Thankfulness, revisited.

In no particular order, I am thankful for:

My long legs. They help me get things done a lot quicker than if my legs were shorter... okay, there are other reasons why I'm thankful for my long legs.
Strawberries in-season. And once in a while out-of-season.
Same with raspberries, blueberries and blackberries.
Candles with nice, subtle scents.
Fleece.
Warm, cozy blankets.
Orgasms--when they actually exist in my life.
My ability to remember numbers.
My toenails.
My flexibility.
My determination.
My mirror, because I am vain.
My Sonicare toothbrush that keeps me cavity-free.
Warm socks.
My morning MamaLlama-bucks (iced mocha).
Hot tea.
My microwave oven.
Wireless internet.
Text messaging.
My friends who watch out for me and take care of me.
Red wine.
A decent recycling program in my Town.
Being able to drive a manual.
The fact that I don't have to wear much makeup.
The wonderful memories of experiences had.
Christmas lights...DURING the Christmas season.
Airplanes.
The fact that "high-heeled comfort" is not necessarily oxymoronic.
Perennial plants.
The fact that black goes with pretty much anything.
That I don't believe in shopping on Black Friday.
Facials and pedicures.
Dates with any of my girlfriends.

Happy Thanksgiving!

In Thanksgiving

This week we in the United States, as well as our citizens scattered throughout the world, celebrate Thanksgiving. Tradition calls for the turkey, cranberries, mashed potatoes, pumpkin pie and a plethora of fattening delicacies that, as tradition also mandates, we are to enjoy guilt-free regardless of how we might later pay for such indulgences.

Albeit something I ought to practice more readily in my life, I also find myself forced to slow down and reflect on all I have to be thankful for. This is a hard time of year for me in that blood-line family is located so far away that it is pretty much impossible for holidays to be spent together. The cold, dark weather always draws me into hibernation mode. Heartache that is inevitable with the dark memories surrounding my father's death at Christmastime also seeks me out no matter how hard I might try to hide from it. Two close friends both have their fathers critically hospitalized right now, both as of this week; it seems that others are starting to catch up and, although I want to be able to do what I so needed from others when my father died, I am finding it emotionally impossible for me to do anything but pray for the well-being of all involved.

Perhaps selfish, but I just cannot put myself through the wrenching emotions it all causes deep in my soul. At least their fathers got to know their grandchildren, have relationships with them and see them grow into beautiful young people while developing adult relationships with their own children. Much like me and both my grandfathers, my children never knew their grandfather. He was days away from receiving his first retirement check when he died. The two fathers now hospitalized are much older and have lived a much more complete life. Yes, it is sad but they have also come much closer to living our socially-defined full cycle of life. Yes, I think it's unfair, because I am selfish. But I also recognize Life is unfair and there isn't anything I can do about that. It all just hits too close to home for me still. So I stay my distance.

Funny how strong we can convince ourselves we are, but when said strength is tried our weaknesses shine forth with greater force.

*---*

I spent the weekend completely engaged with the little monkeys! As my weekends are currently running a Friday-Saturday schedule with Sunday-Thursday students, I do the best I can to maximize our time together on Friday evening as soon as Princesita is home from school. This time spent together made me reflect actively on the deep gratitude I feel for so much in my life. This will be my serious list, due to the tone of the post. In a couple of days I will then post my not-so-serious Thanksgiving list when I have a bit less work and a bit more cranberries and stuffing on my mind.

What am I thankful for? No elaboration needed:

My beautiful children
My God
My friends
My garden
My family
My health
My home
My business
My students
My talents to make this happen for me
My opportunities
My cat
The food on my table
Enough money to live on
Warmth
Music
Love
Peace
My emotions
All of you, some who come and go and others who stay and 'virtually' complete my life

The most sincere of Thanksgiving wishes, warmth, blessings and love, from Mama Llama to YOU!

Flashback Friday

Next Friday Thanksgiving will be behind us, our interiors filled with food and fun and the warmth that comes from time spent with people we love--family in the blood sense and in the metaphoric sense. Last year I remembered my first Thanksgiving in Japan, a holiday (obviously) not celebrated there. It was not the first time I had lived in a foreign country during a major United States holiday, but in Ecuador a small gringo community gathered for a lovely turkey feast, which made that First Time much easier to bear.

