Learning the way of the sword

No matter how long I stayed in Japan, I would always have been an outsider. Even if I spoke perfect Japanese, observed every nuance of the tea ceremony, somehow mastered the art of Japanese social interaction, I would always be a gaijin – a foreigner.

I don’t point this out to be critical or negative. For me, being accepted as Japanese was never the goal. Japan was just the crucible to forge a stronger, more self-aware me.

But it was frustrating. Knowing that no matter how hard I tried or wanted, I would never be completely accepted. I could change my personality, my mannerisms, and even my voice, but I couldn’t change my body.

Growing up, I was taught that difference is only skin deep. I have come to realize that this is an astonishingly oversimplified way to look at it. Even within my own culture. But let’s start from there.

I came to Japan to find the universal humanity. That commonality hiding just below the surface of our different skin. But what I realized is that difference starts at the skin and goes all the way down to our very souls.

I did find commonality in Japan. A lot of it! But I also found differences in thinking, values, and ideals in even the most basic of elements of daily life. It was very interesting. I began to realize that there was no common seed of humanity. We were not all pines at our core, bur rather we were all trees, just different species. Some are oak, some pine, some maple, some ginko, some bamboo. We share the same simple needs – shelter, food, community – but how we achieve, interact, and value these can be vastly different.

And sometimes these differences can't be reconciled, just acknowledged.

Perhaps the clearest example of this came when I tried Kendo for the first and only time.

I was super excited. I had always loved pretending to be a sword wielder. As a child, I practiced with sticks, imagining I was Xena, Warrior Princess. I knew kendo would be very different, but I wanted to try. I wanted the experience.

I was decked out in the traditional uniform, handed the traditional practice sword, and given the most basic footwork.

You slap your foot down and make a few gallops forward. Only I couldn’t’ slap my foot. My sensei, bless his heart, showed me time and again. I could manage the moves well enough, but my slap was more of a stomp.

Turns out the problem was not in his instruction or my follow-through, but in my physical form. My feet were gaijin feet. They were long, bony, and high-arched. Japanese feet, on the other hand, are much more fleshy and flat. That explains all those stylish, flat shoes that killed my feet after a few hours.

No matter how hard I tried, I would never be able to master the kendo foot slap. Sure, I could still study and practice. In time I could become a respected kendo swordswoman. But I would always be a little different.

As I said, this isn’t a negative. In fact as an American, going about things my own way is kind of the heart and soul of my identity. I am not devastated that my physical body kept me from this and other Japanese experiences. I am not going to say I have always loved my feet, I haven’t, but that is another issue altogether. My feet are my feet. However, this experience reminded me that there will always be differences. I think these should be cherished, though. They make each person and culture individual. This might not be such a good thing to Japanese people, but for me it is. Our differences can bring us closer together if we let them.

I would love to end this story with something like my sensei and I both learned something that night, but I can’t. I am not sure what he took from the encounter. And I was a little too busy trying to remember the movements, positions, and shouts to really think deeply about it.

I can say it was an awesome experience. I was very lucky. Most Japanese kendo students will practice for years, making sure they have everything down perfect before they are allowed to participate in all the drills I was able to do that night. They would never dream of striking a partner after just 30 minutes of practice! I guess this was another difference I didn’t reflect on till much later.

Looking back now, I realize I learned a lot more than just kendo that night.

A Day at the Beach

I made this. No recipe. Just a taste profile in my mind, some readily available ingredients, and a Japanese inspiration. Cajun Paella.

I am pretty proud of myself. It needs a few tweaks, but it stands as yet another reminder of how much I have grown since I moved to Japan. Before Japan, I had to have a recipe (as I have mentioned). I could never create a dish like this. Not just because I wasn’t brave enough, though. Before Japan, I didn’t know what paella was!

And I wouldn’t know what paella was if it wasn’t for a certain seaside adventure in Wakayama.

“OK: Which sounds like more fun

Digging for clams or Oktoberfest in Sakai,” Ling’s message read.

It was late afternoon on a Friday, and we were trying to decide what to do with the approaching weekend.

