as a mid-afternoon sanctuary. I oftentimes stood by the bed, paralyzed with indecision about whether to quickly open the velvet-lined jewelry box, the nightstand drawer, the writing desk with all its private, mysterious compartments.

My hand on the slender handle of the mahogany dresser invariably paused…it seemed wiser to drift over to the drop-leaf table under the window to furtively look at pictures of family members, stoic-faced in the distant past, brightly smiling in the present. A mundane house plant, dutifully watered for decades, sprawled its tendrils among the photos.

Before the bully twins of guilt and fear ushered me out, I would head for the button box in the corner. It wasn’t really a box. It had no corners. Formerly a metal cookie tin with a snug lid, the round container held hundreds of spare buttons dating back to the first days of a marriage; a leather pea coat button emblazoned with an anchor, a clear, teardrop shaped jewel loosened from a party formal, the diminutive, pearl-toned button that once belonged on the neckline of a baby’s smocked dress, a nickel knob that fastened a teenager’s button-fly jeans.

In my own room, as rain lashed in spasms against the windows, I was allowed to leisurely inspect and sort each one. My whim decided how the piles would form; by shape, size, beauty, or some hidden character I recognized at that moment.

But on sunny days, in the silence of the violated room, I had to hurry and pry the fussily flowered cover off the box. Raking my fingers through the heavy depth of buttons, I felt a different kind of pleasure.

The sound of footsteps would slowly start at the bottom of the stairs. Before they could reach the top, I would have replaced the lid and slipped into my bedroom. I knew that no one would discover whether the buttons had been touched…a thought that always gave me great comfort but no satisfaction.

Bump of Chicken and Super Mattress Games

2010-02-10T00:54:00.024-07:00

Tim and I enjoyed two amazing days in Kyoto last weekend for many reasons that you might easily imagine:

a) The sight of Mount Fuji in its winter kimono from the Shinkansen
b) The ancient temples and shrines in the snow
c) The delicious noodles and tofu (Kyoto is known for its creative use of soy beans)
d) The shocking lack of children whining (ours, in particular)

You can't walk 60 seconds in this town without encountering a sacred space...Kyoto has 17 World Heritage sites, 1600 Buddhist temples and 400 Shinto shrines as well as several castles and major gardens. It's truly the Rome of the Far East.

These visual delights are indeed mesmerizing in their own right, but holding equal rank are the more profane and less well-known pleasures of Japanese culture, namely Japanese Pop (J-Pop) names and hotel porn titles.

On the way back down from Kiyomizudera, a profound temple nestled in the hills surrounding the ancient capital, snakes a narrow street of souvenir shops and eateries. I was admiring the local pottery when I spied a bumper sticker of my favorite J-Pop band, BUMP OF CHICKEN, in a tiny music shop. Granted, I've never listened to their music, but how can you not be a fan of that name?

I must have picked up some good luck in the temple, because they also had one copy left of HIDE (pronounced heeday),currently touring with...SPREAD BEAVER.

Hide AND Spread Beaver on one stage? Wow. The awesomeness cannot be contained in two hands. It just can't.

I silently wondered all weekend if PETA continually picketed their concerts. When we got home, Claire questioned what Spread Beaver actually meant: Was it something you smeared on crackers or something more...well...? This, of course, brings me to the topic of porn movies in Japanese hotels.

Since we are not into the club/karaoke/"hostess" bar scene that dominates the local night-life, we opted to get some dessert after dinner and head back early to the hotel. We could have gone to the pool...but that cost $21 per person. (I am thinking of writing a small note to the hotel CEO that simply says, "REALLY?! Sincere regards, Nancy B." (I would frame the response.)

Unfortunately, the in-house movies cost the same as the pool. The NEW releases were Harry Potter and Spider Man 3. The free channels consisted of CNN and endless montages of "relaxing" underwater vistas. Okay, on to the Adult Fare...at least that might be worth 21 bucks because I was pretty sure we hadn't seen them yet.

Here were our choices, verbatim:

The Undergarment of Sister-in-Law

The Beautiful Hip of Neighbor

And my personal favorite, Super Mattress Games. (I think this might be a Nintendo game, too. Although a release date currently doesn't exist, I can't wait for Super Mattress X-Games for the Wii.) In the end, paralyzed with indecision, we ended up just watching Stripes on the computer until the battery died.

Lame, I know. Perhaps, if we could have found out if SPREAD BEAVER were on one of the soundtracks, our choice would have been easy. Perhaps.

Setsubun

2010-02-03T04:08:00.016-07:00

Fed up with icy roads and the local idiots driving on them? Ready to stick your head in an oven if the kids have one more snow day? Perhaps you should consider moving to Japan because today's Setsubun celebration drove the last nail into Old Man Winter's frigid coffin. Tomorrow is offically the first day of spring.

Setsubun, February 3rd, marks the last day of the "old" year by ritualistically banishing winter's demons (Oni) while simultaneously welcoming the new, green shoots of good luck that appear in springtime. In ancient times, this occasion acted in the same manner as our New Year's Eve. Instead of blowing horns and setting off fireworks to scare off the bad spirits, the Japanese throw roasted soy beans at them.

Don't ask me why soy beans are frightening. I just don't know.

Although I blogged about this festival's significance last year (see the post, Demons Out...Luck In from last February), today I had the good fortune of seeing the bean throwing (Mamemaki) ritual acted out in a humble shrine by the sea in Hayama.

My friend Hiranosan, his wife Hirokosan and I zoomed into the sand parking lot about two minutes before the ceremony started. We threw our coins into the box in front of the shrine's entrance, pulled the thick rope to ring the bell (in case the gods were unaware of our presence), clapped our hands twice and said a small prayer. We took our shoes off, lined them up (toes pointing out, of course) and promptly proceeded to freeze our tootsies off in the open-aired sanctuary.

Except for the subzero temperature "inside", the ceremony reminded me of Ash Wednesday services in the Episcopal Church--a comforting blend of solemnity and community. A head priest and his assistant blessed the congregation and chanted mysterious words, as mothers with babies arrived late and out of breath, standing in the back in case a quick exit might be needed. We stood up, we sat down. We bowed our heads. An older gentleman carefully brought the offering, a small tree branch adorned with strips of Shinto paper, to the altar.

The toddlers became restless. Although I couldn't understand the words, I could "hear" their little voices pestering their mothers with questions and complaints: "Mama, why does that man have a funny hat?", "What is he saying?", and/or, perhaps, "I can't feel my flippin' feet." (I have a lot in common with Japanese babies.)

They settled down quickly as the priest blessed the beans and started to scatter them around the sanctuary, starting in the northwest corner--the most unlucky compass point since apparently the Oni like to roll in from that direction. I could hear the terrifying legumes ping off the straw tatami mats and under the sanctuary furniture. (I wondered if, like errant strands of Easter grass, the shrine keepers would still be finding them months later in unexpected places.)

The whole experience was over before I knew it. The head priest thanked his congregants for coming. Retired folk and young mothers filed out of the shrine, replacing their shoes and hats, stamping some life back into their frozen limbs and silently going back to whatever they were up to before this short break from mundane living.

Me, I dropped my friends off at their tennis club and went to fill the car...back to the "normal" life where gas costs a fortune and beans don't have the power to strike fear in the hearts of evil-doers.

But, as always, it was fun spending a little time with a community that I don't oftentimes understand but still love to pieces.

Sankien Gardens, The Sequel

2010-01-31T16:07:00.011-07:00

The above pictures are of the exterior and interior of a Japanese farm house from the Gifu prefecture circa 1750. "An Important Cultural Property", this building is one of many in Sankien that had been carefully taken apart from another place in Japan and rebuilt in the gardens. The thatched roof, probably a foot and a half thick and covering a massive structure, completely amazed me. How long must have that taken to construct?

As we entered the "front door", we saw that the stable/barn connected openly to the living room and kitchen. When I brought this oddity up in class, my students explained that Japanese farmers do not see their animals as food but rather as one of the family workers. So, they are kept cozy and safe in the most important part of the house.

Inside, the polished plank floors were dark and cold...even farmers/villagers take off their shoes at the door. Two traditional charcoal fire pits (the blog's main picture) warmed the living area and the kitchen. The fragrant smoke drifted up the narrow and steep stairs to the second floor, creating a somewhat magical light. The smoke, I learned, helps keep the grass-thatched roof free of bacteria and mold.

The second floor, one large room and formerly the sleeping quarters, held a small, mildly interesting display of farming instruments and pottery in its center. By this time, my feet were going catatonic from the cold...as I hurriedly looked through the cultural items, I noticed that both sides of the room were slatted and open to the floor below.

Lily freaked out when she learned that these areas were used to raise silk worms, a lucrative commodity in Old World Japan. She was not impressed by how rich a farmer could get by raising these little critters. In a not so demure voice, she exclaimed in disgust, "Ewwwww! The silkworms could poop on their heads?!"

Instantly, I imagined Lily as a Japanese girl from yesteryear, wearing a wide-brimmed hat indoors and constantly in a state of the willies. What do you want to bet, 10 years from now, that she remembers that bit of trivia above all else when asked about her travels in Japan?

Sankien Gardens, Part One

2010-01-15T20:47:00.017-07:00

I am very disappointed in myself. After almost three years of living in Japan, I had never visited one of its top gardens, Sankien, near Tokyo, a mere 30 minute drive from the base, until my friend Keikosan invited me to go last week.

We couldn't have custom ordered a more magnificent day--cold, clear, delft blue skies--a perfect day for skiing...or strolling around a quiet, still Japanese garden.

When I first arrived in Japan, my romantic, minds-eye vision of this country was shattered. Tokyo lies in the Kanto Plain, a wide, flat expanse of wall-to-wall humanity, packed into sturdy, earthquake-proof concrete blocks. Every bit of available space is used residentially or commerically. Green spaces suffer as a result.

Sankien is nestled between two, wooded hills. It tricks its visitors in a most kindly way, as a parent might carefully mislead a child about Santa Claus, into believing that this Old Japan still exists. Guests can walk a large expanse of trails which lead over the central pond via crimson bridges and into ancient houses, barns and pagoda. Plucked from their original resting places in Kyoto, they have been painstakingly reconstructed in the park for modern urbanites to delight in.

I thought that I might be disappointed by the lack of flowers. Sankien is renowned for its seasonal floral displays and not much is blooming this time of year. In less than a month, the plum blossoms will pop out and dazzle the crowds but right now the garden is resting.

Without the leaves, I found instead that I could really admire the park's bones. The branches, stark and bare, display their normally hidden inner character. You can see how the unnecessary twigs have been eliminated over time and how only the most promising limbs were patiently pruned in purposeful but unexpected directions...quite stunning in their own right.

I hope that I can enjoy as long a life as these trees. I wonder though, at its end, when all my green ornaments have fallen away, if I'll be fortunate to see the surprising ways my life has formed and the purpose inherent in it?

Trippin'

2010-01-15T01:27:00.014-07:00

Recently, I went on a trip with Lily's fifth grade class to a local ice skating rink. By trip, I don't mean a little jaunt. I mean a caterpillar-toking, falling- down-a-rabbit hole adventure. You might wonder: Can ice skating really be that different in a foreign country? After all, it mainly consists of skates and ice and falling. Deep tissue bruises pretty much look the same on everybody.

As we entered the facility, I immediately spied a row of vending machines. This is common. The Japanese have an abiding love for this invention. In public spaces, there is one literally every 5 feet, stocked with strange drinks, piping hot and ice cold, with equally odd names such as "Pocari Sweat" or "Qoo". I think I read somewhere that there are more vending machines than people in Japan.

The weirdest seem to reside in ice rinks. The first vending machine I came to alerted me that perhaps this might not be an "ordinary" skating rink. It held a charming display of 64 crayon-colored gloves. I guess it's embarrassing to be lacking gloves that match some day-glo color in your outfit whilst skating in Japan. Although it's ingenious to sell gloves, a frequently forgotten/lost item in a skating rink, utilitarian black just doesn't cut it here. Maybe the garish colors are easier to see on the ice and fewer finger dismemberments occur as a result. I am sure I'll never know.

The next machine caught my eye because apparently men often forget to bring (or lose?) their jock shorts, too. Now, I know for sure that you CAN actually buy anything in a vending machine in Japan. I've seen jello juice and corn soup and fresh vegetables. But never men's underpants. I didn't even know that you needed jock shorts to skate. Intriguing.

After some neanderthal grunting and pointing to charts, all the kids found their Japanese ice skate sizes and strapped them on. I headed off to the cozy snack room to get some hot coffee from the vending machines. I can't tell you how disappointing it is to go looking for an elegant canned beverage/snack, only to find, "24 Hour Casual Frozen Foods."

Later for lunch, Lily and I enjoyed some of these frozen-to-cooked foods, such as chicken nuggets and french fries. They were really hot and surprisingly delicious but yet, so depressingly...casual. What a shame.

When I wasn't engaged in vending machine gawking, I studied the skaters. I noticed a few oddities, i.e. the 75 year old woman effortlessly gliding down the center of the rink. Although it doesn't seem wise to tempt the hip gods, older folk here are in excellent shape.

Also, several Japanese yochien (preschools) had come to play for the day. As I watched them suit up, I mentally beamed out a message to the other skaters, "Good luck finding a spot on the ice that doesn't have a three-year-old splayed out on it." I imagined a hundred marbles dropping onto a hard surface and bouncing in wild directions.

Did you know that you can organize preschoolers in ice skates? Like fish in a hatchery, their leaders penned them in a corner and released them into the stream every few minutes. Then, they all skated like madmen around the circle twice and returned to their "tank" to wait their turn to start over. The little girls all skated hand-in-hand, their little pig-tails bouncing. The boys pushed each other or fell down purposely like they were sliding into second base. One little guy spent the whole time throwing his gloves and hat on the ice and skating away from his handler, all the time laughing maniacally.

Lily had a great time, too. She told me later that she felt free and joyful on the ice, like she was flying. I felt the same way, but my feet were planted firmly on the grimy,rubber mats.

Leaping Before Looking

2010-01-09T19:10:00.000-07:00

The sense of danger must not disappear:
The way is certainly both short and steep,
However gradual it looks from here;
Look if you like, but you will have to leap.

by W.H. Auden

It's time to move on with my life...literally and figuratively.

This summer, we take up new residence in Denver after 5 years of living in Japan. In the next few, short months, I have to start looking for a new house, cleaning out some scary closets, packing up our house and saying goodbye to a country and friends I love dearly.

There are some big questions to be answered, and much too soonly* for my liking. This fact makes me anxious.

What are we going to?

What do we need to leave behind?

I've grown up a lot in Japan because the lack of choices here has forced me to make due with that I've been given. My life is exceedingly comfortable and happy here. Now, I am going back to the land of unlimited possibilities and I am afraid that I will somehow choose the wrong one. I am starting to feel...overwhelmed.

Should I look before I leap or keep my sense of danger? If you are still reading out there, I would love to hear what you think.

*(I heart Engrish)

Money For Nothing and the Chicks For Free

2009-12-06T23:20:00.009-07:00

Tiger Woods is indeed in dire straits.

After years of slumming through the refuse piles of human mind waste that call themselves celebrity “news” outlets, you would think I would be immune to shocking stories of marital betrayal. (Friends, I have a confession. I have not been true to my values and the behavior my family deserves. I regret my past and ongoing transgressions. I read People Magazine Online. Twice daily.)

This current fiasco surprised me greatly…but not because a sports figure was discovered hiking the proverbial Appalachian Trail. I mean, who can take another story about a married, powerful man who is worshipped like a golden calf and then publicly humiliated for not staying true to his stunning and charming wife? (Yawn.)

No, I think it’s the magical thinking swirling around his “transgressions” that befuddles me the most. This fantasy world, where most celebrities live, allows its inhabitants to think that they can actually get something for nothing. All they have to do is walk a red carpet, play a game well and show up to make commercials for junk no one actually needs. In return, they receive obscene amounts of money and endless public adoration (sexual and otherwise). That ain't working.

So when they have to give something valuable back, like their privacy, they just can’t understand why people are so demanding. It’s not “right” to expect people to have no private life. However, it’s also not right that anyone is paid that much to play a game while cancer remains uncured and people are starving. But, as they say in the real world, it is what it is.

The evasion of the inevitable and the whining about the way things are irritates the common folk, like me. If you want true privacy, stop selling yourself. Conversely, if you want to sell yourself, brace for the crash when the siren calls of wealth, privilege and adulation inevitably trick you into running into the rocks.

In the end, we all have choices. For better and (especially) for worse, we should be responsible for them.

And if we aren't, we should prepare for those straits to not only be dire, but downright ugly.

Turning 40: On Not Teaching a New Dog Old Tricks

2009-10-06T05:52:00.015-06:00

So today is my fortieth birthday. As I was falling asleep last night, my dear but annoying husband asked me if I had been pondering the significance of the occasion. I quickly mumbled "no" (had a mini-breakdown), rolled over and started to enjoy my 7 hours of mindless bliss.

I woke up to homemade cards and frozen waffles charmingly cut into the shapes of a four and zero. My card from the eldest said, "40 at last!", like I had been waiting for this momentous occasion my whole life. Oooh, if I were only 40, then I could really enjoy all those adult privileges like paying taxes and helping my kid learn her times tables. Yes, at last, I can start (most probably) the last half of my existence!

At last.

Chuckling, I thought about this statement while driving to teach English this morning. As I passed the tollbooth that asked me to "Please Take a Ticket!" in a rather snippy tone, I pondered what idiom I would review with my group today. Perhaps I would revisit the classic adage: "You can't teach an old dog new tricks." For some reason, this phrase always cracks my Japanese students up. Not only is it pertinent to their time in life (they are all retirees) but unfortunately, it now seemed to fit my situation as well.

I don't feel like an old dog, though.

I want to learn new tricks, like surfing and getting lost in places where I can't read the signs and serving others before myself. For the first time in my life, I feel comfortable in my skin, so much so that the vellum wrapping my bones actually seems new and different.

I'm also fairly tired of the old tricks. I'm not interested in keeping up with the Joneses and their premium vehicles. I don't care if their child learned her times tables in first grade and mine is still struggling to get it in the fifth. At least at this point, I'm against fake boobs, fake tans and cosmetic surgery for myself. This is me, lumps, white wrinkles and all. Take it or leave it.

I am literally exhausted of fearing life and other people's judgment about my choices and my body. Those are old tricks to keep the younguns in line and they are losing their persuasive power in my world. Frankly, I don't care what religion people follow or what their exterior life looks like. If fear informs their faith or their actions, I've decided to politely agree with whatever the person is saying/doing and move along to greener pastures. I literally don't have time to waste on nurturing relationships with people who are convinced that their way is perfect, or even worse, the only path to follow.

Don't get me wrong. In the end, I have no desire to go back to being "young", either in mind or body. Sure, it's important to stay in shape in my later years but it's not okay for me to obsess about my every body part. I am also still trying to shed those last vestiges of thinking I know everything...of thinking that my opinion actually affects anyone besides myself and my kids (for a few more years).

