Hydrangeas

There are not many hydrangeas in Texas.  At least not the part of Texas I grew up in.  As summer progresses into waves of higher temperature and humidity and spring blossoms turn to shades of green, these bright colored globes have become Japan’s floral world.  Natsukashii… They take me back.

Gravel crunches under the tires.  The live oaks make a tunnel where only bits of sunlight trickle through.  Ahead is the old wash house, its dark red paint so aged it is more of a stain.  In front, pink and blue hydrangeas.

The car veers left, passing between the wash house and the concrete porch. All that is left of the original house, burned down long before.

The new house in on the right.  Beige stucco.  A Spanish type feel to it.  Sitting in a clearing, it's just past the live oaks, but not yet in the tall, straight pines.

The garage opens slowly, a symphony of squeals, squeaks, and whirs.  A tennis ball hangs from a string.  The car inches forward till the neon green orb touches the windshield.

No one ever entered from the front door.  At least no one you ever saw.  There was a front door.  Kind of.  If you had to call anything a front door it was the French double doors at the head of the courtyard - around the corner and past the holly tree from the garage.  But no one ever seemed to go that way.  The wrought iron gate was never open.  Even in your numerous outdoor escapades, you rarely set foot in the courtyard.

Instead you always go though the garage.  You step into the laundry room, with its pictures of dogs, men, and dead birds – a heritage you didn’t quite understand.  You pass the washing machine, the one that was filled with ice and soda during the annual Christmas party.

The radio is on in the kitchen. Soft country music keeping the silence at bay.  You step into the room, moving past the rotary phone, the last you have ever seen, hanging on the wall to your left.  The radio continues to croon classic country from its home on top of the fridge.  Large green leaves from the potato plant vining though the iron bars on the window keep the hot Florida sun to a minimum.

The round table under the window is ready for a casual meal, a cup of coffee, or a cookie.  A plastic and felt table cloth.  Matching pillows on the chairs.  Short blue carpet under your feet.  You move past another door to the outside that no one ever uses.  There seem to be a lot of them.

The formal dining table, dark and stately, stands in contrast to the inviting round kitchen table.  The carpet is longer, a golden beige.  The walls white.  Making the almost black wood of the table, chairs, and matching china hutch seem more forbidding.  You can’t remember ever actually eating at this table.  During parties it was piled merrily with all kinds of food.  White and silver dishes heaped with ham, veggies, turkey, and deviled eggs with sweet pickle relish.  You hated the relish, scooping out the chunky yellow part and only eating the white.

Before you go past the table and into the living room, you pause at a pair of wooden doors.  They are warm compared to the table.  A honey or cherry stain, maybe.  You open the door.

The smell of old tobacco and even older books washes over you - sweet and musky.  There is a desk in the small, windowless room.  And the books.  Louis L’Amour westerns.  Their pages slowly browning in the ways of beloved, cheap paperbacks.  There are other things in the room – poker chips and cards – but the books are what hold you.  The only tether between you and a man you only remember as the eater of the disgusting black jelly beans.

You close the doors behind you as you leave, trapping the comforting smells inside.  You move into the living room.  Even though it is connected to the dining room – a huge rectangular space – this feels different.  It is warmer.  The red brick fireplace and the matching partition wall opposite it.  The deep burgundy of sofa and love seat.  The gold and glass tables.  The lacquered wooden bowls full of plastic grapes – green and purple.  The family of shiny bronze quail.  The couches are covered in plastic, uncomfortable for sitting on in shorts, but you rarely stop for too long in this room.  If you do, you usually sit on the floor, playing with the decorations – the metal quail clinking on the glass tops of the tables.

If you keep going straight, you get to the guest room on the left and the bathroom on the right.  But you turn right just past the couch instead, walk past the partition wall, past the hall where the French doors from the courtyard open, into the room on the left.

Long ago it smelled of smoke, but that smell faded over time.  An old recliner sits with its back to the door.  Across from it is a large TV.  You step further into the room.  There is a second recliner to the left of the first and a large bed that is always perfectly made, like something you would find in a fancy hotel, in front of it.

