Absence does not always make the heart grow fonder

In many ways my time here has made me appreciate my loved ones more – especially Anata.  Being on my own has made me realize all the little things I took for granted – like being able to call Okasan whenever I wanted, having someone to cook with and for, sharing a bottle of wine and gossip with a best friend, or just having another presence in the house.  With time and distance I was able to see the things that really mattered, rather than all the mundane gripes and complaints that build up over the years.  So in many ways the old adage is true, I did grow fonder of Anata and all of those I love back home.  I found new value in my relationships and new layers to people.

However, this wasn’t the case every minute of our time apart.  The honest truth is I would go days and weeks without thinking of those back home.  I was busy having adventures, meeting new people, trying new food, seeing new sights.  While there was always a small part of me that wished I could share these things with friends and family back home, they were not forefront in my thoughts.  This has been a very selfish adventure.  I know I haven’t thought of them, worried about them, or missed them half as much as they have missed me.  It is something I feel guilty about, when I do think about those back home.  It is also something I will have to keep in mind when I return – especially with those closest to me who have missed me the most.  While I was off exploring a whole new world, wrapped up in myself, their thoughts were on me.  I could not have done this without their love and support, I am truly grateful, and I only hope the change they see in me from this experience is enough to make up for not always thinking about them.

Use it or lose it

In college I took two semesters of Spanish during summer school.  For six weeks I spent like three hours a day in practically an emersion environment.  Pretty soon, I started thinking in Spanish.  I could hold a fairly long conversation.  I was actually speaking and understanding a foreign language.  And then summer ended and I was done with my language requirements.  Despite the face I was living in Tucson, Arizona, just an hour from Mexico, all the Spanish I had studied that summer (and the four years before) slipped away like desert sand in the wind till I can hardly ask where is the bathroom anymore.

When it comes to language, if you don’t use it, you lose it.  I learned that with Spanish.  As soon as I stopped studying and moved to an area with less Spanish speaking people, it all faded away.  I am sure it is still there, if I started studying again.  In fact, when I am searching for a Japanese word, a Spanish one sometimes slips out.  But what I didn’t realize is you can still lose what you have picked up even if you are still immersed in the language!

I have not done much to study Japanese while I have been in Japan.  There have been a few half-hearted attempts at kanji.  I had some success trying to translate the first volume of One Piece, an anime and manga I enjoy and know the story for.  But mostly I have learned by listening and talking to people.  When I lived in Osaka, this was easy.  I had my flat mates, the people on the shopping street, and neighborhood friends to practice with.  At school my desk was right in the middle of things and my coworkers really tried to talk to me.  But when I moved to Wakayama, I started to slip.  Traveling between two schools kind of distanced me from my coworkers.  Not to mention high school teachers are a lot busier.  So where I used to chat with the nurse and other teachers without classes, I now find myself sitting quietly at my desk in the back of the teachers’ room.  This is not to say my teachers ignore me or avoid me, it is just different.

My situation at home is different, too.  I no longer stroll past mom and pop businesses on a daily basis, stopping to chat about weather, family, and work.  I no longer have flat mates to listen to, much less discuss life with.  My apartment is in the middle of a residential neighborhood, but I hardly see my neighbors.  My commute is long and by the time I get home it is easier to cook for myself than find a restaurant or take away close by.  So my weeknights are spent quietly.  I still watch anime, but I have found myself reading more than listening.

 Now this would not be so much of a problem if I had kept up studying on my own.  But without people to practice with, the studying is hard.  I never really figured out how to learn language.  I have tried different things, but nothing really seemed to work.  Or, more likely, I never really gave it the time to work.  I have never been really good at commitment.  But studying on my own, I was always left with questions of why and how with no way to answer them.  Conjugation, counters, levels of politeness – Japanese is a very difficult language to understand the ins and outs of.  Flash cards and kanji didn’t help me speak or listen.  I need a structured class, I think.  Something with other people that will give me support and keep me accountable.

It sounds counter intuitive, but I have kind of put learning Japanese on the back burner for now.  My time here is drawing to a close, and I would rather spend the time exploring and interacting than holed up studying.  Perhaps when I am back in the US I will have the time and resources to learn the language I have been living with for over a year. 

My struggle with language has been my biggest frustration in my time here.  Being unable to communicate has left me isolated, confused, and often frustrated.  Learning while living here turned out to be very difficult with a full time job and a world of amazing things to explore.  If I could do it again, I would put off moving here until I could speak and read the language at least a little bit.