After much pondering, I've decided that I don't want to be a puppy.

I just want to be a new dog...one who loves to attempt novel things and fails often. And one who, at last, no longer gives credence to the old tricks that have kept her from growing up.

Very Strange Things, Indeed

2009-09-02T04:44:00.012-06:00

Last Tuesday, I went to Zushi to teach my class of retirees like I always do. Things progressed fairly normally--we talked about the Japanese elections, completed a vocabulary drill on strange jobs (it's really difficult for the Japanese to say "hypnotherapist") and took a small break. Afterwards, the students usually each take 5 minutes to tell about their week. Topics usually cover mundane and safe events like grandchildren visiting and places people have just toured.

But this week's discussion went into uncharted territory:

One woman's deceased mother-in-law visited her during Obon (the Japanese holiday honoring dead anscestors, so that makes sense). In the middle of the night, she heard her MIL approach her bedroom door and then felt her "eyebeams" staring at her through the wood. As she is accenting her vocabulary choice by making motions with her fingers from her eyes to across the room, I felt perplexed. "Eyebeams" didn't seem like the best word but I couldn't figure out a superior one, so "eyebeams" rested as is. However, now I have a vision of a laser-eyed decrepid Japanese grandma taking out my friend in her sleep. She swears she "felt no fear" but I really can't say the same.

Her husband, the ghost's son, slept through the whole thing.

Another woman, quite delicate and soft-spoken as well, launched into a story about an accidental run-in with her next door neighbor's son while walking her dog in the wee hours of the morning. After 29 years, he apparently has suddenly decided to start wearing women's clothes in public. She reported that he was wearing a "nice skirt" and "carrying a high quality handbag". People stopped examining their fingernails and started peppering her with questions. Although there are few American sexual/puritanical hangups in Japan, they love to hear about people behaving strangely.

Yet another lady exclaimed that she had nothing to offer that week but then described the juicy gossip surrounding Mr. Hatoyama, the new Prime Minister, and his wife. Not only was Miyuki Hatoyama married to a lowly sushi bar owner in the states many years ago, but horror of horrors, she divorced him to marry the prime minister. Divorce is a big no-no in Japanese politics.

...and so is reporting extraterrestrial sightings. Mrs. Hatoyama, Japan's new First Lady, wrote a book twenty years ago called Very Strange Things I've Encountered, in which she swears her soul was transported to Venus via a "triangular-shaped UFO". This woman is Japanese and was raised in Japan. Did she miss the ubiquitous memo stating "the nail that sticks up is the first to get hammered down"?

Well, it's probably only a matter of time before it's revealed that the new Prime Minister is a cross-dresser and the collective cultural "eyebeams" zero in on his wife. When this story breaks in the main news outlets...please remember: You read it here first.

Second Spring

2009-08-31T06:42:00.000-06:00

Motley crews probably shouldn't look so content with life...but these folk are a) retired Japanese b) full of barbequed sea creatures and c) completely wasted on Sam Adams beer.

Our Zushi friends invited Tim and me to a summer barbeque at the marina, partly in honor of his safe return from his seven month tour in Kuwait. A warm day in the sun by the sea with good friends is truly a slice of heaven on earth, especially if they feed you delicious japanese cuisine for three hours straight.

In this petite cultural exchange, both nationalities learned new phrases. During a conversational lull, my gaze wandered to the sun reflecting off the Zushi Bay, the light magically changing the water's surface to hammered silver...so beautifully faceted and dazzling, it momentarily mesmerized me. After I "came to" from my brief revery, I gave a deep sigh, took a swig of my cold green tea, turned to my friend Hiranosan and said, "THIS IS THE LIFE!"

A quizzical look followed. I explained that this English expression is something we say when we are completely comfortable and happy, without a care in the world. (Usually, alcohol and views of the ocean appear in this scenario. But not always.) He nodded enthusiastically, complete understanding lighting up his eyes. "Nancysan!", he exclaimed (Hiranosan exclaims everything), "This is the life of retirement! It is our second spring!"

A Second Spring. What a lovely thought. After the long, hard, hot work of summer comes another chance for refreshment and new growth.

For Japanese people, who generally wake at 6AM, jump on a train at 7AM, spend two hours commuting, 10-12 hours working, 2 hours enterataining clients in the bars after work, and then 2 more hours commuting home, retirement is a chance to live life freely for the first time since childhood. They sail, fish, play golf and tennis, take English lessons and generally enjoy life to the fullest.

I look forward to this carefree existence that hopefully awaits Tim and I in our "golden" years.

Until then, I will enjoy the mini second springs that life awards us along The Path--blessed reunions with my husband after anguishing months apart and joyous get-togethers with all our friends, near and far, who bring us spiritual refreshment, no matter how long it's been since we last enjoyed their company.

A Turning Towards

2009-05-17T05:52:00.012-06:00

Konnichiwa! It's been a while. I must thank those of you who have contacted me wondering when the next post would be up...it's nice to be missed. I really don't have much of an excuse except to say that I just didn't feel like writing for the last month. And I love writing. For some reason, for the last few weeks, it was the last thing I wanted to do.

I miss home...not just the home in the states and its insane conveniences (underwear in my size, a vast array of non-fugly shoes, decent pizza) but also the home in my heart. I miss my family and friends in the U.S. But most of all, I miss my husband immensely.

Many of you know that he has been deployed to the Middle East for many months and has quite a few to go. In typical nancyb fashion, I was super organized the first few months of single parenthood. I planned out meals in advance, laundered clothes regularly, and filled the wipe-off activity board on the back of the front door with oodles of Best Laid Plans.

Five months later...my teenager is reminding me to go to the grocery store in the same fashion I nag her to do her homework. I can barely open the door to my laundry room, it's so overstuffed with piles of dirty laundry. The blank activity board constantly reminds me that Entropy, the natural turning of order towards disorder, is not just a scientific theory.

Even though this may be a "natural" process, it still bothers me. This "turning towards" a new state of being can be adventuresome when it means shrugging off the expectations of a former way of life and discovering the pleasures of a new culture, a new way of living. I like getting lost from order because I am generally at ease with chaos. Afterall, this is one of the main reasons I love living in Japan.

Ah, but turning towards something invariably means you are turning away from something else. When chaos means a turning away from an ordered heart...that is a different story. My husband's love is like a well organized shelf in my heart. I know where his unending patience goes, his goofy humour, his amazing intellect, his undying commitment to me and the girls. Every day, I reach in there for more provisions and they are always in the same place--I can find them without even looking.

Some people may get caught up with creating immaculately stocked pantries or closets with rows and rows of designer handbags and shoes all displayed in picture perfect symmetry. Whatever. I know what true luxury is.

Recently, I have found that distance does nothing to diminish or rearrange the space this type of extravagance creates in the human heart. But distance does seem to change how to access it...I get so caught up in keeping up with the girls and dinner and work and volunteer projects, that I sometimes forget to go there. Without hugs and face to face contact, I am not as easily reminded to enter that space and take what I need. I start to rely on my own stores of strength, in my own private rooms. That feels empowering--for a little while.

Then suddenly, life just seems chaotic and out of control. Nothing makes much sense.

So now I am faced with making sense of it...turning away from the chaos and towards the inherent order within it. Military life can be hard but the personal hardships it creates force me to seek what is rock solid in my real life. The laundry might take over, the dinner might not be home cooked, but at least I know that I can depend on my husband no matter what. He is always there even when he is not. I cherish that dependence and I literally ache for its return...

And, hopefully, when it does return, it will want to throw a load in and whip up a gourmet meal.

Japan: Even Our Undead are Cute

2009-04-08T21:17:00.010-06:00

I have almost finished reading the Twilight series. Perhaps now I can return to my regularly scheduled programming, i.e. life in general.

As with most topics these days, I wonder if and how Eastern thinking differs from the west concerning mythical creatures like vampires. I figured that if Big Foot doesn't exist in these parts, then vampires probably don't hold too much sway, either. (See my earlier blog entry, Big Foot in Japan?: http://bigharmony.blogspot.com/2008/11/big-foot-in-japan.html)

Some interesting "facts" foraged from the internet:

Vampirism didn't exist in Japanese folklore prior to 1930ish when Bram Stoker's Dracula was translated into Japanese...

...except for some weird ancient river creature that would slip out of the water and steal farmers' horses and cows and suck their blood through their (egads!) anuses. Disturbed, I promptly quit reading about that myth.

Oh yeah, there is also an old story about a vampiric cat that is bent on revenge against some samurai who raped and killed a woman.

So, as you can see, a rich folklore concerning vampires does not reside in the Land of the Rising Sun. Recently, however, the vampire theme has infiltrated Japan by means of their anime (animated movies) and manga (comic books), both enormously popular with young people. Many of the tried and true western vampire themes have been incorporated into these media.

However, whereas American/European bloodsuckers are inhumanly sexy, the anime Japanese vampires are...really cute. Sure, they will drink your blood in a split second, but they will do so with huge, puppy dog eyes and light purple hair. That's just how the undead roll here.

I suppose that appropriate terror is evoked through the anime/manga writing because, afterall, the Japanese are creative and compelling story tellers. But jeez, if something with girly cow eyes and pastel hair comes near me with little bitty sharp teeth and a school girl skirt, I'm not going to flee in terror. I'm probably more likely to pat it on the head and give it a cookie.

This, of course, might be my ultimate undoing AND the most effective mode of world domination...

The Cute Shall Inherit the Earth.

Claire de Lune--Under the Sakura

2009-04-07T06:02:00.010-06:00

Spring is here in Japan. It's signature scent, a combination of warm earth and water and baby green life, has returned.

The long-awaited sun and warm breezes have finally encouraged the sakura (cherry blossoms) to reach their pinnacle of loveliness. The girls and I spent Sunday celebrating their arrival with our Japanese buddies. We joined the throngs of people drinking beer and munching on snacks with their friends under the trees. I enjoyed the conversation at our gathering...yet, closing my eyes, I became even more content listening to the soft laughter drifting through the park. It is a joy to listen and watch people just be together in such a simple way.

As stunning as the sakura are in daylight, they are completely mesmerizing in the moonlight--so luminous, they glow. This evening, I walked home alone after eating out with some girlfriends--they were still game for some raucous karaoke but I was feeling quiet and introspective. I usually take a cab back to base but something compelled me to carry on by foot. The walk back to our apartment takes about 30 minutes. This evening, it magically seemed like three because my path led me underneath the sakura.

Gazing up at the moon through the resplendent blossoming branches, I felt completely at peace.

Although I wish I could have shared this joy with all of you I know and love, at the same time, I am completely aware that being alone in such moments is also a great gift.

Life can be sublimely strange.

Twilighting in Japan

2009-04-04T20:18:00.007-06:00

I have a good excuse for not having written in a long time.

My teenaged girl has forced me, kicking and screaming, into reading the Twilight series. For those of you with no connection to all things adolescent (or perhaps, to anything involving popular culture), Twilight is the immensely popular vampire saga that has overtaken the teen literary world.

First, let me explain myself: I have not a gothic bone in my body except for a penchant to dress in black. Being a practical sort, I am mostly uninterested in vampires, werewolves, aliens and ghosts. Most of the stories bore me to tears. How many times can you read the cliches about the undead without thinking, I would rather be rearranging my sock drawer than taking in this drivel?

So, imagine my surprise when I became instantly hooked. I am on book four of four lengthy novels and I started the series a couple of weeks ago. Prosewise, the writing is fairly lame...and full of repetitious cliches that inspire a lit crit major to want to flee screaming into the dark (whether it's full of blood sucking creatures or not).

However, the author has a true talent constructing witty dialogue and engaging suspense. Plus, it reminds me of that long dormant part of me that witnessed unbridled passion, heartbreak and romantic redemption. It's pleasurable to feel those dangerous passions again without having to actually go through the heartbreak.

Claire, of course, is thrilled that I am addicted. I have been delighted to discuss plot, theme and characters with my daughter as well as the real life issues of sexuality, self esteem and true love. These themes are tricky now in her life and will continue to amp up in severity as she enters high school. I am thankful that we have a "safe" place to discuss them. Her finely calibrated "this is a teaching moment" radar doesn't engage while discussing hot vampires and werewolves.

Many of our discussions boil down to the age old question for women of all ages: Would you rather give yourself to the safe, dependable guy who allows you to be yourself or the exciting, "perfect", mysterious one who tempts you to change the essence of who you are? Can you have both?

Hmmmm. I wonder. Can you have the best of both worlds: human and eternal? Can you be simultaneously safe and passionate? Can you love both states of being equally and not ultimately have to make a choice between them? A part of me would like to think that it is possible to continuously live in that magical period between day and night...

What do you think?

What's in a Name?

2009-03-13T16:56:00.014-06:00

I have blogged in the past about Japanese car names like the Latte, the Naked, the Guppy and the one closest to my heart--The Prairie Joy. Before coming to Japan, I had never thought of the prairie as a joyful place. But now I know.

Here are some recently spied additions to the WTF Car Parade in Yokosuka:

The Turbo Joy Pop (Was it as good for you as it was for me? I need a cigarette...)

The Scrum (It's okay if the rugby players bleed on the carpet. Because there is no carpet.)

The Royal Saloon (This is a fancy saloon. Not just anyone can come in.)

The Sunny Super Saloon (This is the saloon for the peasant masses who like to be pleasantly medicated.)

And my new personal favorite...The Dingo. (I swear officer, before I knew what had happened, this mangy little hatchback came out of nowhere and snatched my child.)

Automobile nomenclature aside, the Japanese take driving seriously. They are generally conscientious motorists. Turn signals are de rigeur. No one blasts music from open windows. I rarely hear car horns, even in a megatropolis like Tokyo. It is extremely rude to use them unless an accident is imminent. In fact, in almost 4 years in this land, I have never seen anyone even gesture rudely. (Attention New Yorkers and Italians: offensive driving need not be a lifestyle.)

Perhaps you might consider such civilized driving unstimulating. Where's the action? Where's the human drama?

Never fear. The Japanese have zero parking for their businesses. So, just as you are being lulled into a false sense of serenity, some joker will suddenly halt and park his car in the road to run into 7-eleven for a drink/smoke/porn magazine.

Yes, IN the road. I would tell you they pull off to the side of it but that would be a lie because Japanese roads have no side (unless you count the 4 inches from the lane line to the curb). Speed limits are notoriously low here, about 50 kph (35 mph)--TOPS.

Intense frustration sets in when, finally reaching the maximum speed of a fast moving bicycle, one is forced to stop on a dime every 15 seconds. Then, of course, you also have to pay attention to the multitude of motorbikes and scooters weaving indiscriminantly through traffic. They have the right of way in all traffic situations as well as the oblivious pedestrians obsessively texting on their phones. As foreigners, every accident is our fault so we have to be super vigilant while on the roads.

I am fairly certain that if it weren't for the hilarious car names and No Porking signs, swearing and honking of horns would be way more prevalent in this culture.

Don't Believe the Hype

2009-03-09T17:28:00.016-06:00

Bus tours are the Hamburger Helper of travel.

Hamburger Helper is deceptively convenient. Everything is already contained in the box (just add meat!) except a few essential ingredients...namely flavor and nutrition. Yet, at 5PM, in a crowded grocery store, with no discernible plan for dinner (and rapidly losing the will to live, much less cook), one's decision process can potentially become "compromised". One might just forget about the nauseating effects of dried, prepackaged food.

This phenomenon also happens when you suddenly become a single parent. Two months in to this glamorous lifestyle, travel in a box (just add YEN for souvenirs and lunch!) starts to look...well...palatable.

Thus, my neighbor and I decided to take the kids on a military bus tour to see the "legendary" snow monkeys in Nagano (site of the 1998 Winter Olympics). I had seen numerous charming pictures of these little creatures, relaxing zen-style in the mineral hot springs, little tufts of snow piling up on their furry heads. The girls were excited to see cute animals instead of those immensely BORING temples and shrines. I liked the fact that someone who was not illiterate in Japanese would be driving.

The bus left the base at 5AM and immediately got stuck in stop-and-go ski traffic outside of Tokyo.

The lovely tour guide warned us that the bus toilet could be flushed only 50 times, "so be velly calefur."

Six hours later, we arrived in Nagano where we had a half an hour to view the monkeys, after a thirty minute muddy hike in each direction.

In a dirty little canyon at the end of the trail, a billion (I counted) monkeys obsessively/compulsively foraged for seeds in the snow and hot springs. Those that weren't foraging were either fighting or engaging in hot monkey love. This unappetizing scene looked nothing like the picture on the front of the box. There were no monkeys kicking back zen style in the hot springs with little piles of snow on their heads. Plus, there was lots of poo. Everywhere.

Next we enjoyed a leisurely 25 minute lunch at a rest stop before moving on to historic Matsumoto Castle, a world heritage site. We only had an hour to tour this gorgeous wooden structure surrounded by a moat before returning to the smelly bus. The 50 flush threshhold was rapidly approaching.

The tour guide treated us to her own Japanese soprano singing on the 5 hour trip home.

Just as I felt my very last nerve snapping, we pulled into the gate at 9:30 PM.

I didn't have to scrape the whole meal down the drain, though. I took some interesting pictures and the girls had a blast playing 11 hours (!) of DS games with their friends while eating Japanese junk food. However, if in the future it even looks like I'm heading for the Hamburger Helper aisle at the travel agency, do me a favor and trip me. That might actually be helpful.

Is Your Beer a Little Off?

2009-03-04T04:42:00.015-07:00

The Japanese are incredibly hospitable. Not only will they quite literally go out of their way to help a person in need but they also package alcohol in handy, drink-on-the-fly, shot-size containers. The above photo depicts the "Adult Juice Box" size beer can for bentos or lunch boxes. (The neighboring glass is indeed a 2 ounce shot glass.)

You don't need to wonder...OF COURSE sake comes in this size, too.

Sadly, according to recent local news articles, beer no longer retains bragging rights as the Most Consumed Alcoholic Beverage in Japan. The new generation of young professionals can't afford sake or premium liquor and find beer too heavy. So they drink Shochu--a clear alcohol of dubious origins along the same esteemed lineage of the college classic, Everclear. Like its American cousin, shochu mixes with any flavor and then goes instantly stealth. (You never saw it coming until it dropped its payload, right?)

But, I am aware that slight differences do exist. For example, overconsumption of Everclear can lead to people from Norman waking up under Laundromat tables in Stillwater, Oklahoma without any recollection of being transported to such a humble locale. Shochu, on the other hand, creates a hallowed space for the high Japanese art form known as "karaoke".

(pregnant pause)

In any case, this trend to shochu worries Japanese beer manufacturers to no end. They have started to heavily market their product with all sorts of zany catch phrases. A few months ago, I blogged about an ad I saw on the train selling "Style-free Beer". (See the Sept 2008 post: http://bigharmony.blogspot.com/2008/09/livin-la-style-free-vida.html )

I was still pondering the imponderable of showcasing a "style free" product when I spied a new advertisement this week selling a beer called OFF. Is it a bargain? Is it meant to repel the approach of ugly people at the bar? Could it be referring to one's garments after consumption or one's weight upon switching to it? Does it contain DEET?