感謝祭の日 Thanksgiving Day in Japan

感謝祭の日 Kanshasai no hi Thanksgiving Day was a very special day in Japan for me, my first being one of the first true demonstrations of how gracious and generous the Japanese can be, once you pierce their formal exterior.

I had an 英会話 eikaiwa English conversation class on Monday nights that I taught each of my three years in 中之条. As the autumn season of 1994 progressed, I was coming to realize that, for the first time in my life, I would not be experiencing Thanksgiving in a way that I had always known through tradition: gathering of family or friends, plethora of food, recounting stories already million times told but yearned for yet again so as to fulfill the requirement of tradition. Even in Guayaquil in 1992 I had a Thanksgiving dinner, along with my North American classmates, at the house of Bostonian ex-pat who had connections and could get a turkey. However in Japan, and much more so in rural 群馬県 Gunma-ken, it was extremely difficult to find a turkey, although the word for turkey, 七面鳥 shichimenchou, does exist in their vernacular.

My 英会話 class pooled together what must have been a great sum of money and imported a Thanksgiving turkey for me. They disclosed this gift two weeks before Thanksgiving, and I put together a list of other foods and recipes for those who would like to try preparing some other "traditions" that I was familiar with, such as sweet potatoes with marshmallows and cranberries and pumpkin pie. The next week we passed around a sign-up sheet and corresponding recipes for the next week's Thanksgiving Potluck Dinner...a first annual event for this 英会話 class.

This was a joyous occasion. We talked about the idea of thankfulness and how our different cultures celebrate and recognize this idea. We had an immense amount of food and the turkey was delicious. It was an enjoyable event, that we reproduced in other forms the other two years of my tenure.

At the end of the night, the group's leader presented the rest of the turkey and the leftovers to me and told me to have the rest on Thanksgiving night, and to invite my other friends who probably would not have any Thanksgiving turkey that year.

So, to my residence came my North American friends Mike, Chris, Laraine and Ted, and our Australian "bug-catcher" cohort John and together we reheated the turkey and spooned out all the side dishes and had a wonderful, memory-filled evening, giving thanks for all that we had and the fact that we had each other to lean on in the middle of our little individual pieces of rented Japanese heaven

Back to Izzy...

Okay. Izzy.

Now I think I see it. It is how we always, when alone, go back in our minds to what we know, what we were, finding comfort in memory so as not to have to deal with the fear of being alone. We try to go on with Life, go to work, play, meet people, learn, love...and then return to the quiet, the alone.

Why are we so afraid of quiet? Of being alone? Are we so accustomed to constant action, constant noise, constant mind-engagement that, when we cannot be externally stimulated we will go to great lengths--like bringing back the dead to fulfill a an active role, or at least a role of more than merely a memory in our lives, for example--to not have to be alone with our own thoughts and feelings? Are we that scared?

Interesting thoughts provoked tonight...

blustery beauty

Saturday was a balmy yet blustery day.

A strong cold front was blowing in from the northwest, ahead of which we had temperatures reaching the mid-70s. The warmth brought people out from all corners wearing shorts and t-shirts, attempting to capture what many acertained were the last of the vitamin D-bearing sunrays of the calendar year.

It was glorious!

I awoke feeling an inexplicable energy. Hearing the gara-gara of my bedroom windows all night, I had evidence of Mother Nature's power and sensed it was a day to take full advantage. Although I vow to never drive to the gym, I decided to couple my trip to workout with a trip to the grocer only around the corner, and my shopping spree demanded items much too heavy to lug all the way home on my slight frame. So I brought my clothes with, intending to shower and change at the gym.

Great workout, ran 5 miles in 33:05 (YIPPEE!) on the elliptical and showered. Forgot my comb of all things, so I pulled my long wet locks back into a pseudo-bun, a little eyeliner, a little lipstick and voila! done. Walked out and, working out right in front of me was a looker.

And he looked. And said, "Hel-LO!"

Damned my shyness, I smiled and lowered my eyes and barely audibly uttered a 'hello' back, and continued walking...but with my head high and feeling GREAT. Attractive. Noticed. Sexy. And with my presence validated.

Sometimes that is ALL I need. I am demanding, but my needs are few.

Off to the store, dropped the goods off at home, a couple of phone calls then off to be out and enjoy the morning. All the news reports warned of rapid changes at a later point in the afternoon, with plummeting temperatures ushered in with the wild wind, so I knew I could get away with single-layer jeans (no tights) and a sweater with no jacket for only so long.