Double French doors open onto the courtyard, but you have never seen them open.  Instead, sunlight pours through them, catching the pastels in the duvet and giving the room a soft, subdued glow.  Aside from the kitchen and the closet office, this is the only room that feels lived in.  Like the radio in the kitchen, the TV is perpetually on, the volume low.  More white noise.

There is a bit of curly white-blue hair visible over the top of the first recliner.

It is all gone now.  The wash house, the hydrangeas, the smell of tobacco and books, the sunny kitchen with the radio always on, the bronze quail family, the recliner in the far room.  But when I see the pink, blue, purple, white, and motley globes of delicate flowers, I can’t help but remember the hydrangeas of my childhood – next to the old red wash house just before you got to Grandma Windham’s house.

No news is not always good news

There is a storm coming – Typhoon Nangka.  I could tell when I walked outside this morning.  The cicadas, who have been cranking up the volume to eleven every morning this week, were only at a one or two today.  A whisper of fear.  The sky was streaked with low, thin clouds moving in an unusual direction.  There was wind; strong gusts that pushed and tugged in turns.  But in between there was the stillness.  As the day moves on, the wind had died and the clouds have taken over the sky – a pale, bluish grey dome that amplifies the stillness of everything.  Nothing is moving.  Nothing is singing out.  Aside from the perpetual noises of humans, the only creatures ignoring the eerie atmosphere, the world has gone quiet.  Waiting for the storm.

Apparently this is a pretty dangerous storm.  It is supposed to take an unusual track, hitting Japan at an angle that will directly impact Osaka, Kyoto, and of course Wakayama.  It is predicted to hit Shikoku, the smallish island just to the west of Wakayama, with the same power as a category one or two hurricane.  It will rage through Thursday night and into Friday, moving slowly, hurling waves, wind, and rain at some of the most populated areas in Japan.  And I knew nothing about it until the day before it is about to hit.

In today’s day in age – with our constant connection to media, entertainment, and news – this seems impossible.  But living in a foreign country has disconnected me from many of the information sources I was addicted to in America.  I no longer watch the news – language barrier aside, Japanese news programs are just a little too off the wall for me to really follow.  There are English newspapers, but most of their coverage deals with politics, opinions, and Tokyo (the only Japanese city most of the world is concerned with).  For local weather and issues, there isn’t really an outlet I can turn to.  Meteorological jargon isn’t really top priority for my Japanese speaking friends and colleagues, either, so what is actually a major storm ended up sounding negligible when they tell me it will rain a lot.  This isn’t to say the information isn’t there.  Obviously I did find out about Nagnya before it arrived, if only by a day.  I saw something on Facebook, a recommended post.  From there I did my own digging.  There was very little information in English (at least not the kind that is continually updated with warnings and advisories), but it was there.  And if I hadn’t disconnected, I probably would be more prepared.

And here is the catch twenty two of living in a foreign country.  I have almost completely removed myself from the world outside my tiny bubble here in Wakayama.  I glance at MSN when I go to check my mail in the morning.  Sometimes I will click on a news story that shows up on my Facebook feed.  If I have a computer at work, maybe I will check out the headlines at The Japan Times.  But these things are not a daily occurrence.  I have no idea what is going on in the Diet.  Nor do I care.  This is not my country.  I have no vested interest in its future – aside from a love of the people here and a hope for their continued prosperity.  But I am just as clueless about the news from America.  Donald Trump is running for President?  The Supreme Court ruled in favor of marriage equality (yeah!)?  There are wildfires in Canada?  Sometimes my family, especially Anata, will try and discuss things going on in America with me, but usually they give up after a few minutes when I admit I have no idea what is going on.  I have no facts or opinions at this point.  The politics, environmental issues, and everything else going on in America, is far away and part of another world.  One I am unconcerned with at this particular moment (for the most part).  Instead I am more interested in what there is to do in Tokyo when I go for summer vacation.