Good Lord, what could it mean?

Like most cultural mysteries here in Japan, I am not sure I'll ever fully "understand". Although this can be sad, it's still comforting to know that should I be having an "off" day...Adult Juice Boxes, in a wide variety of flavors (and with itty bitty straws), are available at my local Japanese supermarket.

What a Doll

2009-02-18T18:03:00.017-07:00

March 3 is Girls' Day or Hinamatsuri in Japan. Japanese households with female children display dolls on a crimson, tiered platform. The top level is reserved for the Emperor and Emperess and then descends to the ladies in waiting, court musicians, samurai and court furniture. Elaborate and expensive, families pass these heirlooms down to their daughters or sometimes to a son's wife. Special prayers are said for the protection and honor of all "princesses", young and old!

This week I was invited to a couple's house to celebrate. Pictured above in the blog title is the lunch they graciously served me. I almost couldn't eat it--it was so insanely kawaii (cute). Obviously, much care had been taken to prepare it. Nori, or seaweed, provides the Emperor's kimono. The Empress' kimono is actually a thin egg omelet. Their bodies are stuffed with rice and their diminutive heads are quail eggs--the charming faces and traditional hairstyles comprised of Nori as well.

I enjoyed these onigiri (rice balls wrapped in seaweed) with some new friends in their house. This couple lives in a traditional Japanese home with only wood burning stoves to heat the space. They do not own a TV--only an old-fashioned cabinet radio. Weathered, antique wooden beams, taken from the original house, grace the vaulted ceilings.

Behind the sweet-faced onigiri, you might be able to view an ancient Japanese iron tea pot, supended on a long metal rod above a miniature fire pit. Every year, when the weather turns cold, the family rebuilds the fire area and the small table surrounding it. Some say that the best green tea is made from water heated in an iron pot above this sort of traditional fire.

As a beginner in this ancient culture, I can't say for sure whether this statement is true or not. But I can tell you one fact for certain--I have never been cozier in my life.

That's truth enough for me.

Noodle Museum Insights

2009-02-09T04:39:00.006-07:00

What I learned at the Ramen Museum in Yokohama: Perhaps there is not enough to say about noodles to fill an entire museum.

For your viewing pleasure: Lily is reacting to the scintillatingly history of Cup O' Noodles behind her--the styrofoam packages lovingly encased in glass because of their obvious cultural preciosity. If you peer to the left of her and squint just so, you can view the life and times of instant Ramen packets, carefully stuck to the wall. In another 2X3 room, visitors are treated to a multitude of drawers, that when slid open, reveal real plastic replicas of Noodle Meals From Bygone Eras.

We finished this museum in under 5 minutes.

It took me a couple of months to post this "experience" because someone was an eensy bit cranky that his outing didn't wow the pants off of everyone. (A little emotional distance was called for. ) At the heart of this matter, Mr. LBS (low blood sugar) was starving and nobody else was hungry. A bit o' wounded pride mixed with an unreasonable mood swing made for a fabulous family outing.

However, in all fairness, he didn't make too much fun of me last summer after I insisted that everyone truck an hour out of Kyoto, on a metro and then a trolley bus (and then a small hike), to view the cormorant fishing along the Oi River. Cormorants, if you don't already know (because you somehow missed reading the children's classic Ping), are diving birds that have been fitted with rings around their slender necks. They can catch fish for their owners but not eat them.

Frommer's Japan declared that "there's no more romantic way to spend a summer's evening than drifting down the river in a wooden boat decorated with paper lanterns, watching the fishermen and their cormorants at work. It's simply magical."

I beg to differ.

But only because reality supplied a dose of, well...harsh reality: There were wooden boats--about 50 of them jammed together, packed to the gills with gullible tourists who had all shelled out 25 bucks each to watch "fishermen" on a canoe herd a gaggle of birds down one side of the strung-together boats and up the other. The dreamy smell of diesel filled the air--supplied by the outboard "snack boat" selling romantic offerings like beer and ice cream.

The fishermen made three passes by the lantern-lit boats--they looked like some ridiculous Greek god spurning on a tethered flock of choking, squawking, pencil-necked fowl, a giant torch leading the whole surreal procession. The torch light served the dual purpose of attracting the little fishies cormorants crave while also illuminating the bug-eyed splendor of the majestic cormorant "at work".

"It was simply...horrifying."--Nancy's Guide to Kyoto.

Then we had to hike back to the trolly, take the metro for another hour and schlep back to the hotel. I was glared at several times. Traveling/adventuring can be quite humbling. Sometimes you accidently blunder into off-the-beaten-path experiences that mesmerize you not only for a moment, but an entire lifetime.

And sometimes you follow a reputable guide right into a Cormorant Calamity/Noodle Hell on Earth.

That's life in a nutshell, if you ask me.

Demons Out...Luck In

2009-02-03T01:14:00.019-07:00

The plum (ume) blossoms pictured above have arrived in Japan, heralding the start of spring. I know, it seems a bit early to be thinking of the end of winter...but February 3 is the official start of spring in Japan. I'm just a guest, so if the indigenous folk say winter is over...GREAT. It's done. Finished in my mind. I am sooo past that winter thing.

February 3 in Japan is Setsubun, a celebration that marks the end of winter and the beginning of spring. People scatter roasted soybeans around houses, shrines and temples to bring good luck. They also pelt the Oni (red or blue devils) with the beans to get rid of the evil winter spirits. Traditionally, the male head of the household has the honor of mamemaki (bean scattering) but nowadays children oftentimes go to their grandparents' house to act out this ritual.

A family member wanders around the house saying, "Oni wa soto! Fuku wa uchi!"(Demons out! Luck in!), while somebody dressed as the Oni tries to evade the bean lashing. Of course, he fails miserably. Then each person has to eat the same number of beans as their age, PLUS one. (I guess we all could use a little extra luck.)

(Quiz time: Is this wacky tradition Shinto or Buddhist in origin? The first three correct answers will receive one free, slightly opened packet of roasted soybeans. Hurry while supplies last.)

Somewhere in this crazy ritual, a benevolent fat lady figures in as well as the need to eat giant sushi rolls (Maki sushi) while pointing towards this year's lucky compass direction. My class informed me that it's ENE this year. So for crying out loud, don't screw this up at home by pointing WSW...

My eyebrows must have asked, Huh?, because my class shrugged their shoulders, basically indicating, just cuz. Alrighty then. Just cuz works for me. I find, after all, that it's best not to subject shy ancient traditions to the bright, withering glare of logic. (Try explaining Groundhog Day to a foreigner. )

Afterall, a little mystery makes life so much more fun.

P.S. I knew I had a sleep number but I was completely unaware I might have a lucky compass direction. I think mine is NSW. Which explains everything.

Teaching and Learning

2009-01-27T16:55:00.008-07:00

I love teaching. Usually, I learn more from my students (to include my Japanese students as well as the middleschoolers and special ed preschoolers) than they do from me. I am quite fond of this arrangement.

Yesterday, while teaching my Zushi group (1o retired Japanese men and women), I was struck once again by how educated other countries are about American politics and culture. Half the class showed up with a copy of President Obama's inaugural speech. The Japanese newspapers printed it in English with a translation to one side. My students had underlined their favorite parts with questions scratched in the margins. With help from their media, they had thoroughly dissected his tone and meaning. Their unique cultural perspective really made me stop and think about this speech and its impact on American society. Wow.

Granted, this level of knowledge might not be the norm here. The majority of Japanese folk my age and younger probably aren't as studious, but have you recently read an American publication with a translated text of a foreign head of state's address?

Yeah. Me, neither.

Overall, the Japanese response to the inaugural address mirrored my own. It surprised/disappointed us. We expected a speech along the lines of "Ask not what your country can do for you..." , but we received: "Starting today, we must pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off, and begin again the work of remaking America." My students and I are were a bit disappointed that the speech was not more inspiring (i.e. uplifting). However, its direct and insistent call to individual and collective responsibility surprised us--not pleasantly, mind you, but at least memorably.

It goes without saying that 1960's America was a radically different time and place than the present, thus JFK's speech was given to a distantly related people--think of them perhaps as cousins twice removed. Exiting the 1950's, a time of great prosperity, much like the last 10 years, our family wasn't yet mired in an impossible foreign war. Our great modern leaders had not been assassinated. We had just started to wear "the greatest nation" mantle comfortably (and arrogantly). Kennedy's call to service made sense to a generation who was not yet accustomed to being serviced in every conceivable aspect of life.

Time travel forward to 2009--we are mired in not one, but three wars. Two are on the ground and one is against a phantom menace across the globe. Our economy has been, for all intents and purposes, assassinated, along with our idealism after 9/11. All of our people, especially the young but also the old, cannot ask what we can do for our country because our mouths are too busy complaining about what we are owed or praising our self-worth. We simply have had it all too fast and too easy and with too many accolades. I am not sure our personal or national egos need any more "uplifting".

I don't think President Obama can call this generation to service in the same manner as President Kennedy. Most of us don't really understand the full meaning of the word. We tend to think of it as something to be done to help remedy a broken world, which is noble. But service is more than that. It's duty--humbly done without complaint because it simply needs to be done. The recent Miracle on the Hudson put this theory into action. The pilot and crew, dutifully trained and skilled, were ready. They didn't run around "saving lives". They simply did their jobs, without complaint or expectation of praise. How many of us can say the same? I know I can't. (I kvetch about the "effort" of placing our abundance of clothes in a machine that does all the work for me. Jeesh.)

Maybe this is why his speech made me a bit uncomfortable...we are being asked to be of service to one another in a different way than giving time and money to a worthy cause. We are being asked/reminded that the "time has come to put aside our childish ways". We need to become an adult nation--one that is not consumed with doing the right thing to please others (while simultaneously showering confetti down on our exalted heads).

Rather, we are urged to be a mature nation--one that fulfills its duty to itself and to others by accomplishing what needs to be done with no thought to our personal inconvenience or hardship. And without the narcissistic need to be praised or adored for it. The Japanese have many faults, but due to their Buddhist history, they completely understand duty, service and sacrifice. These ideals still permeate every human interaction in this culture, every day.

Our Christian heritage demands duty, service and sacrifice, too, modeled by the Son's willingness to do what had to be done without thought of His own hardship. America can resurrect this integral part of her character. We can do it.

Yes, we can. Humbly. Quietly. Cheerfully.

That's Mr. Dustzilla to You, Pal

2009-01-25T17:34:00.014-07:00

This three day weekend, while trapped inside with a sick kid, I became aware of an ever increasing problem: the dust bunny invasion in our uncarpeted apartment. Shy and timid creatures by nature, they usually cower predictably behind the furniture and flee in all directions if I have to move a chair to retrieve an errant slipper or tv remote. But lately, they have become emboldened, quite large and embarassing. I am pretty sure they wait for the door bell to ring and then lumber out to announce their oafish pride.

Perhaps not. Perhaps I am imagining things. But one thing is not debatable...there is no doubt in my mind that my dust bunnies have mutated. I just can't figure out what the tipping point might have been. It's winter so the windows are usually closed. I rarely turn on the heat. We live on the eighth floor so most dirt and dust gets conveniently knocked off in the elevator on the way up. What gives?

It's getting kind of scary. I vacuum up the little suckers and then, I kid you not, ten minutes later, like a scene out of Terminator 2, tiny bits of fuzz start collecting on the floor. Then the individual strands start moving towards each other by means of some irresistible force, slowly coalescing right before my eyes. By the time I wake up in the morning, they are fully mobile and rummaging through my produce drawer. (There is even dust in my refrigerator drawers. I don't get it.)

I guess I could do what many Japanese do in such inexplicable, mysterious situations: Blame the Chinese. Perhaps the toxic byproducts from their burdgeoning consumer driven society are making their way to our appartment via the air currents. Last spring, a giant, green dust cloud (not light and fluffy, but rather thick and menacing) attacked Tokyo, leaving a slimy goo everywhere. I'm no scientist but maybe, just maybe, this is the source of my Dustzillas.

What do you think? Is it possible to vanquish these freakish creatures and how do you do it without pissing them off?

Screwing Up Royally

2009-01-25T05:42:00.007-07:00

Most of you who know me also know that I am a bit scatterbrained. I've hit the point in my life where if I don't write something down TWICE, I forget it. Not only do I have a family calendar on the fridge but I also have a dry erase schedule on the back of the front door. Somehow, I still miss 5% of my life's obligations.

Reiko, the woman who runs the English school I teach at, likes for me to remember the kids' birthdays. I warned her that I can barely remember my own children's special day. If it weren't for Lily updating me weekly about the new and improved plans for her birthday party (starting 9 months in advance), I might actually overlook it.

One of my 10-year-old students, who speaks fabulous English, reminded me two weeks ago that we had missed celebrating her birthday because of the Christmas/New Year holidays. I told her I would bring cupcakes to the next class. The following lesson time, as I was saying goodbye, she said, "My birthday?" Oh, Lord. I told her I was very sorry and would bring TWO cupcakes for her next week.

I didn't write that down. Big mistake.

The following class did not take place in Reiko's home as usual. The flu has hit hard in Japan and two of her children were out for the count. Since she didn't want to expose everyone to those germs, we met instead at a local community center. The first thing out of my student's mouth as she entered the room was, "My birthday?"

NOOOOOOOOOOO! I can't believe I forgot again!

I apologized profusely. Her eyes filled up with tears as she looked down at her feet, trying to compose herself. I felt like...well...have you ever disappointed an adorable Japanese kid to the point of tears? That depth of lowliness can't quite be expressed fully in the English language.

I started the lesson but I couldn't concentrate because my conscience was still busy cussing me out. All of a sudden, I thought of an option...THE DRINK MACHINE. Every Japanese gathering place has a drink machine with 30 choices of water, tea, soft drinks, jello juice, coffee (cold and hot), hot chocolate, corn soup (?) and assorted vile vitamin shots.

I broke out of my calendar review and shouted, "Birthday drinks from the machine!" The birthday girl looked shocked and excited. She jumped up and everyone stampeded for the machine. At first they thought the birthday girl would be the only one getting treated. When it dawned on them that everybody was included, you would have thought that Nancy Sensei was the Japanese Messiah. Hallelujah, free beverages!

I gathered from their level of excitement that Japanese kids do not get treated like this on a regular basis. They were so stoked to pick their own drink and enjoy it in class that the smiles did not come off their faces for the rest of the hour. The birthday girl was ecstatic. To add to my triumph, I even mangaged to weave the impromptu drink celebration into our lesson on the five senses (How does your drink taste/feel/smell?). Oh yeah, I'm a weaver. I weave. That's what I do.

Yessiree, my self esteem continued to skyrocket...until I tried to act out the meaning of the word "relax". I sat down in a chair and put my feet up on a desk, while letting out a long, theatrical "AHHHHHH". The entire class gasped in absolute horror. For a moment, I had completely forgotten that showing the soles of your feet/shoes to others is a deplorable, defiling insult in Japanese culture. Nothing is dirtier or lowlier than the bottom of one's foot. (It is also a terrible faux pas to point to anything with it.)

So after a second round of saying gomenasai (sorry!), there I was, back at square one...feeling lower than, well...the soles of my unfortunate feet.

More New Year Thoughts...From Someone Else

2009-01-20T05:29:00.004-07:00

“I am not afraid of tomorrow, for I have seen yesterday and I love today.”
William Allen White

Daruma Dreaming

2009-01-18T08:43:00.002-07:00

Nothing says New Year in Nihon like the ubiquitous daruma doll (the little red guy engulfed in flames above). Mustachioed and a little fierce looking, he is modeled after Bodhidharma, the founder of Zen Buddhism in Japan. These miniature fellows are usually hollow, red for good luck and lacking in appendages and eyes. The owner, while making a wish, colors in one eye (usually the left). If the wish comes true during the year, the other eye is filled in.

Dontoyaki follows closely behind the Japanese New Year, usually around the second week of January. It is a solemn ritual centered around the burning of all the religious New Year's decorations and any other items associated with that year's god, to include charms, tokens and darumas. The Dontoyaki experience is both serenely magical and immensely cathartic. I became completely mesmerized watching the flames consume the remains of the past year.

(For a more detailed description of the event, please see my post from January 2008.)

The purpose of the dontoyaki fire is two-fold. Things are either returned to last year's god in gratitude...or to make humble peace with his disfavor. Burning "unlucky" items, like the daruma pictured above, symbolically destroys the unfavorable and sends it back from whence it came. The soul, released from its negative past, is then ready to fully hope for better times with the new year's god.

Those of you who know me and my family are aware that it has been a rough year, and, for different reasons, will continue to be for some time. But my dear friend Kim gifted me with my very own daruma this new year. I carefully colored in one eye a few weeks ago. Mr. Daruma now rests patiently in my cabinet...waiting for the day he can fully see...for the day my happiness is completely envisioned.

I know this is extremely late--but Happy New Year to you all. I hope that if the events of last year left you blind, that you now may see...great happiness and love throughout the coming year.

Dear Santa...

2009-01-08T19:19:00.002-07:00

The Japanese school I teach at had an American-style holiday program right before Christmas. All the classes performed a Christmas song and showed off some of their English phrases. I have two classes; one performed The Twelve Days of Christmas and the other Jingle Bell Rock. My kids, some of them shown above, also spoke about why they love Christmas (based on the 5 senses we have been studying)...i.e. I love Christmas because I smell cookies baking, hear bells ringing, etc. They did an outstanding job.

Every class was adorable. The little ones sang I'm a Little Snowman (to the tune of I'm a Little Teapot), a class of rascally boys sang O Christmas Tree, and a class of sweet girls performed a Hawaiian Christmas dance in hula skirts.

My favorite part, though, was a class who read Letters to Santa. Ninety-nine percent of them wanted a DS game or a bicycle. One little 7-year-old girl got up and boldly read,

Dear Santa,
My name is Maiko. I have been good. I want a diamond necklace for Christmas.

Love Maiko

Maiko's dad set down his Nikon for a moment and buried his head in his hands. Some things are truly cross-cultural.

Into the Wild

2009-01-07T18:12:00.004-07:00

The Thai people inconveniently decided to take a stand (once again) against their government two weeks before our December beach vacation to Phuket. We decided to skip the pleasure of getting stuck in the exotic Bangkok airport and go to Singapore instead. Singapore is wonderfully strange. It's kind of an Asian Orlando--brand spanking new, full of shopping and obsessively manicured.

The butterfly above is from the Singapore Zoo. He alighted on my head in the zoo's outstanding rain forest exhibit. Protected by soaring nets, all sorts of little fauna roamed free inside. We observed mice deer meekly foraging for food, sloths and tree kangaroos slumbering in the tropical growth, fruit bats swooping overhead and lemurs lounging like bored teenagers on electrical boxes. All of these creatures were no more than a foot away from our path. I haven't been this delighted, this lost in wonder, in such a long time.