I saw people I had not seen in a long time, I met a nice young waitress at CPK, recently graduated from high school, who wants to be a pastry chef and has been accepted into the CIA, I bought new tights in preparation for the cold week (always need footless tights and heavy socks), went to My Store (White House Black Market, if you're wondering) and actually found a sweater I could afford, and sat out in an open air square, eyes closed and just taking it all in--the air, the wind, the energy, the good moods...

...then the rain began.

As I am a wicked witch llama that melts when wet, I ran to my car as quickly as my clogs would allow me and drove the seven miles back to my home, where my children had spent the entire glorious morning downstairs watching cartoons with their father.

(sigh)

I soon realized my cell phone was gone and, after making some key telephone calls to establishments visited, I decided it was gone for good. But no big deal--I was feeling great! Off again to another store, it was still relatively warm and windy with more storm clouds in the distance. With my iTunes "mood mix" playing at a volume louder than I would permit had my children been in the backseat, I enjoyed my ride out, did my shopping and rushed back out to my car in another windy rainfall.

As I arrived home, the sun broke through the confused sky and behold, a strong rainbow arched through the sky welcoming me back.

My pot of gold? A day of feeling free, accomplishing tasks and knowing I could go out and do all of this all by myself, and carrying this wonderful liberating feeling with me all this week! The warmth in my heart helps blanket me through the sporadic snow showers we expect this week.

The Izzy Factor

I am a fan of Grey's Anatomy. I consider it my "smut fix". However, in this week's show there were some occurances surrounding some conflict in the life of one of the principal characters that have remained vividly fixed in my mind.

The great love of Izzy's life died a few seasons ago when a heart transplant did not come through for him. The Great Love--meaning she was ready to marry him and have his children, and this was reciprocal. His "apparition" is now watching over her and has, as of the last episode, convinced Izzy that he is real--thus not permitting her to go on with her life.

The imagery was strong--he had her take her hand and place it on his chest and, in the moment I was expecting her hand to go right through him it of course did not, it touched a real person...or what Izzy believed to be real.

How do we reconcile our ghosts? These could be past loves, or those whom we love reciprocally but cannot be together due to current circumstances. Or those who have actually died. Are these people real? Do/Did these relationships exist? How would one bring realities together that would otherwise not coincide?

Current technology permits so much that was not previously possible. Webcams, live voice chats, cell phones and text messaging is worldwide, breaching any distance; lovers on two different continents can maintain great levels of communication, with quasi eye-to-eye contact in real time. I see that with my friend whose husband has 50 more days left in Afghanistan--I even get to chat with him every so often when visiting her house, a possibility unheard of in previous global conflicts.

However, the questions in my mind that the Izzy Factor poses are: How much does all of this enable the development of a complete fantasy, something that is true but yet is not as physical presence is mythical rather than real? (I am not speaking of seeing loves that have left this world. If that is the case, some sort of professional help is required in my opinion.) If physical presence of the other is truth for a short time say, every few months, how is that reconciled against a reality of distance, no matter how rich and deep communication lines run? When two people who live under the same roof cannot communicate as well as two who are forced to do so by circumstance, does that transcend the relationship level to a degree?

I suppose that would have a lot to do with the will of both individuals involved; the will to maintain something good and true even against all odds, the will to maintain the spark and to learn new ways of keeping magic alive that could easily die out if lacking a two-sided deep investment, the will to risk not being comprehended by those physically present just to keep something good alive, the will to believe that truth can sometimes not be touched.

Or perhaps I read way too much into the Izzy Factor.

Flashback Friday

Another coffee date this morning with The Exception was, well, exceptional. I feel inspired to write, but will have to wait until the latest headache passes. Plus, with two four year olds in the house I think that my energies are meant to be spent elsewhere today. Never a dull moment!

Today's Flashback takes us back to Japan and a pot-pourri of topics...well, you'll understand the pun upon further reading.

pot-pourri

In the course of my travels, I have beheld my fair share of toilets.

Some are decked out, all the bells and whistles (quite literally). Others, as those on the isle of Taquile of Lake Titicaca in Perú, are simple, guarded in the middle of the night by a cow just waiting to scare the living s**t out of you before you make it to the hole in the ground. In Thailand we had to flush the toilets with buckets of water; at least there was running water from which we could fill the buckets and we did not have to hike all the way to the nearest waterfall to fulfill this purpose.