Closing time

So gather up your jackets, move it to the exits
I hope you have found a friend
Closing time
Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end

                                                                      -Closing Time by Semisonic

The tickets have not been purchased or the paperwork filed, but I have decided I will be leaving Japan the first part of May.  As they say, all good things must come to an end, and after almost two years here, it is about time to say goodbye.

 It wasn’t an easy decision – there is still so much I want to see and do.  I have fallen in love with this country and the idea of leaving is difficult to accept.  Riding the train, walking down the street, shopping for groceries, I think about all the little moments I will miss.  Watching the clouds snake like smoke around the mountains makes me sad to leave such natural beauty.  Clicking through news articles from home about racism, violence, and politics makes me long to stay here where I feel safe.  And spending the afternoon in Namba, Umeda, Tennoji, or any crowded neighborhood, watching the sea of humanity ebb and flow around me, makes me cringe to return to a quiet, rural existence.  The people, the food, the culture – I have loved every second of my time here and part of me really does not want to leave.

But another part of me says it is time.  There will always be things left undone, but now it is time for the next big adventure.  It is time to process all the experiences from these two years.  To take stock of the changes I have gone through physically and mentally.  To apply what I have done and learned.  This was always meant to be a journey of self-discovery and growth.  I feel I have achieved that in spades.  I have gathered the pieces, now it is time to put the puzzle together. 

冬

As the vibrant reds, oranges, and golds of fall fade into the dull greys and browns of winter, a small part of me is relieved that this will be my last winter in Japan.  Not because I am ready to leave – there is still too much to see and experience in this amazing country – but because winter in Japan, like winter everywhere, is best spent with family and friends.

 The days grow shorter.  Darkness comes earlier and stays later.  The color seems to bleed from the world.  Outdoor adventures become fewer as the weather gets colder and more sullen.  This year the change is more acute since I am living alone.  No coffee and mumbled ohayous while darting across cold wood floors.  No hot, homemade soup waiting after a dark and freezing commute home.  Not even a heater I can program to come on before I get home.  Just a cold, dark house.

 If I were Japanese – or living in a Japanese house at least – I could look forward to lazy days snuggled under the kotatsu, eating mikan and napping.  If I were in America I would have warm, fuzzy puppies, my favorite winter foods, holiday celebrations, and central heating.

 The days will pass, though, growing slowly warmer and brighter.  I have a visit from Anata to look forward to, end of year school parties with coworkers and friends, and indoor adventures I have been putting off.  The weeks and months will slide by, probably faster than I want, and I will soon be looking back wishing for more time.  Just a few more weeks of winter so my time here can last that much longer.

 However, I have not reached that point yet.  While I am excited about my winter plans (especially my Christmas visit) I am already looking forward to Japan’s second most beautiful season – Spring.  Perhaps it is by design that the melancholy months of winter separate the two most colorful seasons – a chance to cleanse the mental palate to better appreciate the colors and excitement as the world returns to life.

Fallen Stars

I guess when you reach a certain age, the heroes, celebrities, and artists of your youth begin to pass away.  It is inevitable – even the brightest stars burn out – but it is still deeply upsetting.  In some ways, the death of a celebrity isn’t as personally impactful as the death of a close relative or friend.  You did not know them personally, so the daily struggle with their loss isn’t quite as poignant.  But in other ways, their death can cut even deeper than the loss of those near you.  These are the people that helped you dream.  That inspired you.  They shared their soul with you without you ever meeting them.  They shaped your mind, fashion sense, and personality in ways no other person in your life could have.  In a way, the death of an artist is a small death to that part of your soul they touched with their art.   

Since coming to Japan, I have felt the loss of four very important people – two actors, a musician, and an author.  Each time I have felt that the world lost an amazing talent.  That there was just a little less magic in the world.  And that I had lost an amazing source of inspiration and wisdom.

Watching the news of David Bowie’s death unfold across social media was painful and isolating.  As most of Europe is waking up, I am half way through my day.  Checking Facebook between episodes of anime, I was shocked to see the headline.  At first I thought it was a joke.  But then I realized it was a BBC post and the reality of it began to sink in.  As my day turned to night, and my friends and family in Europe and America were just waking up, the number of posts increased.  Comedy and nerd sites I follow, new sites and celebrities, artists, musicians, and friends – my Facebook feed became a memorial of pictures and music revolving around this amazing artist.  Some of my Japanese friends and entities shared their thoughts and feelings, he was an international icon, but as I scrolled through, I couldn’t help wanting to be home right now.  I felt isolated in my grief.  While some people here knew and understood how amazing the world was because of this man, many people around me did not.  Even worse, I could not even express my feelings with the ones that shared my pain.  As the news swept over Europe, I wished I could call friends and family in America.  Being the first to know and being unable to share your shock and distress with those you turn to in such situations adds so much pain to an already painful event.