There were dozens of butterfly species I had never seen before, all floating about in that aimlessly predestined manner of butterflies. This dark and handsome fellow wafted over and perched on my head. I calmly turned my head to look at Lily, Holy Moly, can you believe I have a butterfly on my head? Her brown eyes, the size of rice bowls, seemed appropriately amazed. The butterfly slowly flit, flit, flitted over and landed on her arm.

She shrieked like she had been assaulted by a venomous creature, convulsed wildly, turned tail and ran screaming with arms above her head, cartoon style, completely out of sight...completely out of the exhibit.

I laughed so hard I cried. I laughed so hard my sides hurt. (When was the last time I laughed until my sides hurt? I can't remember.) Family vacations always remind me that kids are truly amazing creatures themselves. They are so much fun to watch outside of their normal environment.

Of course, Claire, the benevolent older sister, commenced ridiculing her younger sister, until not one hour later, Claire freaked out when she saw a tiny spider hanging from my umbrella, near her head. These girls can do weird food. They can travel like pros. They can expertly navigate any city's metro/airport system. Just don't ask them to convene intimately with nature.

Perhaps high rise apartment living and no backyard has cut them off from their truly "wild" side. Perhaps they inherited the willies from a family member (see the post: I Love Not Camping). Who knows? In any case, I am seriously considering packing some Xanax on future zoo forays. I shudder to think of the mental health bills we will have to pay if we fail to preempt another traumatic episode of When Butterflies Attack.

Santa Buddha Baby

2008-12-30T20:00:00.005-07:00

Wii-Shmii...all I wanted for Christmas was this little guy. Two Japanese parents got to the Super Kawaii Kidstore first. Dang.

He wouldn't let the scary white woman hold him, either. But at least I got a pic of Mr. IAMSOHOTINTHISSTUPIDSANTASUIT. What a sweetie.

The Month That Seemed Like a Day

2008-12-30T00:14:00.010-07:00

Gasp. Will someone please stop this crazy ride for a few minutes? I need to catch my breath...

So much has happened in the past month that it's going to take me a while to catch up. Since the beginning of December, we have not traveled to Thailand, visited Singapore in lieu, attended numerous Christmas parties (one at the Japanese school I teach at), survived several Christmas Cooking Disasters and celebrated the holiday with Japanese and German friends. Stay tuned in the next few weeks...details will be forthcoming. But not in any particular order.

Oh, yeah. The girls would like me to mention that we have finally, after months of intense and heated negotiation, become a part of the Wii generation. The campaign/trial started in earnest last summer. We were accused by the two plaintiffs of being supremely "uncool" for not having a video game platform. NO ONE wanted to spend the night at our house. It was apparently too boring due to the lack of expensive electronics.

Although the "boring" label stung a bit, their case was not furthered by pointing out that extra children, other people's children, did NOT want to come to our house on the weekend. Awww, that's so very sad....No buying $50 worth of snacks. No listening to the Neverending Giggle Fest. No vacuuming up $10 worth of said snacks from under the couch the next day.

That reality nearly broke my heart. I searched my true feelings, explored my heart, looked in my darling angels' sweet eyes and said: Nope. Never gonna happen.

(After all, the best part of being a parent is that, when being beaten down as a defendant, you suddenly realize, Hey, I'm the judge, too. Totally sweet.)

Nonetheless, they persisted for weeks, relentlessly, like Chinese water torture, all the while pointing out the amazing health benefits of the Wii and how the whole family could enjoy it. Finally, I snapped and shouted: I'll think about thinking of letting you ask Santa for one IF you write me an essay detailing the many life changing qualities of The Wii and why you deserve one! They had 6 weeks of summer to accomplish 2 paragraphs each.

Fast forward to the beginning of November and the debut of the faux goodness season. Much to my surprise, no essays had yet been completed. Claire decided to jump the chain of command and ask God directly for one. If that didn't work, there was still the benevolent grandparents.

Lily got busy and typed up a report...all of which was directly plagiarized from the Wii official website. I called her on it and she let out a plaintative yet defensive Whaaat?! that might have moved anyone but a Lit Crit major. Honey, I know the ole cut and paste strategy.

Fast forward to a week before Christmas. Every morning at breakfast, Claire details her actual dreams about waking up and finding a Wii on Christmas morning. She feels indescribable joy but then wakes up to cold, hard reality. Lily listens attentively and nods her head in sober solidarity.

So imagine their ecstatic elation on Christmas morning (we made it to 6:30 this year) when they rushed in to find that Santa had delivered a bonafide Christmas miracle. Tim and I couldn't believe the Big Guy would undermine us in such a brazen manner. What a softy wuss.

The Wii is, however, actually fun for the whole family. Imagine that.

Have Yourself A Merry Little Kurisumasu

2008-12-22T23:23:00.005-07:00

The picture above illustrates the love born of this season and the essence of what our family wishes for you and yours during this most miraculous time of year. May the peace of the Lord be always with you, now and forever, wherever in the world you may be. Merry Christmas!

Good News

2008-12-20T06:30:00.004-07:00

Introducing Miss Mary Katherine Whitten Harrison, first daughter of my nephew and his wife. Newborn babies are a miracle but especially so this time of year. For unto us a child is born, unto us a child is given...And she is perfect.

This Haiku Will Change Your Life

2008-12-08T23:31:00.024-07:00

Claire has been diligently working on her Japanese poems as of late. Haiku, in the very likely case you slept through 7th grade English, is a short poem composed of three metrical lines of 5, 7 and again 5 syllables. The verses do not rhyme. I never used to be a fan of The Haiku--it seemed too short and simple to express the vast depth of human longing.

But that was until Claire wrote the most profound poem I have ever read. Now, I am determined to defend this medium to the death. Witness this piece of poetic perfection that changed my mind forever and helped articulate one of life's most ardent passions:

The smell greets me now
Coffee is like paradise
I will never leave

So true. So true.

Before you call DHS for hooking a 13 year old on a cup of Joe...really stop and think about the pared down beauty of this petite poem. Can't you just feel the calm, yet impassioned commitment? The quiet, yet enduring love? The heavenly bliss?

I can. And I don't know about you, but I ain't leaving either.

Kristi Yamaguchi's Worst Nightmare

2008-12-07T04:48:00.011-07:00

As seen recently in a Japanese antiques stall at a local bazaar...

Buy these and falling through the ice is probably the least of your worries.

WWJD?

2008-11-30T19:06:00.008-07:00

I just finished reading an article in the New York Times asking for readers' opinions about how lavish the inaugural cermony and parties ought to be. Glancing through the 250 responses, it seems like the majority of people favor a subdued affair in these sober times.

Of course, my mind wandered to the age-0ld question, WWJD? Not, What Would Jesus Do...that's obvious. But What Would the Japanese Do?

They would do absolutely nothing, that's what.

The Japanese political system is a cousin of ours (we helped set it up after WWII) but with some very odd genes from the other side of the family. The Congress (or Diet) is bi-cameral and elected by popular vote just like in the United States. However,there is a slight difference in protocol: the Congress chooses the Prime Minister. The Japanese do not popularly elect a president, which I personally consider to be liberating and bewildering at the same time; Liberating because this society skips two years of tedious, I-Want-to-Put-My-Head-In-An-Oven campaigning. Bewildering because you never know who is steering this mighty ship.

Since living in Japan the last 3 years, we have witnessed three different Prime Ministers. One morning you wake up and flip on the Japanese news and there is a swarm of reporters around the capitol building. Hmmm. Perhaps a momentous law has been passed?

No. No. That's not it. The leader of the second largest economy in the world has just decided to quit because of his "nerves". This has happened twice. Two different guys with "nerve" issues have folded in under a year of leading this great nation. The third man, Mr. Aso, seems sturdy enough but I won't be surprised if he decides, "to hell with it", and runs away to Bermuda.

Obviously, one never knows the real, devious inner-workings of politics. It seems logical that these poor men might have been sacrificial lambs for their political parties, but still...

Can you imagine the President of the United States calling a press conference to state, "Nevermind. This office is entirely too stressful. I quit."

When this happens here, the Japanese seem irritated but kind of shrug their shoulders like What can you do?

Well, might I suggest two plus years of dirty, expensive campaigning that drives the common folk to drink, followed by plenty of over-the-top, lavish parties celebrating the winner and all the rich folk to whom he is now indebted?

If that won't steady those frightful nerves, I don't know what will.

Have a Wabi-sabi Thanksgiving!

2008-11-22T19:04:00.013-07:00

Wabi-sabi.

This sounds like a new dance craze ("Come on everybody and do the wabi-sabi!"). Or perhaps an annoying Star Wars character that you want to kill two minutes into the movie. Or baby talk for the word wasabi ("Does widdle Jimmy want a widdle bit of wabi-sabi on his sushi-wushi?").

It's none of the above. In reality, wabi-sabi happens to be THE over-arching aesthetic and religious principle in Japan. You might be slightly disappointed it's not something more cutesy...but let me explain.

Before our chankopalooza last weekend (see previous post), our friends led Tim and I on a two-hour hike up a mountain and back down to a local temple. Hiranosan warned us that the hike would be "dangerous". We thought he was kidding. Perhaps he had chosen the wrong word?

No such luck.

Overcast and drizzly, I about broke my neck a dozen times sliding on the thick carpet of wet leaves covering the trail. As we descended the treacherous side of the mountain, we wandered upon a more discernible, stone path. On the left side of it was a craggy rock face covered in moss. Trees in autumn garb, with their branches arching over the path, lined the other side.

Hiranosan stopped and gazed at the scene around him. He announced that the quiet scene of rock, trees and moss leading up to a sacred place was "the center of the Japanese heart", otherwise known as wabi-sabi.

Unfortunately (or maybe fortunately), wabi-sabi has no direct translation. The best I can come up with is "harmony in nature, perfect in its imperfection, transitory yet timeless". Someone smarter than myself described it more simply: "nothing lasts, nothing is finished, and nothing is perfect."

Interesting. Nothing lasts. Nothing is finished. Nothing is perfect.

Generally, we westerners tend to think that everything good must last...that the mission is accomplished...that perfection is attainable with the "right" ingredients and superior methodology. Both mental constructs (Eastern and Western thought) have their pros and cons and work for and against the cultures to which they belong. I could go on about that forever.

But I have a challenge for you today--this most wonderful holiday of Thanksgiving.

In addition to being thankful for your beautiful families, the roof over your head and the plentiful food on your table, consider being thankful that nothing lasts, nothing is finished and nothing is perfect.

Although unsettling, getting older is an amazing process. It's astounding what new views you can see through the bare branches, after the beautiful leaves have fallen to the ground.

Although that rock face was carved out a millenia ago, it's not "finished". The emerald moss covering it will degrade the surface over time. The change might be imperceptible to us, but another thousand years from now, the path will look much different to those who follow us. They will be in awe of it, nonetheless.

Although manicured, symmetrical gardens are gorgeous, the tangled chaos of nature is ever so much more. Striving to be/do better is desirable but not if we forget that we are imperfect beings in our original design. Imperfections remind us that we are limited and not always in control. This makes us human. And to quote Martha Stewart, the grand poohbah of perfection: "It's a good thing."

On the subject of good things, I hope you all enjoy plenty of traditional turkey, stuffing and pumpkin pie this holiday...with a little bit of wabi-sabi on the side. I wish you all a very Happy Thanksgiving!

Big Foot in Japan?

2008-11-21T21:34:00.016-07:00

I had a fascinating conversation in my seniors' class this week. Our book's chapter had been discussing tabloids and some of the spectacular stories found therein. I told my students that American culture generally has two types of tabloid "reporting": gossip and fantastical.

They regarded me with a somewhat quizzical look. I explained that by "fantastical", I meant stories about aliens, women giving birth to aliens and redneck Big Foot sightings. (And redneck women giving birth to little Big Foots. And those sightings.)

Redneck? Big Foot? Their eyes seemed to wander the classroom, trying to connect with their fellow confused countrymen. I tested the waters: What? You all aren't familiar with the big scary ape guy who runs around the world's ancient forests leaving no trace except huge footprints? None of your people have recorded a grainy, out-of-focus picture of said creature?

Nope. Nothing. No recognition.

Gosh. What's the point in living without this belief system? One of my greatest childhood thrills came from watching a 1970's Big Foot "Special" that showed a re-enactment of Big Foot breaking through a log cabin's picture window and kidnapping some blond chick innocently snoozing on a couch. I couldn't sleep in my suburban second-story bedroom for weeks. I was certain that Sasquatch was going to come flying through the 2x2 window any second. (After all, I was blond and innocent. It was only a matter of time.)

Upon further discussion, I discovered that the Japanese don't really have hairy, scary beasts in their forests. They do have magical creatures, and although difficult to find, they are neither destructive nor frightening. Instead, they have long Pinocchio noses and bring good fortune from the gods.

I've decided that Japan is not a hospitable habitat for Big Foot. There's really no purpose for such a creature in this culture. If a chance encounter with him doesn't supply a dose of good luck, what's the point of having a humongous being roaming the woods, rudely taking up much needed space? It's not enough to have a mystery here--there has to be a compelling reason for the mystery to exist.

However, I suspect the largest obstacle to Big Foot's existence in Japan is more basic. This culture just has an appalling lack of rednecks and innocent blonds.

I Guess It's Hereditary

2008-11-19T19:27:00.007-07:00

Here are two pictures I found of Lily after a night "camping" (see previous post) in the Japanese ryokans. Being so young, she didn't even have the pleasure of experiencing The Noodle Effect.

Can't you just feel her pain?

Let's Try Chanko Nabe!

2008-11-18T05:24:00.001-07:00

Chanko nabe...sounds substantial, doesn't it? For me, it evokes images of chubby thighs and blubbery bottoms, basically all things....chunky.

It's indeed a protein rich stew (uh huh, it's chunky) eaten twice daily by Sumo wrestlers to "build strength". Although the chicken dashi, or broth, is light, everything but the kitchen sink is added to this dish--shellfish, fish, chicken, several types of mushrooms, chrysanthemum leaves (?!?, but delicious), Japanese radishes, and a few other mystery root vegetables.

Last weekend, our retired Japanese friends invited us over to partake of this cultural favorite. Their invitation cheerily demanded: "Let's try chanko nabe!"

Yes, let's!

(Contrary to popular opinion, we do fix our own food. Often. Okay, sometimes.)

We arrived at their house to find a gas hot plate on the table. The dashi is cooked beforehand and then heated to boiling in a giant crock pot at the table. We tossed the veggies and fish in to simmer while enjoying assorted rice crackers, homemade pickles and cold beer.

Japanese cooking, at least when guests are involved, is communal. I have learned so much about food preparation here because it usually happens right before my eyes--it's like dinner AND a movie. What a spectacular experience for the disfunctionally illiterate!

At first I thought, it's just lean protein and vegetables. Calorie-wise, this meal is quite light. Four servings later, I got religion... but apparently I was still not devout enough. Once the chunky bits are all consumed, rice is added to the leftover broth with eggs, green onions and soy sauce. I felt adequately Sumo-Sized after eating my first-ever Japanese Risotto. The scale confirmed my fear the next day.

Sumo wrestlers eat 4-5 bowls of rice with these meals, hence their legendary girth. After each meal, they immediately go to sleep so they can become "stronger". Some of the younger wrestlers find it a challenge to eat so much and then rest. (Truly, chanko nabe is an X-game in the sport of eating. Thanksgiving? Ppppffft. Totally for amateurs.)

I feel for these poor guys. After tossing and turning all night, I couldn't even think about food until the following afternoon.

Tim slept like a baby and ate his normal breakfast. I think he missed his calling.

Engrishisms

2008-11-13T05:46:00.007-07:00

"Engrish", in case you don't know, is/are the charming English mistranslations by Asians, usually in the attempt to sell something. Check out the link on the side of my blog, Engrish.com. One of my favorite entries is a Thai menu offering "crap/crap in red sauce/steamed crap". The intent was to serve carp. Two little letters...transversed. Doh!

One of our favorite "engrish" sayings has become part of our family repetoire. The first week we arrived in Okinawa, we discovered the 100 yen stores (dollar stores). Most of the products are Made in China so the lost in translation moments are hilariously relentless. I actually guffawed when I saw a small pad of paper displaying a cute cartoon character with overly large hands extended out towards the viewer. It said, "You can't contain the tastiness in two hands."

Well, of course you can't. That seems like a no-brainer but I am glad it was pointed out to me, nonetheless.

Our family picked up this catchy little phrase, but we constantly change out the "tastiness" to fit our mood. In our house, you can't contain the cuteness/cheesiness/dorkiness/lameness/etc. in two hands, either.

The other day, Tim was attempting to explain the periodic table to two nonplussed girls. Those of you who know my husband also know that he has an astounding ability to recollect millions of facts about practically any subject. To stop the conversation from spiralling out of control (he can go on for awhile), Claire declared him a total dork. He exclaimed that, in fact, there was no possible way to contain "his coolness in two hands".

Lily retorted, "Of course not, Daddy. I've always been able to contain it in one."

Ouch. That smarts.

I Love Not Camping

2008-11-11T05:03:00.002-07:00

What a fabulous weekend. Tim and I left the girls at a friend's house (the O'Connors rock!) and headed out for the New Sanno in Tokyo. The New Sanno is the Armed Services hotel for Japan. Anyone in the military, retired or active duty, and their families and friends are eligible to stay at this 4 star hotel for about $60 a night. The bar serves up a fair drink, the restaurants are top-notch and the rooms are comfortable and modern. I dream of being an adult Eloise and living permanently at the New Sanno.

Since most Japanese hotels charge per person (the cheap ones are about $100 a person in Tokyo), a family of four could go broke trying to see Nippon without this amazing perk. We have paid upwards of $350 for the "Ryokan (small traditional inn) experience". We "experienced" the hidden thrill of sleeping on 2 inch thick cotton futons on rock hard tatami mats in a 4x4 room with peeling wallpaper. On account of the hot mineral baths and free-flowing sake (aka, The Noodle Effect), you actually sleep really well for the first hour. Then the cartilege in your joints starts to break down.

To add insult to injury (literally), breakfast consists of some sort of cold, bony fish, rice and vegetables.

I complained to my Japanese class about bunking on the floor and they laughed at me. Not with me. At me. Apparently, we Americans are "too soft". Hmmmph. They also informed me that the really amazing Hyatt-type Ryokans have gourmet meals and super plush robes and better sake. Unbenownst to us (because we are illiterate and poor), we were frequenting the Best-Western style Ryokans. Oops. Mistakes were made.

Nonetheless, super swanky or not, the cold hard fact remains that you have to sleep on the floor. I will try most things in a foreign environment once. We have tried the Ryokans twice.

So the moral to this story is: Never pay $350 to camp. And never, never pay $350 twice to camp.

All Hallow's Eve--Redux

2008-11-07T00:07:00.006-07:00

Tim and I have hosted some of my Japanese friends a couple times in the past few weeks--first for a birthday meal at Chilis (three of us had birthdays in October) and again for Halloween.