In a way, this detachment is amazing.  I feel liberated from worry and concern.  I am no longer bombarded with dire predictions and unimaginable tragedies unfolding on 24 hour loop in front of a voyeuristic public.  Life is simpler and so much happier.  In the states I was tied to several news outlets.  I would check stories against left and right, trying to figure out the truth in a politically biased arena.  I was constantly reading and digesting the news – forming opinions in some cases or just becoming informed in others.  At some level, this was beneficial.  It made me an individual, with thoughts and opinions.  It gave me something to discuss (and sometimes argue) with friends and family.  But it was also soul sucking.  With every broadcast, the world seemed like a darker and scarier place.  For an eternal optimist, the incessant waves of negativity were slowly leeching away my happiness.

Now, I am much happier just not knowing.  For the most part.  Until there is a storm bearing down on me and I feel wholly unprepared.

*Update; The storm passed with no problems.  There was a lot of wind and A LOT of rain, but no real damage in my area.  I got wet walking to work.  That was about it.

Nothing is ever easy in Japan

Bureaucracy is never easy.  Sometime it seems that governments and financial institutions make a conscious effort to make paperwork as confusing and difficult as possible.  I realize it is important to have the personal details right so you can be sure you are taxing, arresting, or otherwise inconveniencing the right John Smith, but sometimes I feel a trial by combat would be easier than jumping through the hoops of bureaucracy.  This is why Anata usually handles the taxes and other legal issues.  I ain’t got time for that.  Or the patience.

But compared to Japan, American bureaucracy is a cake walk.  While the average Japanese person detests and is confused by paperwork just as much as Americans, the Japanese government seems to have a huge hard on for killing trees and making people wait in lines.  The process moves with the usual Japanese efficiency, but it is still a traumatic ordeal.  And if you are a foreigner, this is even worse.

To start with, I have at least four different names in Japan.  This is confusing for everyone.  Because US passports include middle names, the name on most of my official documents is not the name I use.  Then you have the name order confusion.  In Japan last names come first.  But I address myself (and write my name) with my first name (no middle name) then last name.  To make it easy for Japanese speakers to understand, these should be written in katakana, the Japanese alphabet for foreign words.  So not only do I not know what my name is, I can’t spell it either.  Because of this a simple task at the bank or post office becomes an hours long process.  Usually it ends with me throwing all my documents - passport, residence card, bank card, hanko, and bank book - at the frightened clerk and begging for help in broken Japanese.  Needless to say, everyone has a terrible time that day.

The language barrier (especially written) causes more headaches when official requests come in the mail.  At least face to face I can usually pantomime and Google translate my way through bureaucratic red tape.  It takes forever, but it is doable.  With mail, however, I am up the proverbial creek.  I am lucky to have made some amazing friends in this country.  Some are Japanese and some can speak and read Japanese.  They are always willing to help, thank the old gods and the new, but there is always a moment of terror as they try and explain or understand.  These are usually very personal documents, too, so that doesn’t help – especially with my Japanese friends who are much more concerned with privacy.

I guess I am just frustrated because I thought I had it all sorted out.  Or at least a basic idea of how it worked.  But moving threw the mother of all monkey wrenches into the works and I am still dealing with the fall out almost two months later.  It is frustrating and humiliating in a way.  At thirty, almost thirty-one, I should be able to adult at a respectable level.  But yet I am struggling like a college freshman.  And sadly there are no parents here to help.  No husband to rely on for the more confusing bits (read numbers).  For the first time in almost a year of living here, I feel scared and alone.  Like the day I stepped off the plane.  I don’t like it.

Everybody Poops: Toilets in Japan

Japan is a country of juxtapositions.  Old and new meet in a strange conglomeration of culture, tradition, technology, and humanity.  Perhaps the most striking example of this can be found in the public toilet.

For Americans, this is a difficult subject to talk about.  Probably for many westerners.  But satisfying the basic bodily function becomes an experience when you move to Japan.  It takes mental fortitude, an adventurous spirit, and some really strong leg muscles.

Eastern Toilets

This is a typical eastern style toilet.  Sometimes referred to as a squatty potty, it is the traditional Japanese toilet.  As the nickname implies, you squat over the trough, facing the hood.  This goes for gentlemen, too.  If you are lucky, there is a bar or piece of plumbing to hold onto.  If not, you do your best to brace yourself.  I usually use the walls.