Don’t get me wrong, I love a good Oktoberfest with lots of bratwurst and lederhosen, but I just wasn't feeling it.  Maybe it was because Japan isn't always good at international festivals.  They tend to revolve around what Japanese people believe happens in those cultures. Or maybe it was because drinking beer isn't my thing and I was assuming that would be the main focus of a German themed event in Sakai (see hesitation one).  Either way, digging for clams just seemed like way more fun!  Ling thought so too.

According to the website, the beach offered people the chance to dig their own clams for a reasonable ¥1300 (plus ¥100 for basket and rake rental).  After you had dug your last clam, you turned in your basket and however many clams you caught for 700 grams of clean, ready to cook clams.  They also offered grill rentals to cook your catch right there on the beach. 

It sounded like an amazing afternoon.  Plans were made, train schedules checked, and supplies purchased.  We hadn't had too many adventures like this before, so there was a need to purchase a cooler and the cookout goodies to fill it – drinks, mushrooms, corn, green peppers, and watermelon. 

At the appointed time, loaded with food and smelling of sunscreen, we departed for our unique adventure.

The beach was already crowded when we got there in the late morning.  Tents and grills were already up.  We were amazed at the amount and quality of the Japanese beach gear.  These people did not mess around when it came to beach time fun! 

You know the tents in Harry Potter? The ones where Mr. Weasley fits like the whole house in his bag?  This wasn’t just going to the beach, this was making the beach your b***h.  People had set up whole living rooms.  There were tables, chairs, and very well stocked coolers. 

The amount and range of grillables roasting over charcoal were astounding.  We saw prawns, meat, hamburgers, hot dogs. There were veggies I hadn’t ever seen in the grocery here.  And more of it than I had seen at any event sort of school lunch!

Not that I am all that dark myself...

Children, and some adults had all the latest technological gadgets and games.  They lounged in the shade updating Facebook or playing 3DS between bouts of sand castle building and tomodachi burying.  It was an interesting mix. 

Perhaps the second greatest shock was the fashion choices.  There was almost no skin!  I was wearing a thin shirt over a swimsuit top and felt so completely naked next to people in hoodies, sweaters, long pants, and high boots.  You’d have thought it was still winter rather than full on summer! Some people had shed a layer or two, one guy was already turning red from the sun, but for the most part, it seemed Japanese people must be a nation of mildly UV tolerant vampires. 

  

Ling and I found a bare spot of sand among the Bedouin palaces of the other beach goers.  We didn't have an umbrella, a pop-up picnic table, or any of the bells and whistles our Japanese neighbors did, but we still got big smiles as we spread out our towels.

Smaller children were already laughing and squealing at the water’s edge.  The adults were a little further out, knee-deep in the cold water.  Everyone was bent double, bucket in on hand, the other sifting through the sand at their feet for the elusive seafood prize.  Eager to try our own luck, Ling and I charged in, buckets and rakes ready.  The water was still very cold, but the sand felt good, and soon we were literally raking in the clams. 

It was an interesting experience - the cool water on your legs, the warm sun on your back.  You rake through the sand, desperate for that slight bit of resistance.  Ling was off to a good start.  But since I brought the veggies, he agreed to share.  Our buckets were soon half full and our legs and muscles burning from the back breaking labor.

We decided to take a brief rest to soak up some of the sun. 

As we watched the incredibly clothed Japanese people still at it, we realized why there were so many clams.  Turns out they seeded the beach.  A little john boat puttered by with a man throwing out clams by the handful.  The hunters swarmed, catching the clams before they even had a chance to bury themselves.  It was like a maritime version of Mardi Gras.  But knowing why there were so many clams in this little area didn’t diminish the thrill as we waded back into the hunt a little while later.  The eager diggers hadn’t captured all of our prey. 

After another twenty minutes, Ling and I had filled our daily quota (and even given some away to the children like gaijin clam fairies).  Triumphant, we traded our catch for a large bag of cleaned clams.

The next part was what we had both been anticipating and dreading since we decided to try this adventure.  Neither of us had been clamming before, but we knew even less about how to cook our catch.  Ling claimed he understood the gist of it, he had even googled it just to make sure, but I wasn't convinced.  I have no experience grilling (a skill I am content not to level up in), and when the grill turned out to be charcoal, I gave up any pretense of helping.