My first time in Japan, the most adventurous excretory experiences I had ever had usually involved cutting down Christmas trees in the woods in Oregon, where sometimes we had the chance to create "yellow snow" and sometimes not, depending on the year. Heavily jet-lagged after a fourteen-hour flight from Oregon to Narita, the first day in my new environs found me at Nikko National Park, a park renowned for being the center of the Tokugawa shogunate.

Of course, nature will call following a ramen lunch during which I learned that slurping one's noodles is, indeed, art form in that it is almost impossible to not get the juicy soup all over one's face or clothing in the noisy act. We hiked up the hill to the トイレ--toire (toilet) and I was greeted with a sight never before beheld...an oblong, slightly ovalesque shaped piece of porcelain inbedded in the floor.

Huh?

So, how on earth do I use this?

My host mother and eldest sister came to my rescue, trying desperately not to laugh as my host mother hiked up her long skirt to demonstrade the "straddle and squat"...a position that, after three years of perfecting, really does wonders for the thigh muscles (now millions of blog readers will go and install Japanese-style toilets in their homes just to tone, I know...).

Trick is: when there is plumbing, face the plumbing.

When there isn't, just try not to lose your slipper down the toilet. It happens to every 外人 at least once. Poor John from Perth was blessed with a non-potable hole in the ground benjou at his residence and lost so many slippers down that thing that the sewer sucker-dude who came by every few weeks for taking care of the benjou waste would just, reportedly, laugh.

My episode occurred at the Nakanojo 文化会館, the bunka kaikan, the local cultural center, at an important event. No matter what you wear, you change into slippers three sizes too small for your feet upon entrance. Another story for another day. One of mine plopped into the plumbed fixture by accident. Oops. That was fun to try to remedy.

My parents came to Japan in March 1997 to visit. I took them touring through Tokyo, Hiroshima, Nagasaki, Kyoto, and back up to Nakanojo before we met up with my sister, who had already visited me a year and a half before, and hit China and Hong Kong together. Feeling rather punchy following the longest plane ride of their lives, followed by a 2 hour commute back into Tokyo to their hotel and the experience of passing through customs...it was their first international travel--it would be my father's last and the first of many for my mother--we settled into our rooms. I stayed in Tokyo with them, as Nakanojo was just less than 4 hours away by train, and a good friend's father, a hotel entrepreneur, arranged special deals for all of us throughout our stays.

My phone rang. It was my mother. She sounded relieved to be able to figure out how to pick up the phone and ring my room.

"Can you come over here for a sec?" she asked.
"Sure, what's up?"
"Um...the toilet doesn't seem to work. I can't figure out how to flush this thing!"
"I'll be right over."

The toilets in many nice Western-style hotels are western-style. However, in saying "western-style" this is to mean "decked out to the max." You have next to your hipline an array of buttons you can push for a variety of cool effects: everything from the sounds of rushing water to bells ringing, a bidet feature, a fan feature (to dry you off, of course) are all expertly displayed with lights and little kanji characters that describe, to the trained eye, exactly what each button will do.

But none of them seemed to make the toilet flush.

I couldn't imagine how many of these buttons my mother must have pushed before she called me. But from her uncontrolled giggling I guessed that her efforts must have involved most of them.

"Here, Mom." I pointed to the side of the toilet, where the flush knob is on pretty much any toilet we in the Western World has ever used. This, of course, made her laugh even harder. "They put so many buttons here in plain sight, you'd think one of these would do it!" she roared.

Yeah. That would be too easy.

My little house had a western-style toilet. Pink. Cute. In an itsy-bitsy tiny little bathroom about the size of a 3' by 6' rectangle. It had two manual flush cycles...小 and 大 (little and big)...depending on the purpose of the flush (I will refrain from further illustration). The only other "extra" my little pink piece of ceramic heaven had was a heated seat function. In July, when first arriving, I had to admit to not having any idea as to why in the hell Toto (yes, that was the name of the brand. I heard the music group "Toto" got their name after having been in Japan. All I could think about for three years, every time I went to the bathroom, was "Toto too? Yes, Toto too.") would make toilet seats that would heat, especially being a person who prefers to philosophize in a nice big rocking chair as opposed to "on the pot."

Then came winter.

Wow. Heated toilet seats. What a GREAT invention! At least one part of my body can be warm...

update on hair!