If you think you will escape Japan without at least one experience with an eastern toilet, you are in for a rude awakening – especially if you are the type who enjoys the sights and sounds off the beaten path.  This is the type of toilet you will find in most older buildings (homes, restaurants, and attractions).  Cleanliness depends on the establishment, as with any restroom facility, but it is best to be mentally prepared.  You will step in piss.  There is a good chance you will splash.  So take your time and just try to stay calm.

Why do Japanese do this?  I have been told it is because they felt having your butt touch the same surface as another person’s butt was just not cool.  Or it could be this is just the way things were always done.  China has even scarier toilets than any squatty potty I have ever seen and they have been in contact with western people (and western plumbing) for much longer.  It could be because this type of toilet takes up far less space.  Doors open across the trough so you can fit more toilets in less square feet.  It could also be that squatting is a very common position here.  You see everyone from young children to old women doing it, so they probably don’t find it difficult or uncomfortable.  If it isn’t unnatural, there is probably no reason to change the toilet design.

Whatever the reason, don’t expect eastern toilets to go anywhere.  Even in new, high-end public restrooms you will find more of them than western toilets.  You will see women dressed to the nines in skirts and heels step over the porcelain trough and close the stall door without a second thought.  It is just us gaijin that have issues.  But if you don’t want to wait in an incredibly long line for any longer than you have to, waiting for the one western toilet in the entire bathroom, you will get over your trepidation quickly.  I still very much prefer western style toilets, but you find you can adapt to pretty much anything when you really have to pee.

Western Toilets

On the other end of the spectrum, we have the Japanese version of the good old john.  As I have mentioned before, Japan has a tendency to take things they like from other countries and make it their own.  They also seem to have an AI fetish.  In Japan, the toilets are probably smarter than you.

In some public places, you will find your basic western toilet – white, with a seat, maybe a lid.  But you will soon find out these are the dumpiest restrooms – schools, public parks, and the sketchiest of konbinis.  Any business or homeowner with a modicum of self respect knows that butts want to be pampered.  Going to the restroom isn’t simply satisfying a bodily function. Like everything in Japan, it should be a sensory experience.

To start with, there will be music, the sound of running water, or birds chirping.  This is to cover up any unpleasant sounds that accompany you know, being a human.  But it is also meant to relax you?  Tabun?

As you drop trou and take a seat for the event, you will notice a warm sensation on your newly exposed flesh.  Yes, Japan has heated toilet seats.  It is one of  the most amazing things you will ever experience on a cold winter morning (especially since central heating is not really a thing here).  However, in summer it can be like plopping your posterior on Satan’s own can.  Fairly certain I sustained burns from some public toilets turned up a little too high.

Toilet Control Panel

So you have music and toasty buns.  A pleasant experience all in all.  But wait, there’s more.  Before you flush, you have a selection of bidet services you can choose from to complete your toilet experience.  If this is your first time, or you are slightly inebriated, I do not recommend pressing the buttons randomly.  That is how you end up violated by a toilet.  And once the jets start, it can be difficult to find the off switch so you end up in tears, the whole moment ruined, because you can’t simply stand up.  This was not my best moment.

But if you have the courage, it can be a refreshing experience.  You can select the style and pressure of your preference.

Now that you have finished your business, it is time to flush and get back to life.  And here is where it tends to fall apart.  For all their innovation and uniformity, Japan has yet to figure out how to put the toilet handle (or button) in a single, easily recognizable place.  I have spent ten minutes just trying to find the flush.  Many toilets are automatic, especially at train stations and department stores, but other locations seem to work at their own pace.  Check for a handle first (on the front or right side of the tank).  If that fails, or if the toilet is tankless, try looking behind the lid for a handle.  If those fail, you should look for a button on the bidet controls or just on the wall.  In many public restrooms there is an emergency call button on the wall as well, so be careful.  It usually pretty close to the flush button.  If you read Japanese, you will never confuse these two.  If you don’t…

Personally, I find these magic toilets far more frightening than the most run down squatty potties.  Like vending machines, I tend to be leery of machines so close to sentience.  I mean what if one day the toilet realized what it was?  Shiver.  In their strides to make even the most basic and disgusting human functions a calming, hygienic, and beautiful experience, I fear Japan may have gone too far.  Each trip to the restroom poses a conundrum, comfort and possible AI retaliation or building leg muscles while trying not to soil yourself.  It is quite the quandary when you really need to use the facilities. 