Chilis provided many American cultural "firsts" for them: chips and salsa (perplexed by dipping the chips, but loved the salsa), flour tortillas (tried to put the cinnamon apples in them), guacamole (what's that green stuff?), eating ribs with one's hands (attempted to eat barbeque with a knife and fork), and American-sized portions (about 4 times the amount of food than in Japanese restaurants).

Their favorite food seemed to be the ribs, mashed potatoes and fajitas. The mashed potatoes were such a hit that I might package up a few portions for Christmas presents.

They looked a bit overwhelmed at the end of the meal but I had arranged for the embarrassing hand-clapping Chilis birthday song, accompanied by two enormous pieces of cheesecake. As the faux-enthusiastic merriment started in the back of the restaurant, my tablemates looked unaffected. As the waiters got closer and closer, they seemed slightly alarmed but still unaware that all the pomp was coming for them.

I learned that the Restaurant Birthday Clapping Behavioral Test for Introverted/Extroverted Tendencies is cross-cultural. Once the waiters arrived at the table with the cake, my short, excitable friend jumped up to join in the clapping with a huge cheshire grin. His more zen friend was smiling, but it was definitely tinged with an OMG, where's the nearest exit? look.

Upon leaving, they declared that they would like to return to Chilis "every three months".

Okey-dokey.

But we weren't done with them that week--they returned for Halloween several days later. Intensely curious about this "American festival", they arrived more excited than the kids. We served chili and cornbread which they looked at suspiciously (there is absolutely no equivalent in Japanese cuisine), then devoured entirely.

Once the girls got dressed up in their "goth" outfits, my Japanese friends were totally stoked. We hit the streets where, like paparazzi, they took millions of pictures of tots in various costumes, sometimes befuddling their parents by detaining and posing the little witches and ninjas for a more professional shot.

After two blocks, they tired of the festival fun. We returned home for pumpkin pie and candy sorting/swapping. This ritual delighted them more than the costumes. Towards the end, they were pouncing on the reject candy in the middle.

No doubt about it, Japanese retired folk are quick learners.

Me, Too?

2008-11-05T18:35:00.006-07:00

I saw this little guy in the museum I blogged about in the previous post. He looks so serene and contemplative with his tiny froggy hands posed just so and his eyes gazing into the unknown.

Keiko informed me that the writing above him translates as, I am always naked.

Double meaning or straight-up buddhist comedy? You decide.

This Moment

2008-11-05T02:36:00.003-07:00

Yesterday, my friend Keiko guided me on a hike to some of the smaller shrines and temples in Kamakura, the ancient village turned artist community near where we live. We started at her house outside of town and meandered through the hills, stopping to visit various shrines and temples along the way. There may be no greater pleasure on earth than hiking through the woods on a perfectly crisp Fall day. When no one else is present, emerging from the dark wooded paths and tunnels, glimpsing the outline of a temple, it feels like you have happened upon a long lost treasure, hidden from modern day knowledge.

After hiking, we stopped in a small museum/tea shop. (Keiko was born and raised in Kamakura and is a resident expert of All Things Off The Beaten Path. I would have never found this place by myself. ) The museum only displayed a few pieces of antique pottery and calligraphy but one scroll caught my eye--a few simple brushstrokes illustrating a buddhist monk and some sublimely constructed kanji above it. Keiko stopped and told me its message: I am thankful for this moment.

Buddhists strive to live in the present. There is no guaranteed future and the past is...well, past.

What better time to ruminate about the moment than on this historic election night? Our past is definitely past and we cannot magically undo what has been done. Our future remains wildly unsure--will this articulate, passionate and inexperienced man lead us to better or, God forbid, worse times?

I don't know. But I do know something for certain about the present moment. I am thankful for free elections with record voter turnouts. I am thankful for governmental change with no violence or military intervention. I am thankful for the candidate we didn't elect, who was so utterly gracious and humble in defeat. And I am thankful that we dared elect a person who could only be brought to power in the United States of America. (I love Japan but there is no way in hell they would ever elect a man whose father was Chinese, mother was Japanese, who grew up in Korea and was born poor to boot. )

You don't get ahead by working harder in most countries in the world. You get ahead by being born ahead in the first place. Although I admire the beauty and wisdom of ancient cultures, their traditions have the tendency to create intricate, perfectly formed knots. Being a young nation, and free of the cultural restraints that sometimes hold back other nations of the world, we Americans are free to hope for a better life, whatever that means to each individual. With some hard work and determination, we are free to change what we deem changeable. Our knots are not so perfectly formed. Yet.

So today, I feel as if I have left the dark woods and am standing in front of all the great monuments of my own society...recently obscured by the mistakes of our past and the worries for our future. Today, our unique structures stand in plain view for all to see:

Life. Liberty. The Pursuit of Happiness. The Audacity to Hope.

I am thankful for this moment.

From Japan, With Mochi Love...

2008-10-30T03:03:00.000-06:00

Aren't these exquisitely beautiful? They're mochi cakes--a sticky, rice flour exterior with a sweet azuki bean filling. My student Onosan brought them to me as a gift because I told him that I loved them. I'm starting an Onosan Fan Club soonly (my new favorite Engrish word). Once I convince him to pose for a picture, I'll have posters and mugs available for sale.

He was very surprised that I fancied this Japanese treat since most Americans avoid them at all costs. I think this is mainly due to the fact that every single one of us, the first week in Japan, thought the brown "cream filling" in the middle was chocolate. Oh, yeah. That is sooooo not chocolate.

Nevertheless, once I got over the initial shock, I became very fond of this cultural oddity. I have never had anything like it in all my travels. Shaped into leaves, flowers, and other seasonal themes, they taste exceptionally fine paired with a cup of green tea. The bitterness of the tea provides an exact balance to the sweet beans. Yummy.

Right now you might be thinking something along the lines of, Ain't no way, no how I'm eating beans with sugar, stuffed in a glutinous rice dough ball. I understand. Really, I do. Your brain just won't let you wander too far down that path...Japanese people think the same thing about pumpkin pie. When you explain the concept, they kind of tilt their heads as if to say, You smash up a stringy squash with sugar and cinnamon and put it in a crust made with animal fat and flour? What is wrong with you people?

Nothing, nothing, nothing is wrong with either folk, of course. We humans love what we love. We just don't realize how strange our own preferences are until we view them through a different lens. Based on my past few years' experience in this foreign and wonderful land, I highly recommend borrowing somebody else's binoculars and looking at the small things in your own world...really closely. It's amazing what jumps out at you.

Or, if you aren't feeling particularly introspective, another fun pastime is to blindly jump on the "other guy's bandwagon". I must say, it's a total blast getting in line with a hundred Japanese people, even if I have no idea what we are queueing for. Sure, sometimes I get to the end of the line and have to buy some weird looking seaweed or bizarre vegetable/shellfish...but other times I am rewarded with a delicious Japanese cream puff or fabulous seasonal chestnut cake.

Life can be so sweet.

Little Naked Guppy on the Prairie

2008-10-22T18:21:00.007-06:00

I must admit it. I miss my Prairie Joy...otherwise known as "Frank". Last night, I was reminded of this driving home from teaching Engrish when I pulled up behind a small yellow Latte. (Mmmm. A Latte.) Which was behind a smaller blue Naked. Which was beside an even eensier car called the Guppy.

Since this country likes to recycle all its available resources, I'm pretty sure that lunatics are not sent to asylums in Japan. Their talents are put to work naming Japanese vehicles.

I always thought that it would be a great job to just name things like cars and lipstick and nail polish. Maybe I could start a dream career working for a Japanese cosmetics company. My very first nail polish color could be "Hi, Acetone!" or perhaps "Led Hot Rovers" (Red Hot Lovers to you and me). If you have any brilliant ideas, please send them along. I'll start putting together a portfolio.

But back to Frank, the Joy of the Tokyo Prairie...Our new car is so much more wonderful on so many levels (odor, usable windows, cleanliness), that I am left wondering why my thoughts keep turning to the ol' wreck. I think it's because our new ride embodies its name--The Mark IV.

Yawn. Sure, it's not embarrassing and all, but where's the romance, the intrigue, the sheer prairie joy? (Reality check: It has probably been chopped up into bits and cannibalized by some other car.)

Now, life has just become mundane, sweet-smelling boredom. I am starting to feel like I have sold out. I have never been a fan of cosmetic surgery because more often than not, it robs the recipient of her character. We have become a nation of Mark IVs with our perfect breasts, flawless skin and impossibly straight, white teeth.

Come on people...embrace your Frankness! Cellulite on your tailgate? Wrinkles on your windshield? Duct tape holding up your boobs? IT'S OKAY! Do the best you can with what you have, because that's what makes you, well, YOU. Revel in the knowledge that your flawed bodywork still allows you to get from point A to point B. So your vehicle is not as shiny as the one parked next to you...so what? You've got character, baby.

So the moral to this little story is that even though Frankenstein is physically gone, he will always be ALIVE in my mental universe...he'll always be my lovable, memorable little freak.

On Bananas and Toilet Seats

2008-10-21T01:54:00.006-06:00

I have been perplexed for weeks. Every time I go to the Japanese supermarkets, they are cleaned out of bananas. There are miles of other staples, like pickled seaweed, miso, sake and bonito (dried fish flakes), but no beautifully ordinary, run-of-the-mill bananas. Oh stop your whining, you might say. Just buy them at the commissary!

You should know that military bananas, once they have been toted across the Pacific, look like they have been used to pry open the box they were sent in. Or, if they are still intact, they are dark green. You take them home and two days later...Voila! They are brown and mushy. Defying all logical banana methodology, they just skip the yellow stage.

Woefully, bananas are only the beginning of my story. Don't even get me started on the garlic!

Okay, I'm started...so here it goes. For 2 months running, it has been wet and rotten, yet is selling for $6.59 a pound. (You don't need to adjust your bifocals, you read that correctly the first time.) Shocking, non? Mais si! I know you have to be insanely curious: Can one actually sell rotten garlic for $6.59 a pound?

Why, yes. Anything is possible in the same magical contracting world that billed the government (and received) $1000 for one toilet seat. Someone, somewhere, somehow thinks it's completely okay to contract for inferior produce, transport it, unpack it, smell its rankness and then display it under an obscene dollar amount. I am assuming, though, that in regard to the toilet seat fiasco, the product didn't stink and had no price tag hanging from it when unpacked. Given the choice, I would definitely waste my money on the toilet seat every time. It just seems like the better deal.

But I digress. After pondering the whereabouts of all the Japanese (delightfully tasty and yellow) bananas for several weeks, I finally unlocked the mystery and apprehended the cultural culprit...

It's the Banana and Warm Water Diet!

A Japanese actress lost 20 pounds on said "diet" and now the NBC (National Banana Consumption) has risen by 40 percent. All you have to do is eat a banana for breakfast and in the evening, accompanied by a glass of warm water. The weight just falls off, apparently.

The medical community is torn about the science involved in such a miraculous claim. Is there really something in bananas and warm water that breaks down fat and facilitates weight loss? It happened for one actress, who I am positive is not concerned with self promotion, therefore it must be true! And Lord knows that this size 2 nation needs to drop a few pounds...they used to be a size 0, so, whatever it takes.

I can't help thinking, though, that the real tragedy in all this is twofold. Not only do I not have bananas for my cereal, but the Japanese public has also been distracted from discovering the only medically proven, appetite suppressant/weight loss program in the world: Shopping at your local military grocery store.

Oh, Happy Day

2008-10-11T21:48:00.005-06:00

Today was My Birthday Observed. Tim prepared an amazingly delicious champagne brunch--two kinds of quiche, a lovely salad and homemade sour cream coffee cake. We polished off a whole bottle of champagne between the two of us. The talented chef is now snoozing soundly in front of the History Channel.

Since he is having a good little nap, I think I have time to poke a little fun at him. I feel a bit guilty considering he went out of his way to make such a delicious feast. But guilt takes all the fun out of life...

My wonderful family got me some nice gifts: a super-kawaii Snoopy mug, Halloween socks, etc. But the best was the perfume Tim got me. He said he really liked it in the store. I sprayed it on and it was indeed...different. I liked it but couldn't quite put my finger on the predominent scent. It was subtly masculine.

Well, that's because it was. In small words at the bottom, it said Pour Homme (For Man). Ah, that fine print will get you everytime. I absolutely love these kind of gifts because they just keep on giving for years to come.

The perfume was almost as good as a Christmas present I received from him years ago. I asked for a small locket to put a picture in. But as the old saying goes, the devil is in the details. I should have known that something was amiss because the box was not exactly delicate. I opened it up and lifted out a heavy faux-gold ghetto chain (the width of my little finger) with a "locket" the size of a saucer. Think Run DMC. Wow.

"Gee, Honey. Thaaaaanks." We were still engaged so I couldn't laugh. But after 15 years of marriage, this is no longer a limitation.

All joking aside, I have had a wonderful day. I think my thoughts can be best relayed by quoting a very wise saying I saw recently on a backpack in a Japanese store:

"The day passed by happily. full of happiness."

P.S. Tim approved of this post but wanted me to add that the print was really fine.

Friendly Snacks

2008-10-10T21:23:00.000-06:00

Milk: Well, hello there...do I know you?

Japanese snacks are so welcoming. Though, I can't help but wonder if the other ingredients, like the cocoa solids and lecitin, feel a bit slighted.

Late Summer Chicken, Pondering

2008-10-06T23:23:00.017-06:00

So my dear husband got me a birthday card with four sections on the front--one with a chicken in cold weather garb in the snow, one with a vista of just grass and flowers, another with a chicken in sunglasses in the sun and the last one with a chicken and falling leaves. The inside said: "No spring chicken? You noticed, too?"

Cruel and uncalled for, yes, but it got me to pondering: If I am no longer a spring chicken, what kind of chicken am I? (I realize that it's highly unusual to be philosophizing about poultry themed greeting cards, but just stay with me...at the very least, it could get weirder.)

So after much thought, I have determined that I am a In-the-Last-Few-Weeks of August Chicken. Next year, I most definitely enter Early Autumn Chickendom--still hot from time to time, maybe, but also looking forward to things finally cooling off. It's that time in life where you can start to wear comfortable clothes to cover up fatal flaws without having to make excuses. By the time I'm a Mid Winter Chicken, I plan on wearing a cashmere muumuu and ballet slippers 24/7. Age does impart some privilege.

To celebrate the passage of time, I went karaoking on Saturday night with 20 or so lovely lady friends to the mysteriously titled karaoke bar, "El Notes". Is it Spanish? Is it English? Is it singular? Is it plural? Sometimes a Masters Degree in French Literature makes you worry about things like that. Let's just call it a gift.

I had never been karaoking at a bar before and didn't know what to expect. (That's not true, exactly. In my mind's eye, I did visualize myself singing out of tune with a bunch of rowdy stay-at-home moms with PhDs. But I just didn't realize how out of tune it would be.) The tambourines were a surprise. As was the all-you-can-eat ice cream/tea bar. And the equally random scenes of the New York Subway System being played on the big screen behind the lyrics of Sweet Home Alabama.

Maybe the plum flavored Chu Hai (Japanese Everclear) I was swilling made objects seem more surreal than they appear in real life. In any case, I woke up the next morning with a killer headache that lasted all day.

I have definitely noticed that no spring chicken resides in this picture.

Aren't They Just the Cutest Little Things?

2008-10-05T19:40:00.007-06:00

The above pic is of Lily and two little Japanese girls that I teach, Aimi and Shuri. They spent Saturday with us--making blueberry pancakes and bacon, playing in the girls' rooms and the park, bowling, shopping at the PX , fixing chocolate chip cookies and decorating the house for Halloween. We taught them American hand games and how to eat pizza without a fork and knife. (This country can be too civilized.) I dropped them off at the gate at 4PM. They looked like we feel after touring temples all day.

As much as I would have loved to have had the experience of raising a little boy, girls are just too adorable for words. (When they aren't being sneery or bossy, that is). For some reason they are even cuter when they are Japanese. Either it's the foreign factor or they are empirically sweeter.

I don't know how to adequately determine this, short of kidnapping one. I am ashamed to say that, on numerous occasions, I have seriously thought out several scenarios. Sadly, all imaginary plans terminate with me being arrested and thrown in a Japanese jail. Breakfast, lunch and dinner consists of stale rice and fish heads. They are not kind to their prisoners.

So like a crack addict hanging out on a street corner, I head to Costco and IKEA--Cute Kid Capitals of Japan--to get my fix. Just like in the states, these stores attract young couples with two adorable children under 8 years old, looking for a bargain. While Tim is pondering shelving units or exotic French wines, I am making the couple next to us nervous.

I stare at their little bundles of perfection with a goofy (the parents probably read it as maniacal) grin. "Oh, isn't she kawaii (cute)!", I proclaim too loudly and brightly. They most oftentimes nod at me politely with a steady, fixed smile suggesting, "I will be nice to the strange white lady because I and my ancestors have been taught to be nice to strange white ladies. Yet, I want to bolt."

In my defense, though, the same scenario plays out with old Japanese grandmas and young American couples with fat, blond babies. Complete strangers over the age of 65 will insist on holding american prodigeny. They will wait patiently for you to unstrap them from their strollers. If you balk, you elicit a hurt, then disdainful look which seems to say, "Your country bombed the hell out of us and all I want in return is to hold your chunky, blond baby." Grannies have the right-of-way here in ALL matters and you mess with them at your own risk.

Unfortunately, I haven't reached the magical age where I can do whatever I please and get away with it. I plan on returning here in my seventies. Those young Japanese couples better hand over their cuties so I can pinch their widdle cheeks and smooch their button noses. Or else.

R.I.P., Frank

2008-09-28T20:28:00.013-06:00

For thirty minutes, as I watched the Japanese bureaucrats enthusiastically stamp official vermilion stamps within official vermilion stamps on Frank's Death Certificate (Junking slip), I felt a surge of grief. But then, I smelled our new car. And I got over it.

In our defense for jettisoning the ugly (but lovable) monster, it would have cost us a lot more this time for the Japanese Insurance. That's why everyone has a brand spankin' new car here.

After 5 years, the cost to insure an older car just gets too prohibitive.

Which reminds me...we went to eat brunch at a hotel in Tokyo a few weekends ago for the first time in a long time. The lady glanced at Claire and asked her age. I told her and she informed us that she would be the adult price now, a whole ten dollars more. I guess that's fair because the girl can eat.

Lily looked at her sister and said, "Jeez Claire, you are getting really expensive. Maybe we

should junk you too."

In broad daylight, in front of God and country, she was smacked upside the head by her costly older sister. Karma is a killer.

The Pleasure of a Thousand Autumns

2008-09-28T06:16:00.003-06:00

These colorul banners depict the names of the sumo wrestlers taking part in the Tokyo Sumo Tournament (Basho), held for two weeks every September. Tim and I had the good fortune to snag tickets for the last day of competition. We took a tour up to Tokyo BY OURSELVES, which made the trip quite peaceful. Not knowing how long the day would be or how much we would understand of the spectacle, we left the girls in the care of friends so as to escape the inevitable chorus of "I'm booooooored."