Well, the entire first grade was checked today, and report had it that some of her friends were sent home...but Princesita was in the clear. Whew! However, had I not been through her hair with a fine-tooth comb last night, I am not certain that would have been the case today.

Please, oh please, let us get through this with no live bugs. I can handle eggs. Not bugs.

Just to respond to comments...

Yes, I hear your ews and icks. And Dads, your ever-so-generous benefit of the doubt on the "deep love" theme post was an angle I honestly did not consider when writing.

(sigh) One more student. Then my weekend begins.

good intentions

Some road is proverbially paved with these, isn't it?

Perhaps it is just All of The Elements' ways of telling me that I am, in fact, NOT to write on this week's topic. Not only am I having an incredibly hard time crafting the words to the post on learning to love deeply, but everything seems to be coming UP in Life right now.

A youngster in La Princesita's class was sent home with lice today. Upon inspection this evening, I believe I found three nits in my Princesita's hair. So tonight, instead of taking the night to relax and write a bit, I am washing pillows, clothing and towels like a madwoman; vacuuming carpets and furniture; and quarantining stuffed animals and unwashables in huge plastic garbage bags. Both children have donned plastic shower caps over their olive-oiled heads and will sleep in such fashion overnight...three nits is all I found, but I will take NO CHANCES!!! And I will do the same tonight, as my entire body feels like it is crawling with little lice legs.

eeeeeeeeewww

At least we will have really well-conditioned hair tomorrow.

If I were in a better mood, I would take a picture for posterity's sake.

another brain cleansing

Okay, I just need to let a few things out. A part of me wants to disable comments, as I am not looking for advice--I just want to get things off my chest and know that I am being heard. That is all. So read with caution, realizing that this is a cathartic post.

La Princesita has had two hard lessons on how unfair Life is this week. First came with the last softball game of the season. I had worked hard on a lineup in which no girls repeated the same fielding position they had in the last game, to give them all practice. She was to play 3rd base in the bottom of the 3rd (3 innings in coach pitch), and the other coach switched her to short stop for some reason. I wasn't certain as to why; I was organizing the other girls. My princesita is a very agile player and can play most positions well just because she pays attention and doesn't spend the game drawing in the dirt with her toe. The coaches know that--but she had played short stop last game and really wanted to play a base during this last game. By about the 5th batter, she was in tears, and it took over two hours to calm her down.

Same general idea last night at her school's annual Sock Hop. She had practiced all year to be able to win the hula-hoop contest for the 1st grade. And she was one of two left--until someone who was walking off after her hoop had fallen knocked my princesita's hoop so that it fell. I was in the audience and yelled, "Hey, that wasn't fair, her hoop was hit by that other girl." Other parents saw and agreed...but what else could I really do? Crestfallen and proclaiming in tears how unfair this was, I dragged her and the Young Prince home...and she finally fell asleep in my bed, about an hour later, exhausted by her laments.

What ought I do? Teach her that yes, Life is unfair. So suck it up and move on.

No, that would be bad of me. I can teach that in a much gentler way. She is only seven years old, and much like her Mama Llama, an extremely sensitive soul. I pray for guidance to teach her strength in the ways of the world.

---

At the sock hop, I ran into some people I don't see on a daily, or even really on a monthly, basis. One of these women is nice enough, but is rather well-known as gossipy and a busy-body. I therefore tend to keep our conversations light and avoid any topics, like my personal life, that I don't care to have spread all over the elementary school community. The first thing she asks me last night? "So are things better with you and Him?"

Admittedly, I was blindsided. First, this was incredibly forward of someone who, as far as I knew, knows nothing for certain about my marital situation. So of course I jumped to the defensive. I demanded to know where she heard this from and why she was asking me. Uncertain as to how to deal with this, I lied and said that no, everything is fine. She said good, and I changed the subject immediately while watching the above mentioned hula hooping contest. Then, without looking at her, I said, "No, we've been separated now in-house for over two years. But I would like to know where you heard that, because I want to know if someone is spreading news about me around this school community." It was then that I learned that He had confided in her husband, who had been previously divorced.

He is not well-known for his, shall we say, discerning judgment regarding who he chooses to talk to. But then again, who am I do judge? I guess that, when I am the one affected by his mouth...

Anyhow, she had some strong opinions about how, no matter what, it is better that we be together, for the good of the kids. I told her that I disagree, that we are not giving a good image of what a healthy marriage is to the children and that my health and happiness need to be factored into the equation...and etc. etc. etc.