So let’s get back to where we started – the bathroom as a metaphor for the juxtaposition of old and new in Japan.  We must first concede that everybody poops.  I'll wait for the giggles to stop.  You done?  Okay, everybody poops.  We must all use toilets (unless you were literally raised by wolves).  Japan has two vastly different options for dealing with this necessity, and old way and a new one.  Public restrooms will usually offer both options, side by side, with a map and sometimes directions for use.  The function is the same, but the choice makes all the difference.  And that is just Japan.  Old and new coexisting in harmony (for the most part) leaving the individual to choose their own path to gastric relief.

In case you had no idea how to use a toilet.

Cooking in a closet

I wasn’t always a good cook.  My first culinary accomplishment was microwave scrambled eggs.  We had a gas stove that wasn’t self lighting and my sister and I liked to “surprise” Otosan and Okasan with breakfast in bed.  At least with the microwave we couldn’t set the house on fire.  From there I moved up to Kraft Mac and Cheese.  Then my cooking stalled out until college.  It wasn’t till I stared living with Anata that my cooking skills started to rapidly improve. We bonded over food – the preparation, the flavors, the experience.  He was a much better cook, able to layer flavors in his head and figure out just what was missing, but with his encouragement (and iron stomach) I was able to become a respectable cook.  We were always on the lookout for exciting new recipes.  It didn’t always turn out.  I remember one epic failure.  Anata left me in charge of marinade for the chicken.  He told me to follow my nose and add things I liked the smell of.  I like the smell of vanilla.  I think it was the only dish we threw out without even trying to eat.  But usually we had great success and I found myself trusting my judgment when it came to spices and ingredients.  I was getting good at this cooking thing!

Then I moved to Japan. 

Because of our mutual love of food and food preparation, Anata and I had a really well stocked kitchen and pantry.  We had the right knives and pans for most types of cooking.  We had a store of basic ingredients and rarer ones we really liked.  But Japan is not designed for this type of hoarding.  So now I had one frying pan, one pot, and one knife.  Living in Osaka I had access to slightly more utensils.  I could borrow from my roomies.  But my selection of cookware was drastically reduced.

My kitchen ... All of it.

As was my preparation space.  While my kitchen at home was not huge, it was big enough for two adults, two dogs, and a small pony to work comfortably in.  I had an oven, a microwave, and four burners.  We also had a toaster oven, but it was rarely used.  I had cupboards and counters galore.  So there was plenty of room for slicing and dicing.  Cooking in my current apartment feels like cooking in a closet compared to what I am used to.  I have two burners, but can only use one at a time.  My work space is a foot square pull out board.  My cabinets have been reduced by several orders of magnitude.  Is it any wonder I eat out all the time?

I haven’t given up completely, though.  But cooking has become a battle of wills instead of the purely joyful experience it used to be.  From finding the ingredients to maneuvering in my tiny space, cooking in Japan wa mendokusei!  It starts with me scouring cookbooks and online recipes that don’t require ovens, multiple pans, fancy utensils, or use of the metric system.  Then I have to figure out ingredients.  While this seems simple, it can be very difficult and involves me harassing old women and clerks at my grocery store.  Preparation is an exercise in quantum physics and wibbly wobbly timey wimey bits.  I have to prepare everything before I even start cooking which creates more dishes than I have sometimes.  Then I have to store them until I am ready to cook – usually in the bedroom because that is the only space available.  Only after I have washed, chopped, grated, and diced everything is it time to cook.

For the most part cooking here is just making comfort food; things I cannot find at restaurants or konbinis.  Grilled cheese, tacos, fajitas, Kraft Mac and Cheese.  But there have also been some more traditional Japanese foods.  Kare (curry), ramen and udon, hamburg steak…

When I do cook, it usually turns out pretty tasty.  But the hassle is hardly worth it most of the days.