What a spectacle it turned out to be. Mesmerizing, zany, intensely suspenseful, solemn, rowdy--I have never experienced anything like it. Watching two obese guys go at it on TV just doesn't do the experience justice. It is so much more.

Sumo is an ancient sport, if you could call it that. It's origins, yes, you guessed it right, are Shinto. Because it originally was a contest between two wrestlers to predict whether good or bad spirits would control the harvest, each and every moment is dictated by ancient shinto beliefs and tradition. When the two wrestlers raise their legs up high and thunder them down on the ring, they are trying to stamp out evil spirits. Throwing handfuls of salt before the match helps purify the ring and protects the athletes from injury. They ceremonially rinse their mouths out with water before the match, which is still done as well in the tea ceremony and before people enter a shrine.

The actual matches oftentimes last only a few seconds or sometimes as much as a few minutes. The pageantry before is mesmerizing. By the time the contestants have finished stomping their feet, rinsing their mouths, and crouching and glaring at one another several times, the crowd is completely stoked. Everyone is on the edge of their seats, waiting. The wrestlers finally lunge at each other like two linebackers, with speed and dexterity belying their enormous size. Whoever forces his opponent first to touch the ground with anything besides his feet or forces the other to step outside the ring, is the winner.

The crowd reacts with gasps, moans and shouts of approval for each move. I had as much fun watching the people as I did the sumo wrestlers. They can go from shouting at the top of their lungs to complete Library Mandated Silence in a matter of seconds.

I had particular joy watching the PCFs (private crazy fans) sitting next to us. A gaggle of young Japanese girls were pouring over the wrestlers' glossy pix in a book. (It was like a scene out of Sex and the City except they were downing beers instead of martinis.) Everytime "their" man entered the ring, they started screaming, rock groupie style. Although I couldn't understand fully what they were saying, I heard the words OKI (Biiiiiiig!) and KAWAII (Cuuuuuuute!) quite a bit. "Big" I can relate to, but "cute" wouldn't be the word I would use to describe these gentleman, although I am sure it's an acquired taste. I am told that if a woman snags one of these guys, it is the ultimate female victory.

Strangely, or maybe not, a Fantasy Sumo League exists here. I think it's the "Fantasy" part that trips me up.

Like sports' enthusiasts in the states, people of all ages follow sumo like it's a religion....well...because it actually is a religion. I can not think of another sport on earth that is a fascinating blend of modern day hoopla and ancient solemn rituals. The tea ceremony, sumo and many martial arts are this country's Holy Communion. People do not go to "church" every Sunday to reenact holy rituals, they do it in their everyday lives, as a nation. Sumo is just one outward and visible sign of their inward and invisible faith.

The awards assembly at the end was pure modern hoopla, though. The Basho Champion not only receives a ridiculous amount of money, but each sponsor (about 50 in all) awards him a trophy or prize. Many of the trophies were life-sized. Sumo life-sized. The very diminutive Japanese Deputy Prime Minister tried to casually pick up one of these and walk it over to the champion, his back bowed from the effort. The champion took it from him and lifted it up as if he were bench pressing chopsticks. Hilarious.

The awards ceremony only happens on the last day of the basho. When we got home, I had some questions about some of the rituals so I did some research online. I discovered that the last day of the September basho is called senshuraku, or literally, the pleasure of a thousand autumns. As I have explained before, the Japanese are particulary fond of the changing seasons and the temporal joys found within them.

Not only did we get to experience something new on Sunday, which is always a pleasure, but it was also the first day that it felt like Fall in Tokyo--the heat and humidity seemed to be taking their final curtain call of the year. On the way to the sumo stadium, I saw the first leaves starting to turn pale yellow. Our morning glory has died back and left swollen seed pods on its red vines. Nature is preparing to close up shop. It's gently warning us that Winter is Coming.

I guess that's why I love Fall so much. Even though I know the cold and darkness are on their way...there are thousands of pleasures to experience yet.

Storm Warnings

2008-09-21T23:51:00.008-06:00

What a crappy weekend, weather-wise. The whole base shut down Friday night for The Typhoon That Never Was. I swear, on the military's part, it's like the Boy Who Cried Wolf. All the restaurants shut down early and the front gate closed at 10PM, which meant no traffic coming on or off base. I went out in the pouring rain to get water and poptarts (more important than a flashlight) at the minimart in case the electricity went out and waited in line for 15 minutes with all the typhoon revelers buying booze. I cleared off our decks and brought everything inside. We hunkered down and then at 4AM it came in all it's glory...some gusty winds that rattled the doors. Whoooopeeee.

Thankfully, since the storm was brief and wimpy, we were able to go out for sushi with Onosan (see earlier post). Tim and I hit some of the antique stores around Yokosuka. So the weekend wasn't a complete wash.

Sunday brought pelting rain. We watched movies and cleaned house. Ah, boredom and hormonal pre-teens...The Perfect Storm. By 5PM, the girls were at each other's throats. Most of their fights progress as follows:

Claire bursts out of her room, head on fire.
Accuses Lily of going into her room without permission.
And messing with her stuff.
Lily protests vehemently.
But is ALWAYS guilty.
I have to intervene before neighbors call security.

So this is precisely what happened on Sunday except Claire comes screaming out of her room that Lily has been using "her" cell phone.

Lily can't protest because she and her friend have recorded little movies on it, "The Bob and Joe Show". Lily counterpoints that Claire gave her the phone. Claire rages indignantly that she said she could use "her" phone to call the friend's mom, not record video. I step in and remind Claire that the phone, in fact, is not hers. "Uh (eyes rolling), YES it is, Mom." Uh, Claire, did you pay for the phone? Uh, do you have the 35 dollars to pay for the phonecard?

She conceded that she did not. I then reminded Lily that she was only to use the phone to call, not record. They both silently retreated to their rooms.

Just as I'm sitting my behind back in my chair to read, Claire flies out of her room for Furious Fit, Part 2 (she's our family's own little weather system). "Not only did she record stuff without my permission, but she snuck in my room after her friend left!" Lily protests vehemently. Okay, Claire, how do you know that? She shoves the phone in my face. Well, there indeed is a video short of Lily's feet "having an argument" on Claire's bed. Lily smiles sheepishly and runs into her room.

Claire is so pissed. I am laughing too hard to mediate any further. Come on Claire, THAT was funny. She smiles slightly.

After I regain my composure, I lecture Lily about going into her sister's room without permission and promise Ultimate Doom if she does it again. I also make a mental note to get that kid a video camera for her birthday.

Paying it Forward

2008-09-20T05:24:00.010-06:00

Hi Everyone,

I am so stuffed.

Today, my new student Onosan and his wife invited our whole family to an outstanding sushi bar in Miura, a small coastal town south of Yokosuka. Onosan is a gentleman in every sense of the word--modest, kind and generous. He opens doors for ladies, does his homework diligently and teaches me about sake. He is 75 years old but has the looks and gait of a man of sixty. He brings me or the girls a present, usually some Japanese sweet, every time he has a lesson. I would like to tell him to stop because I feel guilty but I think it would hurt his feelings. He just loves giving gifts. He was referred to me by Akiyamasan, my first student, whose self-professed hobbies are beer drinking and sleeping. I am thankful for having met both of them.

It took us about 45 minutes to follow Onosan by car to the sushi bar. At first glance, it didn't seem like much. You must know that most Japanese restaurants, especially those by the sea, look like dives. Usually I pull up to some dull concrete building with ancient water stains and two parking spaces and think, "I'm eating raw fish in that place?"

This bar had the prerequisite plastic food display outside. After oohing and aaaahing over the life-like sushi (Good God, that salmon should not be out in the sun all day!), we proceeded up the steps of the restaurant. On each side of the bottom step, there were two tiny hills of salt. Just like at the beginning of sumo matches when the wrestlers throw salt to purify the ring and protect themselves from injury, the salt outside restaurants welcomes guests by purifying and protecting the premises. Although I am not certain, I think this is a Shinto tradition. Odds are, if it's a bit wacky and totally charming, it's Shinto. Deeply meditative and serene? Probably Buddhist.

Upon entering, I wasn't too impressed with the atmosphere but I didn't expect to be since most Japanese restaurants tend to be shabby (but immaculate). Down one wall was a long sushi bar, bordered by glass cases full of sea creatures, with 6 chefs at work behind it. Five tatami rooms with large, square, sunken tables made up the other side. We all sat down at the bar and Onosan started ordering from the 2 chefs in front of us, releasing a veritable tsunami of food. First came 3 full plates of sashimi (raw fish, no rice), miso soup and an egg custard dish. Then came all kinds of sushi (raw fish on rice), tempura (fried vegetables and shrimp) and crab legs. And sake. And beer.

I quickly got impressed. I have had many types of sushi, in Japan and the states, and I thought I had tasted some primo quality fish. Nothing compared to this. The tuna was so fresh and tender, it practically melted in my mouth. I didn't even have to make the effort to chew. I try not to be snobby about this kind of stuff, but the sushi in the states compared to this place can best be described with this analogy: Dreaming about sex and actually having sex.

I looked down at Claire and Lily to see how they were doing. Lily, who loves sushi, was chowing down as fast as she could. Claire looked like the Speak-No-Evil Monkey in the picture above. Right in front of her, behind the glass case, was some sort of shell fish. The chef poked it and it faintly shuddered. (Lily said it did The Wave.) The scene was somewhat akin to watching a small child run into a sliding glass door. You know you ought to feel more empathy but it's just too darn funny.

On account of being invited by them, Onosan and his wife payed for everything, of course. This is Japanese traditional hospitality. After leaving the restaurant, we went next door to the fresh fish and vegetable market so Onosan's wife could do some shopping. I filled my basket with some rice, veggies and some snacks for the girls and Onosan offered to hold the basket. Next thing I know, he is insisting on buying my groceries! I protested vehemently but he wouldn't hear of it. At some point, you can't duke it out with a 75 year old Japanese man in public. "The sushi was my present, this is my wife's present," he said. I couldn't believe it. We brought them small presents for hosting us but it seemed so trivial. Is there any way for us to "repay" the incredible kindness we have witnessed here?

Good people, like good sushi, are hard to find sometimes. But I know in my heart that if I keep looking, there will be an opportunity to "pay forward" what I have been given. I just hope that I will recognize it when it happens and be as honorable in my intentions as my role models have been.

The Aforementioned Monkeys

2008-09-17T20:57:00.004-06:00

On a lighter note from the previous blog (geez, that wouldn't be hard)...

Doesn't the middle monkey, Mr. Speak-No-Evil, look like he's trying to be polite but is about to puke? Or maybe he's just seen a buddhist/shinto flasher. It's hard to tell.

Hearing, Speaking and Seeing

2008-09-16T19:45:00.005-06:00

Above is the familiar image of the See No Evil, Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil monkeys. These monkeys are etched above the stable of the Sacred White Horse at Toshogu Shrine in Nikko. Shrines are Shinto in origin. Shintos have always believed that horses belong to the gods and that monkeys are protective spirits. So the author of this beautiful carving obviously wanted to make sure that the gods' prized possession was carefully guarded. Even though this shrine was built in the 1600s, a Sacred White Horse still resides in the stable--a gift from New Zealand. I absolutely love how tradition lives here in Japan.

Toshogu shrine, although Shinto in origin, seamlessly melds both Shinto and Buddhist influences. Shintoism is the indigenous religion of the Japanese people. It is not a "written" religion with a sacred text, but rather a conglomeration of beliefs based on societal rules. Ancestral worship and a strong abhorrence of death are its chief characteristics. Buddhism came from India, via China and the Korean Peninsula. Buddhists view death as a natural part of life that must be shed along with other earthly bonds to achieve nirvana. The samurai developed Zen Buddhism, the uniquely Japanese sect of Buddhism, as their strict ethical code, religion and way of life. By the time Buddhism reached Japan, its sacred texts had been widely dispersed and it was a truly "organized" religion. It became a national religion as the shoguns wrestled power away from the traditionally Shinto Emperor.

Somehow, someway, though, these two very distinct and oftentimes oppositional belief systems became intertwined. They exist and have always existed completely at peace with one another in this country. Sometimes it is very difficult for an outsider to recognize where one ends and the other begins in their influence on the Japanese spirit and culture. Without forcing supremacy of one over the other, the Japanese have found a way to take the best of both religions and weave their teachings into their everyday existence. It's amazing.

I suppose all this came to my mind recently because I have been thinking of my own faith quite a bit. It has been a humbling week. Mostly because I have realized the teachings I thought were woven into my framework have come loose a bit.

Those of you who know me well, know how important religion is in my life. I am endlessly fascinated by what people believe (or don't) and why they believe it (or not). I absolutely love hearing what folks have to say about how faith influences their life or doesn't.To investigate the mystery of faith, I enjoy searching out the "clues" and following these spiritual footprints of faith back to their cultural sources. The grand impressions left by the national culture are usually obvious, but the more delicate and faint lines, the ones left behind by the personal-familial culture are ultimately more engaging. As with any relationship, one's relationship or lack thereof with God is complex. And complexity is compelling. Scary sometimes, but compelling. So, oftentimes when I go out into the world, I am on an awkward quest to try and "understand" this beautiful chaos called humanity.

Unfortunately, I have an Achilles heel that really lays me up sometimes. I just absolutely hate spiritual arrogance. You know, the My God is Better Than Your God mentality that pervades cultures. I find that the American culture is especially prone to this. As a self-professed "Christian Nation", we oftentimes try and make sense of the chaos by imposing our particular world view, our order, on it. Some believe that this order is best achieved by a literal approach. Frankly, I don't have a problem with someone being a Biblical Literalist. If somebody finds comfort in believing that the Bible was telepathically faxed to Mankind and then copied and pasted into the Greatest Word Document Ever (with no editing), more power to them. It's not provable, but that's what faith is about. It's belief in the unprovable.

So when I hear someone state as fact that which is unprovable, it literally drives me crazy. When I hear the statement from a girlfriend that it's "so sad that the poor Buddhists will never know what it's like to spend Eternity with the Lord" or when a person uses scripture as a weapon to intimidate others into believing what he believes, I can't think straight. That type of arrogance MAKES ME NUTS. Using fear (whether subtle or overt) to bully others into being "saved" is so contrary to what I know in my soul that I instantly get angry at the offense.

So to make a long story short(er), I got in a theological, ahem, "discussion" with one of these folk on an online forum discussing a recent bestselling work of fiction. He felt the book was "demonic" because it didn't follow the Bible to the letter. Trying to convince another person on the site that his interpretation was The Truth, he pulled out all the Biblical scripture standards as "proof" of his superior view. I called him on his arrogance. He responded that I didn't love God's word. I called him a Bible Bully. He assured me that I would perish in the Lakes of Fire. I told him I wasn't scared of him and his lakes of fire--my relationship with God was based on love and compassion. Other people chimed in and staked their ground.

But then, he said something that stopped me in my tracks. A total stranger told me that he knew he had The Truth on his side because he had been "kicked out" of his family for his views. I got the distinct impression that even though he saw himself as a modern day Christian martyr, he hadn't chosen to leave his family. Rather, his family left him.

Kicked out of his family because of what he believed.

Shunned by those who should love you most in this world, because of your relationship to God. Can you imagine? In an instant, everything I held dear about my own demented but loving family rushed over me. And I could imagine the absence of that love...and it broke my heart.

Of course he was a bully. Because he had been bullied. And my girlfriend, the one who felt sorry for the "poor Buddhists", she broke our friendship because my beliefs "deeply disturbed" her and she felt I wasn't the Christian I ought to be. But she had been through hell this past year and was only trying to define her own chaotic world, a world that had lost all its definable borders. I believe now that it was a matter of necessity for her to define her world the best she could so the chaos wouldn't overtake it again, so she could be comforted in a time of trouble.

Maybe it's not the Chaos we should fear, though, but our attempts to order it at all costs...Usually I love getting lost in the chaos, it's one of the reasons I enjoy traveling so much. I enjoy witnessing how my understanding of the world is pretty small. Traveling has a way of rearranging a personal sense of order: On a small scale, I have eaten rice and fish for breakfast. On The Grand Scale, I am seeing how two "opposed" religions are united in their love of what is good...but distinctly different in their approach of how to live out this goodness in this world.

Which brings us back to the monkeys. This image got me to thinking. Most of the time, I can abstain from hearing, speaking and seeing Evil. It's difficult, but as far as these three senses go, I can control them. Yes, not always successfully, but at least somewhat consistently. But what about that pride, that anger that rises up when I think my own beliefs and sense of order are being assailed? What about that hypocrisy that dwells in my heart? I define my relationship with God by love and compassion and an absence of fear--the Order in the Chaos. Yet, I still walk down that road of pride and anger all the time, without even THINKING about it. With strangers or loved ones, I still seek out what is different rather than what is unifying.

Perhaps the creator of these monkeys was as blind as I am. Perhaps there should have been, in fact should be, a fourth monkey, carefully covering his heart:

Feel No Evil.

Proof That I Don't Make This Stuff Up

2008-09-05T22:19:00.001-06:00

Here's the picture I was talking about in the Festival and Fireflowers post....It was taken at the airport in Taiwan a few years ago on our way to Bangkok. The restaurant sign above the girls says, "Beef, Noodles, Gruel & Dishes".

Um, I would like a large order of Beef, a small Noodles, one of your Dishes and...Is your gruel really that good? Okay, a large order of Gruel then...Wait a minute. What, darling? Oh, hey, can I super-size my gruel order? Great! Uh huh, that's all....oh, sorry, wait just a second... Now what? I'm so sorry! My daughter would like to change her small Noodles to a McGruel Meal. Alright, baby, I'll ask. Does she have a choice between the Medieval Emaciated Prisoner and Dickens' Destitute Orphan doll toys? Oh perfect, thank you so much!

The best part of it all was that, after you got your Gruel to Go, you could mozey next door and get a "Foots Massage".

No kidding.

Livin' la Style Free Vida

2008-09-04T17:35:00.012-06:00

A sad, but inevitable piece of news from Japan: Frank is not long for this world. His JCI (Japanese Insurance Tax Thingy) is due in November and I'm pretty sure with the two windows that won't roll up (unless you count the duct tape intervention), he won't pass inspection. They are bound to notice a few things.

Also, no way, no how I'm shelling out $800 to keep an embarrassing car, even if by some miracle, he passes. To add insult to injury, with the warm weather and humidity, a formerly subtle odour (did someone pass wind, maybe?) has now become a quite rude stench (what frickin died in here?). It's bad enough that the car is hideous on the outside, but as passengers, hey, gazing at Frank isn't OUR problem. But now we are constantly reminded that he is an unmitigable disaster with no redeeming qualities. How did we not see this all along? We were so blind. And greedy.