I was secretly thankful that Princesita had to leave due to tears...a perfect excuse to get out.

However, this encounter reestablished the fact that I am definitely being painted as the "bad guy" and he as the victim...and although I like to bitch about all the little things that now I let get to me that I used to let slide, I fully recognize that the failure of our marriage took two of us. Not just one.

*---*

My mother. Oh dear, what to say? For those who haven't followed, or known, the saga regarding our relationship, the least I can say is that I am always on pins and needles with her, and she regards me much in the same way. Somebody who wants to know why she can't be more of a part of my and my kids' lives while everything from my pregnancy to my miscarriage has been blamed on me, the news that I bought a home was greeted as if someone close had died, and that I cannot do anything that she expects me to do to make her life complete. I have taken steps back and have come to realize where this stems from in her life, but while she continues to express her great disappointment in who I have become and the fact that I put my children before her in my life, I have a very hard time in trying to maintain any semblance of even a superficially decent relationship.

What created this latest drama? The fact that she sent a Halloween card, some spare change for piggy banks and stickers for the kids and a Starbucks card for me, received at 4 p.m. Halloween afternoon (right before trick-or-treat time) and did not hear, by the next Wednesday, any verification of receipt of this collection of cards means that I am doing nothing to help her be a part of my children's lives and that she doesn't know if she ought to send Princesita's birthday gift if we had not received what she had sent for Halloween. We had been in contact various times on email over the election, and I had a terribly busy four day weekend with the kids...but she never once mentioned, "Oh, by the way, did you get something special in the mail?" No, I am the Bad Daughter for neglecting to mention what she is hoping to, evidently, trap me into not mentioning by not mentioning it first. No, she won't send it certified because it really has nothing to do with whether or not we received what she sent; it all all to do with a test of whether I will remember to mention and appropriately give thanks in recognition of her efforts.

I think she believes I sit around on my ass all day every day wondering what to do next.

How I would KILL for a day like that. Just one day.

She said in the email (no, not a phone call because she will not telephone me; I have to always call her and am the Bad Daughter if I don't comply in a timely manner) that she is open to suggestions. I suggested a few years ago that she buy herself a webcam that just plugs into a USB port. If she doesn't understand how with following the directions, her handyman up the street can help her. Then I can walk her through the installation of Skype and she can chat and see the kids in what is practically real time whenever she wants.

But that suggestion was rejected. The only suggestion she wants is that I move back west. I am expected to alter my life and go back to her, because all her life she has been abandonded or forced to abandon when she was a child. She doesn't see why people in her life (her mother, her daughters) have always moved on to follow our own lives instead of molding ours around her needs.

If I would be going back to that, there is no way in hell I'm going back. I've never been good enough for her; nothing I have ever done has been good enough. Why put myself through any more? It is easy to say "Well, then don't. Don't let yourself be that in your mother's life." But that is it...she is my mother, and besides my sister is the only family I have left. The three of us. That's it.

So forgetting it is much easier said than done. So, to call or not to call? Damned if I do, damned if I don't. We've been down the same path before, and I have told her in no uncertain terms that she can feel free to call here as well, and that I should not be the only one trying to make her a participant in my children's lives. If she doesn't feel she is, then she needs to do more. I can do better with the thank-you notes. I know she appreciates that, but I do those for major things (birthdays, Christmas gifts). Are Halloween cards now included on that list?

*---*

I'm okay, I'm just feeling a little defeated, yet again, and it will pass. The holidays are coming, which always stress me out, and is a prime Disagreement Season between my mother and I. I feel it coming, deep in my soul, and it fills me with dread.

Flashback Friday

Last year I wrote a series on Japan--what took me there, and the unique experiences I had during my three years living among the rice paddies of rural, mountainous Japan, which is a far cry from our traditional vision of a Tokyo-Japan. This entry was of November 6, 2007. Enjoy!

日本の思い出 ... Memories of Japan

Wow..it has been so long since I have even typed in Japanese that I had to enable the Japanese keyboard on my computer to be able to make the characters.

As the time going into winter is one of great nostalgia for me, I feel it fitting to delve a bit into some of my fondest memories of my younger days. I spend three years teaching ESL at two different middle schools in the town of 中之条. Nakanojo. "Naka" means "middle, center"; "no" is a possessive or, in this case, used as an "of"; and "jou" (long o, two syllables but not always romanized that way) means "road."