After a year of trying to cook here, I have a huge respect for Japanese women (and men) who cook.  It is truly a labor of love One that I would like to understand a little better.  I would like to learn the fine art of tempura and steaming before I leave.  I also want to know what I can do with all the delicious looking fresh fish I come across in the groceries and markets.  Cooking in Japan really is mendokusei, but learning to do it can only make me a better cook in the long run.  Like so many thing here, the challenge, the acceptance of conditions you find yourself in and your ability to adapt to them, the way created between you, the kitchen, and the food, work to improve your character and your soul.  Food is not just food in Japan; it is an experience of mind and body.  So it would make sense that its preparation is the same.

Have it your way? Not in Japan.

When Anata came to visit, there was a lot to plan.  Hotels needed to be books.  Train and ferry schedules checked.  Destinations to be researched.  An itinerary to pack with amazing adventures.  But there was also one, not very fun thing to worry about.  Anata has Celiac Disease.  This means he cannot eat (or in some cases be around) anything that contains gluten.  So obviously no bread, right?  But gluten is found in an astounding number of non-bread things.  At first we thought it would be easy to stay gluten free in Japan.  It is the land of rice after all.  But it turns out even soy sauce can have gluten in it.  As the trip approached, we were looking at two weeks of sushi (most kind, but not his favorite, eel), mochi, green tea, and white rice.  We couldn’t share any of my favorite foods!  No ramen, no okonomiyaki, no yakisoba or takoyaki.  I wish I could say I approached this with grace, understanding, and support, but I still have some growing to do in that department.  Instead, I was frustrated and angry.  We managed to make it through the trip with only a couple flare ups, but meal time was tense to say the least.

The main reason there was so much trepidation was the language issue.  I have no idea what the Japanese word for gluten is.  Even if I did, there was a good chance the poor server I asked would have no idea how to answer.  Not because of language, but because they just didn’t know if the dish we were pointing at on the menu used gluten.  Celiacs isn’t a thing in Japan.  Food allergies in general don’t seem to exist.  There is some issue with lactose intolerance, but for the most part Japanese people can eat anything.  So when you come in with you gaijin food allergies, they really don’t know what to do.  (They also don’t really understand vegetarians, vegans, and other special diets). 

Japanese menus don’t offer gluten free options, but they also don’t really have a system for special orders of any kind.  In Japan, you get what is on the menu.  There are no substitutions.  You can sometimes add things, like tomato or mustard on a burger, but even that is rare.  It is a system designed for efficiency.  The cook only has to master a single preparation technique for each dish.  While this works great for almost everyone, it can make eating out difficult for someone with food issues.  Thankfully, Japanese restaurants usually offer a diverse menu and Anata was able t find something that probably didn’t have gluten in it, fingers crossed.

Aside from the obvious celiac issue, I actually like the Japanese system.  I enjoy getting my burger the way I want it – mustard, mayo, cheese, lettuce, and tomato – but I feel Americans may have taken the concept a bit too far.  When someone has enough substitutions and 86s to fill a novel, everyone is going to have a bad dining experience.  The waitress who has to write it all down then type it in.  The cook who has to process all the information, prepare the dish to spec, and juggle a dozen other orders already in the works.  And ultimately the customer who gets almost irrationally upset when their order is wrong.  I am guilty of this.  Oh so guilty.  I once threw a plate of chili cheese fries against my kitchen wall when Anata brought them home from the burger place down the street.  They had used nacho cheese instead of shredded cheese, something I had specifically told him to order.  There was a lot more going on at the time, but it was still a huge overreaction.  We have come to feel that special orders are a right.  The roots of freedom and independence are deep in the American psyche and this is just another manifestation.  But special orders are really a privilege.  A privilege that most other countries don’t indulge their diners with.