To add to the case of junking Frank, our neighbor, who is moving soon, offered us a nicer, newer, and get this, FREE CAR. I know what you are thinking: We could be God's Chosen People and He is rewarding us with Vehicular Manna from Heaven. But Caveat Emptor. Just like the real manna, this stuff gets the job done but isn't too palatable. You just have to throw out all preconceived ideas of taste, close your eyes and gulp it down.

Which reminds me of a funny ad I saw the other day. I'm in my zoning-on-the-train mode, when I look up and see a beer ad, mostly in indecipherable Kanji, but some English: "New Asahi Beer--Style Free!"

Huh, wha? Is this a selling point? Did they mean, no style at all? Refreshingly free of style? No style has been added? Oh sweet mystery of life...

In any case, it pertains to our car "purchases" in Japan. Our new car, which we get at the end of the month, only has one giant scratch that is oozing rusty goo. No problem. Although I am not sure about the smell, at least the doors are all the same color. BOOOOONUS! In any case, we are used to living the style-free life over here...it frees up money for travel and to waste on kooky snacks and drinks (Jello Juice, anyone?).

We are so committed to this way of life that we have formulated a pledge: We will hereby continue to be 1oo% Style Free. No unnecessary style will be added to our product. We will actively promote all things style-less and generally lacking of said style whilst in Japan.

We hope this message inspires everyone, everywhere, to become style-free in the very near future.

So we won't look so dang ridiculous.

Back to Reality, For Better or Worse

2008-09-04T07:10:00.006-06:00

Hello Friends and Family, (and Friends of Family--thanks for fowarding my blog, Leen!)

It has been a busy, "confusing" week here in Japan. Note: One of my students, who runs a hotel, when asked how his week went, always responds, "Velly confusing". He means "hectic". But I like confusing better. It fits so well with having two kids, working two jobs and navigating the lunacy of military life. I so get what he's saying.

Anywho, school is in, of course. My blissful, zen existence of the first day was brief and fleeting...as zen experiences tend to be. I am back as a substitute teacher and working pretty regularly. I have also added on another private student, as well as begun teaching two classes at a Japanese school. I really adore my new student. He is 75 years old but looks and acts like he's 60. He reminds me of my dad--robust, snow white hair, super kind and enjoys his grandkids. Living on a military base, you just don't see a lot of "old" people. I love being around Japanese seniors--they are just like their american counterparts in so many ways. They have "seen it all" and "done it all", but don't pretend to "know it all". Refreshing.

My first week back at subbing reminded me why I love that job. First, I get paid more than many of the full time aides. Second, the kids are hilarious.

My first gig was with the Special Ed preschoolers. Normally, this is a special rung in Dante's hell. However, as luck would have it, only TWO kids showed up the first morning. Most of the children are autistic, which means they are stubborn as hell, but easily distracted. As we were swinging on the playground during some well earned "distraction" time, one little girl started freaking out about some flame-colored dragonflies that were swooping over our heads. I explained to her that dragonflies were not bees, they did not sting and there was nothing to be afraid of. "They are friendly," I said. "They love to play," I said. "They are lucky," I said.

Next thing I know, she is chasing after one with her arms spread wide to the sky, yelling, "Come here Mr. Dragonfly, I want to hug youuuuuuuuu!" Then, she ran after another one making kissing noises (mwah, mwah, mwah, I love you Mr. Dragonfly!) across the expanse of playground. She and the little boy sprinted after them for 15 minutes, calling for the dragonflies to "come back" when they disappeared over the fence. They obliged. Which sent the two shrieking and giggling in another direction. (There was no end to the dragonflies...apparently these bright orange ones are a harbringer of Fall, according to my friend Keiko, and they just happened to pop out for the first week of school).

After 15 minutes of wind sprints and general hilarity, I look over and the little boy is face down on the cement with his arms and legs splayed out in all directions. He looked like preschool roadkill. I asked him if he was all right. He replied, "I'm hot." And didn't move. It's amazing how we don't notice discomfort when we are really enjoying the Joy Luck Club called life.

Yes, dragonflies are very lucky, I think.

PCFs

2008-08-26T23:00:00.015-06:00

Hey Everyone,

Yes, indeed, there is an official Japanese term for those people chanting at baseball games en masse. Contrary to popular (okay, my) opinion, even though they seem too organized to be otherwise, these folks are neither hired nor supported by teams. When I quizzed my seniors' group about this phenomenon, one woman shook her head emphatically and said, "They are not hired by the team, they are....aaaaahhhh (searching for the correct words)....Private Crazy Fans."

I think this may be my new favorite saying. I mean really, who hasn't known, or hasn't been a PCF at some point in his or her life? Those lovable goofballs who buy $100,000 RVs, pack them full of team toilet seat covers and toasters and then spend their existence (at least 6 months of it) following college or professional football teams from place to place? Yep, PCFs.

Or what about the ones who strip naked from the waist up in sub-zero weather and paint themselves team colors? Obviously PCFs. Or how about those folk at the Republican National Convention who are swearing their undying love and admiration for some woman they have "known" for less than a week....Oh my God, they are so PCF!

Sorry, I couldn't help it.

But seriously, if you think about it in an existential type way, we are all private crazy fans about something. We all chant, if not in unison, at least in duty to something in our lives. So my question to you is...when and how have you gone PCF in your life? Come on, post your nutball obsession out there...dare to comment. Inquiring minds want to know.

The Sound of Silence

2008-08-24T22:18:00.006-06:00

Sigh. Those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer are over--yesterday was The First Day of School. Always a bittersweet day for moms, I think. On the one hand, you are all wistful that they are one year older, one year farther away from ruffled dresses and Barbie Doll lunchboxes and holding your hand in line...

But on the other, if that's the price of freedom, I'm paying. My First Day of Solitude was absolutely grand. No one complained of boredom nor did anyone slam a door right after the ear splitting shriek GET OUT OF MY ROOM or MOOOOOOOMMMM, MAKE HER STOP WHISTLING/SINGING/EXISTING NEAR ME. The first day of school is like having a Zen temple right in your own house. It's pure, unadulterated bliss.

To make my nirvana state complete, I witnessed a bonafide miracle before the girls left for school. T. had been on duty the night before and was sleeping in. As I entered the kitchen, grumbling about having to make "nutritious" lunches again, I noticed that the coffee maker was askew. I went closer. It was HOT. I thought, well my husband is kick-ass but not even he would get up and make coffee at 6AM when he just went to bed 3 hours earlier. I poured a cup....strong but not too strong. In fact, it was....perfect. I was still sitting there staring at the machine in wonder when C. said, "Can I have a cup of the coffee I made?"

Wow. I get all choked up thinking about it. All the whining, sneering, screeching of the last few pre-adolescent years just all of a sudden made perfect sense. Yes. I made this child. She has survived to 12 years old. And she can make a great cup of coffee without prompting.

You hear a lot about the first teeth, steps, words, day of kindergarten but really, folks, nothing compares to this. I want to make up a bumper sticker that says HONOR STUDENTS ARE ALL FINE AND GOOD BUT MY CHILD MAKES ME COFFEE IN THE MORNING. HOW BOUT THEM APPLES?

I am not sure that will fit on Frank, though.

Take Me Out to the Ball Game (Buy Me Some Edamame and Octopus Balls)

2008-08-24T06:20:00.012-06:00

Hi everyone,
Well, my life is complete. I have finally experienced the Great American Pastime in Japan. That's right, Baseball in the Land of the Rising Sun. My good friend Hirano-san managed to procure 4 free tickets for our family to the Yokohama Baystars versus the Somebody-or-Other Dragons. We took the train up to Yokohama and wandered around the stadium trying to get in the right entrance. We wandered mightily...life is damn hard when you are illiterate. But it was a gorgeous summer night, the sky was clear, a warm breeze blowing, so we didn't mind looking like idiots too much.

We ended up in the away team's section, although it took us two innings to figure that out. But I guess it doesn't matter since we are technically the Really Away Team. Although it might have annoyed those around us, we had a fabulous time cheering both teams on. The Japanese take cheering to a whole new level. Practically everyone has these long, hollow, plastic batons that they hit together in rhythm with a dozen memorized chants. Each time their team is up to bat, the cheering section stands up and chants IN UNISON (even the preschoolers) until the next team is up. If their team is at bat for an hour, they chant for an hour.

It was interesting to watch the different styles of team chants--one was accompanied by a horn section and giant flags (imagine an Asian oompah band if you will, indeed if you can), and the other went acapella but with a more intricate rhythm. It is possible that they were only saying, You Guys Suck, Our Team Rules, but it all seemed like such civilized fun. Nobody got up in our section and screamed at the referees or threw peanuts (no goobers!!). They calmly drank their beer and ate their bentos in between cheering gigs.

Unfortunately, our fun came to an abrupt end. One minute the weather was perfect--salary men were coming in late from work to meet their wives and ecstatic kids, loosening their ties and hailing down the beer ladies--the next, a cloud covered the sky with the speed and impenetrable darkness of octopus ink. In a matter of minutes, Japanese folk were huddling under umbrellas and putting on rain jackets. Not the cheering section, however. They kept up the beat in the pelting rain until their team was done at bat.

Oh yeah, not us either. Guess who forgot to bring rain gear...I mean, besides the two slacker Japanese teens next to us? I swear to God, these people are like Uber Boyscouts with special divinity skills. They pulled rain stuff out of thin air! Unprepared, as usual, we scurried to the train and on home.

Even though we didn't get to experience the seventh inning stretch (apparently they sing Take Me Out To The Ballgame in Japanese, interesting since there are no peanuts and crackerjack), we still had a fab time. I just love this culture, stealth rainclouds and all.

Living in Japan is somewhat akin to watching a silent film. Oftentimes, it is more effort than I want to expend trying to understand something...you really have to pay attention to how people act, their reactions and their faces instead of extracting meaning from what they are saying. You are not quite sure of where the characters come from, why they do what they do. It can be hard work. Really frustrating. But like a great silent picture, life in Japan has allowed my imagination to take flight outside the confines of dialogue. With just a few visual clues, I am free to fill in the blanks, for right or for wrong, myself.

Festivals and Fireflowers

2008-08-20T10:14:00.006-06:00

Hello everyone,
It's been awhile since our last update. So much has happened since March, but as is its frequent habit, life got in the way of me writing it all down. Between herding kids at the elementary school (tasers would be useful), keeping up with the girls, teaching english and planning a huge Fiesta party for the hospital, something had to give. This spring, it was linear thought.

Goodness. I really wish that I had written down all that I have experienced in the last 5 months...Cherry blossom viewing, summer noodles at my friends' houses, our first Japanese BBQ, the Hospital Fiesta (and the befuddled Japanese kids staring at the wanton violence as American children gleefully beat down a papier-mache donkey filled with treats...), our trip to Nikko with our pal Steph. Alas, five months of memories can disappear as quickly as the sakura blossoms...One minute they are there, so amazingly beautiful and alive, and the next thing you know, they are fluttering to the ground...

I have plans to start a blog so that I can be more disciplined and regular in my writing. Plus, I can add pictures. I really wish I had snapped one of the two signs I saw recently: "Schnauzerland" (for all your schnauzer needs) and "Goo World" (for ???). Unfortunately, those were seen from the car on our way somewhere. But I think I can access the "Noodles and Gruel" picture we took in the airport in Taiwan last year. Geez, I know you think I am doing so, but it's really humanly impossible to make this stuff up.

Well, rainy season finally left a few weeks ago and we are finally in full-on summer. T.'s parents came to visit a few weeks ago and we had a lovely time visiting Kyoto, except for the incredible heat and humidity. All my Japanese friends warned me. Each and every one of them looked pitiful when I told them (all excitedly) that we were going to Kyoto to see the Gion Festival, the oldest festival in Japan. "Ahhhh, it's very HOT." I thought they were just being Tokyo Weenies. But, Oh. My. God. It. Was. So. Freakin. Hot.

Kyoto is in a valley, thus no breeze in the summer. The temples and shrines are magnificent--Kyoto is an ancient home of the Emperor and former capital of Japan as well as being the birthplace of Japanese Buddhism. There are over 1500 temples and shrines in the area. One day, we visited 4 UNESCO World Heritage Sights in about 6 hours and were lucky enough to see a Maiko, an apprentice geisha, on her way to an appointment in the old town. She looked exquisite. We, on the other hand, looked like we had been "rode hard and put up wet", which is literally what had happened after touring all day in the sticky heat (minus the horse). Our guide took a liking to us and wanted to take our picture at the end of the day to put on his website. I am not sure that snapshot will drum up much business for him.

Tim's parents were troopers...they ate everything we introduced them to except the Barbequed Squid-on-a-stick at the Gion Festival. (Yes, the little blackened tentacles veer off in wild directions from the stick...) They tried yakitori, octopus balls, pancake thingies on a stick, fried spaghetti, sweet potato fries and Japanese shaved ice at the night fair. The festival itself centers around a large parade of 26 "floats", which are actually portable shrines and very tall wagons decorated with elaborate tapestries and paintings, many of which are National Treasures, telling various Japanese folk stories. They do not actually "float" but are pulled laboriously with rope by about thirty young men in the insane heat. Oh, and they don't have brakes or axles. Turning corners is quite hairy, as the musicians perched on top of these things look like they are going to toppel off at any minute, while a billion little guys are running around trying to coax the structures around the turns on bamboo slats. One wrong move, and the whole thing goes over. I know you can't picture this scene in your mind. I am having a hard time believing I saw it.

Unlike American parades, tens of thousands of people are all orderly and pretty quiet except for some restrained clapping when something exciting happens, like the insane turns. BIZARRE. Instead of throwing candy, some of the dudes accompanying the floats gave out fans. Very useful since I don't think people had any saliva left to suck on candy. In any case, there are no shriners in mini cars, no shrill horns, no marching bands, no Bozo the Clown bouncing down the sidelines. I didn't hear one person whistle through his fingers. Like most things Japanese, it was sublimely, strangely sedate.

All in all, it was a wonderful and unforgettable trip. We hope to go back in the cooler weather to see the 1489 temples we didn't get to see the first time.

The rest of the summer has been filled with fireworks, which the Japanese call Hanabi, or Fireflowers. Isn't that a poetic name? We caught a display in Zushi with our friend Hirano-san and his wife. They were the best Fireflowers I have seen since the Statue of Liberty Celebration in 1986. The Grand Finale filled up the entire sky over the ocean with falling gold sparks and a relentless drumbeat of explosions...I thought my heart was going to come out of my chest.

And then it was over. I am learning from my Japanese Experience, that the best things in life are fleeting. The present moment is the best time to experience life's joys, because just moments later, the Fireflowers wilt and dissapate and the cherry blossoms let go and blow away in the breeze, to God knows where.

I hope that you enjoy the remaining, fleeting days of summer, no matter where you are in the world. Life is good.

Save Frank!

2008-03-14T10:12:00.004-06:00

Dear Friends and Family,
It has been a long time since I've updated you all...but it's been a long couple of months. I really appreciate all the kind words and wishes you sent my way after hearing of my mother's passing. It meant the world to me to hear from you. To know that people are thinking of you during a sad time just makes the burden so much easier to bear. Thank you.

Fortunately, I returned home before catching The Flu From Hell Which Warped into Seasonal Allergies. I have spent the last week on the couch feeling like all the energy had been sucked out of me, but I am on the mend, finally. Unfortunately, Frank is not faring as well...(cue the haunting, forlorn strains from the string section)...

It all started when I took him through the car wash for the first time since we acquired him (maybe his whole life?). I wouldn't have even gone to the trouble, except that some green dust cloud (apparently a mixture of Gobi desert sand and industrial pollution blown in from China--woohoo it's Spring in Japan) deposited a smeary layer of gook all over the car. Since I can't be bothered to buy windshield wiper fluid, and I couldn't see out, the car wash seemed inevitable. I was in awe watching the nifty Japanese machine do its magic, the giant purple strips whipping the dirt off the mangled sides...when Frank became alarmed. There, on the instrument panel, was a cry for help: a simple exclamation point surrounded by a bright red circle.

He sounded kinda wheezy a couple of months ago when we started him up, and that light came on, but we just ignored it. Eventually he gave up his pathetic quest for attention. Our lofty goal is to spend no money on him...at all...ever. This time, though, the shock of being clean must have have created some PTSD reflex, because Frank refuses to become un-alarmed. Maybe it's because, now that the filth is gone, his scars are painfully shiny and noticeable. Maybe he found out we will be buying a "new" car at the end of the month...it's hard to tell. Regardless, unless some concerned celebrity puts together a "Save Frank" campaign, replete with a rock concert and t-shirt sales, I'm afraid it's the end of an era.

Besides dealing with vehicular guilt, not much has been happening around here. I did go up to Tokyo awhile back with a friend to fetch some money her daughter had earned for modeling. We stopped into "Bagel and Bagel", well, for A BAGEL and a cup of coffee and were shocked to find out that they sell gourmet muffins, too. You would think that they would have mentioned that in the title, but apparently the bagels are that good. Nevertheless, they offered a muffin (not a bagel) cookbook, called "She Loves Muffin". We were still scratching our heads about that one, when we wandered by a "Nail Museum". Ewwwwww. Surely, they meant "Nail Boutique", but my bagel and bagel was on its way back up after just imagining what might be on display in that place.

I teach my senior's group tomorrow so I am sure I will have an interesting discussion about call girls and politicians. I can't wait to hear their take on this one. Strangely, we broached the subject of female entertainers while talking about geisha a couple of weeks ago. Geisha still exist today in Kyoto and parts of Tokyo. As has always been, there are different levels of Geisha. High class Geisha are schooled in the arts: calligraphy, tea ceremony, poetry, an instrument, etc. They do not provide "sexual entertainment". Servicemen from WWII experienced lower class geisha (prostitutes) and brought home an inaccurate view of what constitutes a true geisha. Most probably never met the highest class geisha since they are only hired by extremely wealthy patrons to provide artistic entertainment for important dignitaries and business clients. Once a high class geisha has become renowned for her art, and her art only, she might become a wealthy man's "kept woman". Nowadays, it is no longer acceptable for a politician or wealthy businessman to have a geisha. The men seemed kind of wistful about this and the women seemed ambivalent--on the one hand, they admire the artistic tradition but seem bothered that geisha still entertain only men. I am curious to hear what Japanese men and women think about the whole Spitzer fiasco.

Well, hopefully Spring is on the way wherever you may live...the cherry blossoms should be out here very soon. We have a couple of trips planned for the next few weeks so we'll keep you updated about our (mis) adventures as they pop up.

I dontoyaki, don't you?

2008-01-14T09:10:00.004-07:00

Dear Family and Friends,
It has been a busy, but amazing week. I finally feel like I am making some inroads into this culture, mainly because of the wonderful hospitality I have experienced the last few days. The seniors' group that I teach on Tuesdays has been a blessing...all of them are retired and enjoying the "good" life for the first time since they were in college. Although they are glad to have some personal freedom from work and parental duties, the transition to retirement is mentally difficult for them as well. The men oftentimes talk about their relationship travails in class, mostly the inevitable conflicts that come from a more than full time worker (if they work in a company, they are usually gone from the house from 8AM to at least 10 PM, 6 days a week) transitioning to being a full time husband. Their wives, having essentially been single parents for more than 20 years, are having NO MORE of the cooking/cleaning thing. Many want to work part-time jobs and to pass the housekeeping duties onto their (very!) unwilling husbands. Recently, one couple bought a puppy so they would have something to concentrate on instead of fighting with one another. "At least we have something nice to say to one another, now, even if it's only about how cute the puppy is," explained one of my students. EEEEEEK. I hate to break it to Tim, but he doesn't get to retire....ever.