Middle of the road.

Just your average little town cradled in the foothills of active and dormant volcanoes where most citizens have rice paddies, know how to dance the yagibushi in the town's summer festival, and have very limited, if any, contact on a daily basis with any 外人。

Gaijin. Literally, the outside (gai) person (jin).

The foreigner.

Somehow Nakanojo and I were the perfect match. *cue rambling mode* I had been to 群馬県 Gunma-ken (prefecture) in August of 1990. I went as a member of a youth orchestra exchange, and spent two weeks with a host family that spoke very little if any English. The eldest daughter was a percussionist in the 太田 Ohta City Youth Philharmonic, the middle daughter played trumpet and the youngest daughter was, like myself, a violinist. I was selected to play concertmaster (we always called it 'concertmistress', the coveted position being She Who Gets to Sleep With the Entire Orchestra...although in those times I was waaaaaaaay too angelic to take that title seriously), which made my family very proud and they wanted me to give Ayumi-chan tutorials each night on her pieces. What struck me most was the fact that we could not look at each other, open our mouths and say anything that could be understood by the other; however, we could look at the same page of lines and, to the untrained eye, seemingly random dots and various miscellaneous markings and create exactly the same sound. This realization blew my relatively naive mind and marked the beginning of my openness to communication in all forms.

I maintained contact with my host family during my subsequent four-year tenure at University. I completed a double major, one of which was Spanish, and a double minor, one of which was Japanese, and could basically write notes and send them and, obviously, be somewhat understood in my efforts to master at least the two basic phonetic alphabets.

Upon returning from studies in Guayaquil, Ecuador, in the middle of my junior year of University, I felt at a great loss of direction. Indeed, my time in such a poor area made me yearn to go back and idealistically solve the world's problems but also armed me with the knowledge that such goals are impossible to achieve. Best to better oneself so as to be capable of offering more. But how?

In Senior Thesis hell, required for both my International Studies major and my Honors degree, I also started teaching ESL in a local school district, which also meant moonlighting as a social worker and translator. I spent countless hours transcribing interviews my primary thesis advisor had conducted with a variety of female migrants for a book she was authoring, not to mention my own interviews I held with legals and illegals alike regarding their perceived assimilation and acculturation experiences. Fascinating. But leaving me feeling, still, without a defined direction. Life without school? How could I consider my next step, post-University "real life"?

Long story short, I was told I should apply to the then rather selective Japan Exchange and Teaching (JET) Program(me). I figured I had nothing to lose, so I did, interviewed and was offered a position along with one other from my University. As I had previously visited Gunma prefecture, that was where I was again sent, but this time out to rural Gunma perhaps due to the fact that I had, in comparison to some applicants, a decent base of Japanese upon which to grow and actual ESL teaching experience and, of course, living abroad experience.

I arrived in Tokyo in sultry July, spent three days in whirlwinds of conferences, getting to know other 外人 being sent out to my same prefecture, everyone "testing out" each other's Japanese levels in a meager effort of reassurance. The bus ride out to Gunma was interesting in that we were given a crash course in how to accept a business card that is presented to us, as was to occur following a ベントlunch...

You must bow. Try to bow lower than the person you're bowing to, as it's probably going to be your supervisor. But don't fall over. Don't bump heads, either (don't laugh...it did happen to me once!...but fortunately not that day). Don't act overly enthused; keep all nervousness and excitement undercaps.

You will be presented with a business card. That is the way people meet here. You don't just take it and stuff it in your back pocket. You accept with TWO hands and bow. After retiring to your place you keep the 名刺 (meishi) out, in your hands, "study it" or at least feign interest and admiration...a lot of money goes into each individual's 名刺 and you will also soon receive your own set.

And with that, we were off...

Three men came the prefectural capital city of 前橋 Maebashi to greet me and take me back to my new home. The gruff looking Mr. Nakazawa was the Superintendent of Schools for Nakanojo Town. He was also a musician, and brought some of his favorite Stephen Foster scores for me to look over as an ice-breaker as we settled in to a small café for an aisu co-hi (iced coffee). The other two men, Morita-san and Iyoku-san did not speak any English and appeared rather shy; Iyoku-san would, in fact, become my papa-chan, as I so affectionately nicknamed him, as he would take care of all my day-to-day issues while demonstrating worlds of patience for my developing Japanese skills, and we did a lot of things socially together as my Japanese really took off and I could communicate well. There had been two foreign teachers preceeding me in Nakanojo, so although the routine was somewhat familiar it was still far from set in stone.