So while Japan’s strict dining rules can be a hassle for those with special dietary needs, I feel it is beneficial for everyone else.  You are forced to try new things.  You are also forced to acknowledge the kindness of others who are willing to cook anything for you, you lazy bum.  With an influx of Westerners and a great understanding of food allergies, Japan is slowly changing to offer vegetarian, vegan, and gluten free menu options.  They are also marking which allergens are present (if you read kanji).  This is great news for people like Anata who want to enjoy this beautiful country without experiencing a hospital visit.  But I hope Japan never gets to the acceptance of special orders.  Don’t let me have it my way, Japan.

Spring

Late spring has always been one of my favorite times of year.  The weather has finally stopped with the hot, cold nonsense that usually ends up with me having the sniffles.  The flowers are in full bloom and the world in general has come back to life.  Like sap thinning and then finally moving in the ancient trees, the world thaws and awakes.

In me this usually brings on a ravenous hunger and a desire to move.  Swimming, dancing, running, I am desperate to work the winter out of my body.  Being cooped up inside all winter, I get antsy at the first signs of spring.  In South Dakota this usually spelled disaster since I would start spring cleaning and planting long before the last gasp of winter.  We lost a lot of seedlings and ended up with significant heating bills one tenacious winter.

Spring in Japan comes in the same starts and stops, drizzly weather, and air of anticipation.  However when Mother Nature finally decides it is time to start the floral new year, it is something beyond words.  It makes the cold, dreary days of winter more poignant as you realize the bleak depressing weather was to cleanse you pallet between brilliant autumn and the breathtaking beauty of spring.  Like everything else here, the seasons have a keen sense of aesthetics.  So very Japanese.

The school year was almost over.  You could feel the tension and energy mounting as the students counted down the minutes till haru yasumi.  In America, we call it summeritis.  In Japan the school year starts and ends in spring.  It is a time of transition for baby plants and baby humans.

The first flowers started showing themselves in February.  Plums.  While not the Empress of Spring, they are still strikingly beautiful.  From pure white to vivid magenta, they sounded the death knell of winter.  In Osaka, the best place for plum blossoms is the plum orchard at Osakajo.  Still wearing coats and with trusty umbrellas, people timidly emerged from their dens on the first days of spring.  Under lead colored skies, they marveled at the amazing power and beauty of nature.

Soon the vibrant blossoms were gone, replaced by tender green leaves.  But other plants had take up the mantle of beautiful spring.  Magnolias and daffodils took the moment to shine.  But everyone was still holding their breath.  Still waiting for the imperial jewel of Japanese spring – sakura.

The sakura wave starts slowly, a few isolated trees here and there.  Then suddenly, the world, or at least the parks, gardens, and pretty much any public areas, erupt in pink and white blossoms.  People swarm to these places.  Where only a few weeks ago only the bravest were on hand to witness the glory of ume, it seems all of Japan comes out for sakura.  With blue plastic tarps that mimic the color of the spring sky, makeshift picnic tables, and enough food and sake to last the whole weekend, they spend the afternoon with good company enjoying the beauty and brevity of life in a celebration called Hanami.

Anata and I rode the Sakura Wave from Kagoshima up Kyushu to Kumamoto.  We caught the iconic castle at the peak of its seasonal beauty.  We celebrated our own Hanami under its ancient cherry trees.  But that is a story for another time.

All too quickly the sakura petals fall, like the snow just months before.  But while their passing is sad, it does not dishearten.  Because spring is here.  The new year has arrived.  Schools return with students attending opening ceremonies on a carpet of sakura petals.  And, as if they have been waiting for the goddess to pass, the other flowers begin to raise their colorful heads.  Yellows, oranges, reds, purples, blues.  The delicate whites and pinks of sakura are replaced by the flashiest blooms of spring.  They have waited patiently in the wings for their time to shine. 

This is when my favorite flowers, wisteria and irises, emerge.

Spring is truly an amazing season.  It seems even more so in Japan.  Japanese philosophy is the perfect fit for this astounding and fleeting moment.  Like the glimpse of an embroidered sleeve from under a bamboo screen, the call of a lone bird in the silent mountains, the intricate details present in every element of life, but easily overlooked.  The deep connection with this particular moment.  The understanding that the world cannot be changed, only inhabited.  A harmony of life, death, and moments in-between.