One benefit of all this freetime, however, is that several of them have invited me to attend cultural events and meals at their homes. That "private good time" I spoke of in my last letter mercifully turned out to be an innocuous lunch invitation. Whew.

This last Monday was the last day of their New Year celebrations, a day where the "Dontoyaki" is performed. Traditionally, Japanese people hang pine branches, a special straw rope and bamboo decorations to welcome the good spirits/good luck into the home for the year. On the last day, they bring all these things to their local Shinto shrine to burn along with prayers from the year before, written out on small pieces of wood. Symbolically, the bonfire returns these offerings to the gods. My friend and his wife and another couple brought me to their favorite shrine by the beach on a delightfully cold day. The warmth of the bonfire was all encompassing, I could have taken off my jacket and scarf and been perfectly warm. It was a peaceful, thoughtful event.

There is something about fire that causes people to become focused and introspective--I have had the same feeling at bonfires the Saturday night before Easter. In a way the two are deeply connected. After a long season of concentrating on our human failings, the Easter fire signifies to me that a great light is coming to us again. There is hope that what is good in us will be resurrected and burn eternally bright for all to see...I think the Dontoyaki celebration speaks to the same hope in our souls. We have examined our past year, turned over our failings in our minds and determined to start a new year with renewed heart and soul. We burn what is earthly and of the past with hope that our prayers take flight and reach our gods. I couldn't stop watching the little bits of charred paper and wood float up into the air, to be tumbled about by the wind and carried out of sight...it was a cathartic experience.

After the Dontoyaki fire, we went back to my friend's house for lunch, which was delicious as always. Both couples taught me how to print my name in Kanji and how to fold an origami crane. Kanji is a deeply poetic form of writing. To write a western name, you must match the syllables of your name to a japanese sound and then find the Kanji character to match. "Nan" and "cy" come close to "Na" and "shi". Each Kanji character might have several different meanings so I am either "Quiet Poem", "South Sea" or disturbingly...."Quiet Death", or perhaps, mysteriously, "South Death"....I, of course, like the warm, calming sound of South Sea. So peaceful, so inviting. I can almost feel the turquoise waters lapping at my toes. T. and the girls, however, are reluctant to agree. When crossed, apparently I am much closer to (Not So) Quiet Death...or perhaps South(west) Death....(Death from the Southwest?)

Yesterday, my friend Keiko, from the same class, invited me for a tour of Kamakura--an ancient Samurai/Shogun capital with hundreds of temples and shrines. She introduced me to 3 Zen temples, all of which were indescribably beautiful and serene. One had its own bamboo garden. The leaves stay verdant all year long and they are the most lovely, vibrant shade of green--truly a color in and of itself, unique in the dead of winter. The trunks are tall, strong and impossibly straight. Being such a cold day, the temple was practically empty. The garden was soulless except for us. The bamboo leaves blowing in the wind made the most intoxicating shushing sound...it makes me calm just thinking about it. The gravel gardens had been exquisitely raked into undulating patterns broken up by small islands of rocks and green plants. The whole place was so.....well....Zen, for a lack of a better word. Oh, the wonderful zenniness of Zen. I wish you could buy it and give it away by the armful.

Keiko picked me up at the train station, toted me all over and taught me new things. She refused to let me pay for anything, including the green tea and sweets and entrance fees into the temples. She introduced me to a small, delightful noodle restaurant where the chef prepares the buckwheat noodles right in front of you. I wanted to pay for lunch since she had already gone above and beyond the call of duty, but she would not let me. She then told me the most wonderful thing I have heard in all my travels...By hosting me, she wanted to thank all my "ancestors" (countrymen) for being so kind to her and her family while she was living in the states. "We were young, had 2 small children in New York City and not a lot of money. People from the local church were so nice to us. They showed us the sights and treated us to meals. Americans are so very kind."

I wanted you all to know that you make a difference by being kind to foreigners in the US, no matter what their nationality. From experience, I can tell you that it is uncomfortable not knowing how to read the signs or menus in a foreign environment. It is downright scary to not know the customs and fear offending someone. It is exciting to be abroad but also sad to be so far away from your family and friends who know you (and magically still love you). So please know that whenever you host a foreign student or invite a foreigner over for a holiday or show her a sight or let him into traffic or give your seat up in a public place or smile at her at WalMart or pay for him to get into a movie, you are literally DOING THE WORLD A FAVOR. You may not reap the rewards at that very moment of kindness, but somewhere out there, that act of hospitality will circumnavigate the world and manifest itself as a perfect day for an addled, middle-aged mother of two who needs a bit of serenity.

Thank you for being "kind Americans". And for listening to/encouraging my rantings. Hope your year is off to a good start,

Take care and God bless,

Love the South Sea Quiet Poetess Who Brings Death from the South

(I am getting that name copyrighted, so don't even think about stealing it.)

Merri Kurisumasu and a Happy New Year!

2007-12-27T09:07:00.004-07:00

Hello Everyone,
Whew. A lot has happened to our family over the past few months. We made a trip back to Oklahoma during Thanksgiving to see the folks, experienced Tokyo Disney and had our first dinner with a Japanese couple in their home. Oh yeah, Christmas happened in all this activity. We had a quiet one at home--nice but a little boring since a few of us were sick. Santa managed to duck the contagion and leave some nice presents for the girls, who were up at 5:00 AM despite stern warnings to not rise before daylight. Lily, rightfully fearing for her life, climbed into bed with Claire instead of with us and commenced giggling and singing Christmas carols. The parental unit, too weak and fatigued to fight natural forces, capitulated at 5:45 AM.

A couple of days before Christmas, we decided to visit Tokyo Disney with some friends we met through the girls' swim team. We were forewarned by two travel agencies that it would be "velly busy" but we remained hopeful that it wouldn't be too bad. And it actually wasn't until 3:00 PM when the entire population of Tokyo and its 0.9 children descended on the park. By 5:00 you literally couldn't move in the shops, where everyone had run to take shelter from the pelting, freezing rain. It may sound like a less than desirable time but...we Cokers always make the best of a fiasco. I must say, you have not lived until you have seen the Country Bears belt out Jingle Bells in Japanese or had Peter Pan fly by you saying "Konnichiwa!"

Furthermore, we were scolded twice for park infractions--"No chew gum! No picture making!" (These were actually handed to our friends on little strips of paper. An awesome souvenir--almost as good as my speeding ticket I got on the Autobahn in 1990.) Being the only two western families in the park, I felt like we might have been unfairly targeted. But no. In fact, not a single other person was chewing gum or taking pictures at inappropriate times...i.e. as the roller coaster was starting to go. I mean, really, if you can't get the terror caught on film, what's the point? After that, we were afraid to eat the beef jerky we brought as a snack in our backpacks. We were left wondering whether someone would whip out a snippy slip of paper with, "No! No Beef Jerky Chewing in Park!" But alas, all was not in vain--although I was never so glad to see a hotel bar, Lily declared the trip "the best Christmas present, EVER!!!"

Of course, it goes without saying that the Japanese were all amazingly courteous and hospitable even when handing us decrees against our Americaness. Unlike their American Disney counterparts, the Japanese park-folk smiled and seemed enthusiastic about their jobs. One time, we were entering the Wild Kingdom Animal Park at Disney in Florida and the parking attendant muttered, "Have a wild day" in the same dead-pan tone as a 57-year-old Eeyore on prozac. On the contrary, the Japanese ride attendents looked like they had been waiting their whole lives for the chance to tell you that all hands and feet should remain in the car at all times. At least that's what I assume they were saying. Perhaps they were warning the locals about the stupid, gum-chewing, inappropriate-picture-making foreigners in the last car. Man...It's hard out there for a gaijin.

As well as all these festivities, I hosted a Christmas party for the senior citizens group I teach English to every Tuesday. They are a joy. Having reached the age where they no longer have to conform, they let it all hang out. We talk about everything, from religion in America to how to deal with a wife who no longer wants to cook and clean in her retirement. They all came over to our apartment for a Christmas reception and drank the heck out of spiced cider and demolished a pumpkin pie. They loved it. One of the students, a gentleman who travels quite often, invited Tim and I and the girls to his house to have dinner with his wife. Before we ate, he gave us a tour of a local Shinto shrine and Buddhist Temple because I had mentioned that I didn't know the difference between the two. They love to host americans because they had been so well received in their travels in the U.S. (George Bush, take note--Travel is the best kind of diplomacy). We had a lovely Teppanyaki dinner and some delicious homemade plum wine. The girls even tried pickled octopus. I was never so proud of them--not only did they did they sit through 4 hours of adult talk without getting fidgety, but they looked like pickled octopus was just the most tasty delicacy in the free world. ("I thought I was going to puke," admitted Claire on the ride home.)

I emailed our host a thank you several days later and stated that I hoped we could get together again very soon. He replied that he and his wife "also want to have private good time in next year." Goodness. I hope something was lost in translation.

Hope you all enjoyed a peaceful Christmas and that you'll have a fortunate and fulfilling New Year. We miss you all and hope to hear from you soon.

Planet Tokyo

2007-11-25T07:51:00.003-07:00

Hello Everyone,
It's been awhile since the last update and much has happened to us in the interim. I started teaching english at a preschool/day care once every other week. It's a schlep up towards Tokyo but the commute has forced me to "figure out" the rail system here. Mostly, I guess which train I should go on, get on, and then ask a friendly looking person (by means of charades) if that train is going to my stop. I oftentimes get a worried look and then a furious shaking of head, followed by frantic pointing. I have done it so often that all I have to do is get on the train and the locals just start frantically pointing...

My first day at the preschool/day care was exhilirating and disheartening. I was met at the door, rock star style, by a mob of 8 year olds all shouting, "Nancy Sensei! Nancy Sensei!" (Teacher Nancy, Teacher Nancy!). I teach 7 different age groups starting with the babies (2 year olds). I walked in with my most enthusiastic teacher smile and bag of tricks: Hello, how are you--it's so nice to meet you! I must have had an overly friendly look, like a clown, because three toddlers started howling immediately. Two had to be taken away. One remained and progressed to hiccupping hysterics in a japanese teacher's lap. Two others looked at me like I was the Japanese Preschool Freddy Kruger. Eyes the size of platters, chins quivering...it was the cutest/saddest thing watching them trying to keep it together while I cheerily sang the ABC song. I am sure they were thinking, "When she gets to Z, she is going to lunge at us."

Each week has gotten better, and thankfully, the little ones are now excited to see me. Their fear-o-meters have adjusted back down to "slight" and no one cries, but a few, just to be safe (you never know when that scary white woman will snap), stay glued to their teacher's side. But at the end of the lesson, they swarm around my ankles, shouting "Bye! Bye!" If I could get away with it, I would steal them all, they are sooooooooo cute.

My sister and brother-in-law came to visit us last month over my birthday and we had a blast in Tokyo. We checked out the Tokyo Edo museum which displays the history of the city of Tokyo (formerly called Edo in feudal Japan). It is a perfect museum for kids because all the displays are large and mostly interactive. Afterwards, we visited the Koppabashi district--the restaurant supply district. There are lots of shops selling cheap dishware and plastic food. Many Japanese restaurants display plastic versions of their dishes outside their establishments, perhaps to lure customers or perhaps to cater to Idiot Foreigners like us. (Oh look honey, we don't have to murder the Japanese language cause they have 3D pictures!) The plastic food looks incredibly real. The ice cream looks like its barely melting. The fried eggs have a slightly greasy look. The noodles look hot and squishy. AMAZING! They are like works of art but are unfortunately very expensive. Lily had to be pried away. However, her enthusiasm did not go unrewarded...Uncle G. bought her a cool chef's hat and she immediately set up shop in her room with a sign on the door: "Golden Cookbook Resterant--YUM! YUM! YUM! Experense Food! Please Take Off Your Shoes!"

That night, L. and G. treated us all to a first-class dinner for my birthday. I haven't had such a wonderful meal since Paris--8 courses! After the meal, the manager took us to the back and introduced us to the sushi chef and then toured us through the kitchen to meet the chef and sous-chefs. All of a sudden, the lights went out and the kitchen staff appeared with a lit dessert--"Hoppy Birtday to yew, Hoppy Birtday to yew, Hooooooppy Birtday dear Nancy-san, Hoppy Birtday to yew." Charming is a word that just doesn't do the experience justice.

P.S. Funny Japanese translation update: Walking past a Japanese CD store the other day, I was informed of a local band's new release called: "Bump of Chicken". Perhaps they meant Goosebumps? Intriguing. I get bumps of chicken just thinking about buying it...

Starting the School Year in Japan

2007-09-11T10:03:00.005-06:00

Hello everyone,
Just wanted to update everyone about our start to Fall. I returned to the states for my nephew's wedding which, in the grand tradition of weddings, was a family reunion as well. I had a fabulous time, although there are some of you who enjoyed yourselves more...I won't give up the names of the "revelers"--you know who you are, you drunken sots. What goes on at a reception, stays at the reception. It was truly fun seeing everyone again--I love you all lots!

Anyhoo, the girls and Tim could sadly not attend because school started at the same time in Japan. Both the girls love their teachers and Claire has made a flawless transition to the rigors of middle school (class changes, sticky locker combinations, cliques, etc). Lily was a bit ambivalent about leaving her summer fantasy world for the real one. Before school started, we went to the prerequisite "Open Houses" to check things out. When we got home, Lily sniffed her clothes and screwed up her face as if someone had just passed gas. "Ewwwww", she said disdainfully, "school smell." And then she added, "Mom, if they ever make a candle called 'school'...DON'T BUY IT."

Nonetheless, school smell aside, they both seem to be enjoying it. Lily has been chosen to be on the school council with her BFF. Claire has made friends with a really nice group of girls--I am pleased with her ability to choose quality kids as friends. Both girls are on the swim team, and placed first in some team events and fourth in several individual ones. Lily won two of her heats--I was really proud of her effort. They complain a lot about the 2 hour practices and come home starving. I could throw a pile of garbage on the table for dinner and they would wolf it down and not ask questions later.

Tuesday night, I had my first English tutoring lesson with a really nice older Japanese man. I liked him instantly cause he's cute and sweet. But "like" soon turned to infatuation when I asked him what his hobbies were (the Japanese like to discuss hobbies upon first meeting someone so they can do polite small talk). He replied, "Aaaaaaaaah....I like to drink beer," and then after a long pause, "And I like to sleep." I decided I truly did love him when he said his favorite american food was beer and steak. He finds our sweets too sweet and everything else too salty. So he'll stick with the steak and beer, thank you. I can't believe I am getting paid to talk to him.

Hopefully, I'll be getting some more students soon since I haven't been called much to substitute. I imagine that will pick up soon when the teachers don't feel so bad about calling in sick. It's just a matter of time.

In a strange twist of fate and logic, someone broke into Frank while I was gone. Everything was strewn all over the place but Tim said they took....NOTHING. I guess they didn't want our extra fast food napkins and empty water bottles. Frank may need counseling--violated yet too ugly for anyone to really take advantage of him. The rejection must be devastating.

Moving to Japan, Take II

2007-08-20T09:58:00.003-06:00

Dear Friends and Family,

Well, here we are again in the Land of Octopus Balls, except closer to the hustle and bustle of modern life. Although we miss our dear friends and assorted restaurants in Okinawa, we are happy to be near all the exciting offerings of a storied metropolis and ancient civilization--shrines and temples aplenty, the Great Buddha, concerts, museums, Tokyo Disney, charming Kyoto, IKEA and COSTCO! (Ironically, the Octopus Balls are better in Okinawa.)

After surviving 5 weeks in the Navy Lodge (think Ramada Inn, West Texas), we are now installed in our High Rise apartment. Our last digs were similar but this unit is on the eighth floor with an awesome view of the sunset. And it's literally 30 seconds out the door to Lily's school, where I will also be a substitute teacher. But the best feature is that it comes with a REAL LAUNDRY ROOM! No more washer and dryer in the kitchen. At the dinner table, no more, "What did you say, honey? I didn't hear that last part about your day because the spin cycle just started." Plus, we got our real furniture from storage in the states, so no more Midwest City Chic government furniture.

In a stroke of military blind luck that only military people can truly appreciate, the movers broke only half of our stuff, all of which was ugly and replaceable. We went on a crazed spending spree to IKEA and must of looked like people who just wandered out of the desert into a Water Megastore. The price! The selection! Heaven on earth...

Our jolt back to reality was driving our vehicle out of the IKEA, followed by the horror-filled, pitiful stares of the Japanese. Unlike Okinawa, the mainland Japanese take great pride in their vehicles. Every car in the 4 story parking lot was shiny, PRISTINE and brand new. And then there was ours...which we have dubbed "Frank"...short for "Frankenstein". Frank's driver's door is a completely different color than the rest of the car. A painful looking scar runs down the entire length of the passenger side. The back window is held up solely by duct tape.

Our only defense, if we could convey the communication to total Japanese strangers, is...IT WAS FREE. I was waiting for the bus at the lodge on our second day here and a panic stricken woman (she was leaving for the US the next day) stopped me and asked if I wanted a free car. Hell yeah! It runs great and the AC is arctic--what more could you want? Well, we couldn't anticipate that the mainland Japanese people would place such a great deal of value and status in their vehicles. They buy brand new cars every 5 years or so and their old ones go to Okinawa. True junkers like ours, although plentiful in Oki, are practically non-existent in Tokyo metro. If we strapped a mattress to the top, we could be The Tokyo Hillbillies.

We felt vindicated on our return trip to the base. On the local radio station, which plays jazz music, a japanese man was singing a ditty called "Tease Me" set to the tune of a be-boppin swing tune. Except his prononciation came out "Hey, baybeee, tweeze meee." Our self confidence shot up briefly.

But seriously, we are still amazed and humbled by the friendly and courteous people we meet here. We now have the best of both worlds, great people and culture, like in Okinawa, but way more things to see and do. We will keep you up-to-date on our adventures as we have them. Next month we are off to Tokyo to a shrine sale in Harujuku. Can't wait to see the people and antiques at that one. The girls are pros at moving now--they have already met a passle of friends and are part of the local swim team which they are really enjoying. Tim likes the people he works with and I am excited to go to D.C in a couple of weeks for my nephew's wedding. The girls must start school at the same time and can't go, unfortunately.

We have not been in touch with everyone very well over the past year or so. Hopefully, with Tim on shore duty, things will be less hectic and I can talk with more of you, more often. Please drop a line if you get the chance, and if you are ever our way, we will pick you up at the airport in Frank and you, too, will know our shame.