That is where my stay in my dear Nakanojo begins...

dona nobis pacem

Dona nobis pacem
September, 1992
Belén, Ecuador

An old chapel built into the side of a mountain in this Andean town located on the picturesque road leading to Cuenca caught our eyes when we stopped to take a rest on the long drive from Guayaquil. A beautiful stone-colored dome sat atop the main edifice; it was unlike the many very colonial structures we had seen in the city.

We entered, quietly, carefully, always as if our gringo steps were as awkward in such places as they were on the dance floors of the discoteques when surrounded by suave latino feet.

The altar was stunning in that the backdrop was literally the wall of the mountain; indeed, the church had been build into the mountain, as if a most natural extension of God’s creation, not an ostentatious display of Catholic riches and worldly gold held as an offering to a Supreme Being that is supposed to see beyond such superficial shows.

I snapped my fingers in a mere test of acoustic quality. The echo of this simple sound reverbrated throughout the hall. Three of the seven of us were musically trained, in voice as well, and our eyes met. I began the rondo:

Dona nobis pacem, pacem
Dona nobis pacem.

B took up a tenor line when the rondo came to him, then A followed suit with the final third of the trio. We knew instinctively what to sing, what to do, the perfection of the tones and the resolution that particular round offers blending together in an echo that spiraled, slid up the mountainside, found its way up to the top of the dome.

Noemí, our profesora/chaperone for this trip, sank into a pew in tears. The others sat, mesmerized by the beauty of our offering. We were certain we could be heard. This is the voice God would want to hear!

Dona nobis pacem

The first time singing this refrain was in a mass concert that featured the Vienna Choir Boys, that I was honored to be a part of when I was in late elementary school. That was also the first time I can remember ever having felt truly moved in my soul by music. Music like that could create peace, I was then convinced.

A great part of the lack of peace I feel in my life right now stems from the fact that I have no true music. I tried being involved in music at church, but my eyes were opened to a certain elitism that exists and to which those who participate are privy; namely, if what comes out of your mouth when you raise voice in honor to God is not worthy of God’s ears, then it is preferred that you shut your mouth and let the ones who know how to sing do it for you. I have let my violin’s bows go and they both are in desperate need of rehairing if I ever want to pick my beloved instrument up again. Time is hard to find, although easier now that I am working in the home. In my idealistic 20s, when I wanted to change the world and erase all ills, my purpose for playing or singing was much more outwardly focused than it is now. I feel that now I need music to assist me to feel the peace that I used to feel in my soul, to return to me an element of who I used to be and what took me so many places and permitted me to know and understand and learn on a level different than mere logic will take me.

Dona nobis pacem

Grant us peace. But I don’t need someone or something else to grant me this peace. I need to grant this to myself, to find my way and only in that way will I know true peace--of mind, of soul, of heart.

Dona nobis pacem. This was written for Blog Blast for Peace 2008. I am not savvy enough to come up with my own "seal" so I just use the one above. In my mind I sense peace when I look at that.

May you sense peace in your own way, in some way, today.

The tenacity to ride a rough road

Some of this have this tenacity, others do not.

I tend to think myself as a type who blooms where planted. I have to. However, if there is something I feel could create a more fertile soil for my well-being, I want to pursue the possibility.

Wanting, however, is different than doing.

Today I feel like an absolute failure in Life. From the morning, every single thing I have attempted has ended in failure, all accentuating, of course, the Great Failure of my marriage.

I do not fail. I never fail. So how could I permit this to occur?

Perhaps my destiny as a failure is just now surfacing. Early life successes were to disillusion and to create in me a false optimism that anything is truly possible if tenatious enough to pursue that end. I am growing increasingly pessimistic (or is that realistic?) as my days continue forth.

*---*

I am now more censored than before in what I can write here. Perhaps it is getting to be time to leave mapiprincesa behind forever and, if I were to continue to write, continue forth completely anonymous. I am not yet certain what my next step will be--it is hard to believe that I used to believe myself so strong and now I am letting someone else rob me of my voice.

Tomorrow will be a better day. It can only be better. Such are the rough roads now. Am I tenatious enough? I suppose I am learning that each day as well.