Death is always sad.  But when it is an unexpected death, death at what seems an unreasonably young age, it is even harder to cope with.  For me, David Bowie’s passing wasn’t just the loss of an amazing man; it was a reminder of how fragile and short life can be.  I have spent almost two years in Japan.  Two fantastic years of self-growth, adventures, and just pure wonder.  But I have also spent almost two years away from those that I love the most.  I have been away from my fur babies the equivalent of fourteen dog years.  I have been separated from Anata for one fifth of our relationship and a quarter of our marriage.  I have missed holidays, weddings, and births.  And I have missed countless tiny moments with people I love – moments that might not be milestones in life, but the moments of pure being that are what really make up a life.  I do not regret my decision to come to Japan, but I am also beginning to understand what I gave up in exchange. 

As the world mourns the loss of a great man, I hope we do not forget the things his life taught us about magic, acceptance, and the stars.  Or those things we learned about ourselves from his death.

Eerie Japan

Magic exists.  Not necessarily the Harry Potter-esque magic – Expecto Patronum and all that – but there is magic all around us.  It is a slight ripple in the veil between fantasy and reality.  In some places this magic is stronger.  New Orleans is brimming with this magic – the mixture of history, culture, and atmosphere can convince even the stoutest nonbeliever that maybe the handsome young man with hungry blue eyes that just passed wasn’t completely human.  Places with magic inspire us.  They make us dream.  They enchant us into believing that maybe the fantastic is just out of sight – the figure seen out of the corner of your eye, the whispers not quite audible on the other side of the door, the smell that stirs strong memories but vanishes in an instant.  These magical places tell us that all the stories, legends, and beings we have loved and feared our whole lives are waiting just beyond the veil.  And as you walk the streets of these magical places, you realize it is possible to pass through the veil into the world of the fantastic.

Japan is one of these magic places.  Walking down the quiet, nighttime streets you can feel the magic like heat radiating from the buildings...the streets.  Like New Orleans, Japan has the magic of time.  You can almost see the ghosts moving through hundreds of years along the same streets, past the same houses.  In a place that resists change, where even simple residences have stood for hundreds of years, time has cast its spell.  The old man in the kimono walking toward you could be real.  Or he could be a phantom, moving down familiar streets in another time or reality.  But it is more than just time that weaves its spell over this country.  The architecture itself – the meeting of old and new – creates bazaar shadows and throws sounds in ways that make you wonder if you are really alone.  The streets are well lit, but in such narrow alleys and winding pathways, the electric lights can easily play tricks on the eyes and deceive the rational mind.  The people themselves have their own kind of magic. Homogeneous by nature, a crowded street or subway can bewitch a tired mind, allowing feelings of isolation, otherness, and fear to creep in.

As I have wandered the nighttime streets of Osaka, Kyoto, and Tokyo I could swear I have walked with ghosts, seen the impossible peeking from the shadows, and somehow picked my way through the dangers of the unexplainable to return home safe and inspired.

Outside the cities, in the forests and mountains, there is magic too.  Unlike the cities, where time seems to bleed together, the country is timeless.  Walking down a mountain path, you never know what time you will emerge from – the present, a hundred years in the past, even further back.  Away from the noise of the modern city, time simply ceases to exist.  Coming around a bend in the path could frighteningly, but not impossibly, bring you face to face with a bear, a boar, kitsune, tengu, or even a dinosaur just as easily as a fellow hiker.  Even the many temples and shrines hidden in the mountains, valleys, and forests across Japan exude this feeling of timelessness.  Covered in moss, twisted with roots, and eerily quiet, these places of worship seem to have been grown rather than constructed.  It is as if they have always been – just like the trees in the forests and the rocks in the rivers. 

Japan is full of magic.  It inspires me and fills my soul with stories.  It makes the fantastic come to life and sets my imagination ablaze.  It makes it easy to believe there is something amazing, maybe frightening, but certainly exciting waiting just out of sight.  It is a place of waking dreams, where anything can happen if you only let it.