Ling soldiered on and, despite the fear of food poisoning, we took our first slurp of our hard won lunch.

It was far from the best bbq I have ever had.  The clams were super salty, the veggies needed some kind of marinade, and the charcoal was difficult.  But for a first run, it was great.  Grabbing clams hot off the grill with pilfered chopsticks.  Laughing as we ate our prizes.  It was a great end to a wonderful adventure. 

Smelling of sun and surf, we returned home.  We were sandy and exhausted, but also incredibly happy.  We had spent an amazing afternoon doing something we had never dreamed of doing in Japan.  Something we couldn't wait to do again. 

But with more friends and preparation. Our packing list for next time…

-umbrella or other shade

-chopsticks

-plates

-MEAT, MEAT, and more MEAT

-speakers and tunes

-volleyball or other toys

While there were many things I missed about Osaka, I realized that Wakayama would be filled with quiet, low-key adventures I would never find in the big city.  Afternoons lounging on the beach, hiking through cool, shady forests, enjoying friends and nature simultaneously.  It made me glad to know I had a year for all kinds of adventures.

Wait, great story, but what does it have to do with paella? Well, I’m not done yet.

Ling and I couldn’t possibly eat 1400 grams of clams in one afternoon. We were both still dubious of food poisoning, too, so we decided to take our maritime bounty home and deal with it later. Fresh clams are easy to freeze.

When I got off at Kinokawa Eki, tired and a little sunburned, I walked away with all the clams! Now with double the haul (Ling didn’t want them back), I needed to figure out double the recipes! And that is how I learned about paella. 

World History

Recently, I have been watching a show with footage from WWII that had been remastered in color. Unfortunate timing, given my growing belief that the world has lost its damn mind and we are heading toward Orwellian levels of fear mongering, hate, and government control. Based on my Facebook feed, at least. But that is a topic for some other time.

No, what struck me, as I was watching, was how little I actually knew about these important events. Did I sleep through world history?

Living in Japan, interacting with people from all over the world, I came to realize just how one-sided my education had been.

I don’t mean that in a negative way. My British friends had an equally nationally-centered world view. As did the Australian, Danish, German, Chinese, Korean, and Italians I met. Not to mention the Japanese. Everyone is taught history with themselves (or their country) at the center. The American Revolution isn’t the American Revolution to the British.

Before I moved to Japan, my knowledge of WWII history was very, very basic. Hitler. The Holocaust. Then the Americans saved the day.

I knew about Pearl Harbor, my grandfather was there, but I didn’t understand the skirmishes, sanctions, and politics that led up to it. I also didn’t understand the mindset of the Japanese people. Or any people other than my own.

I didn’t realize that Asia was fighting its own world war at the time. Or that they had fought the same war, over and over, for thousands of years. That the hatred between Japan, China, and Korea was as thick and deep as any European feud I ever studied. Maybe deeper.

Living abroad opened my eyes to just how small my world was. And how much I have left to learn.

It also makes me worry for those who don’t have the opportunity or desire try it themselves. They say that those who don’t study history are doomed to repeat it. But I would argue that those who don’t study ALL of history are equally doomed. We can no longer afford to look at things from a single perspective. We must open our eyes wide.

Yes, Hitler was a demon. But how did a demon come to power? Yes, Pearl Harbor was a tragedy. But how could two cultures see the world so differently that such an event was logical for one and incomprehensible for the other?

We must look past our self-centered version of the world. We must realize that there is always another side to the story. We must understand that others don’t think the same way we do, believe the same things we do, or hold the same values as we do.

Hindsight is always 20-20. I say that a lot. But as I watched the young men and women – almost all dead by now, but still so alive on the screen – I felt very aware of my monumental ignorance.

Not knowing. Not understanding. Being blind to the feelings and values of our fellow man. That is how WWII started. Will it be the catalyst for WWIII?

I survived the 2016 holiday season! Give me a medal or something!

We did it, we survived 2016. And I don’t mean like everyone was hoping Betty White did (or all the other celebrities we were crossing our fingers and praying for as 2016 came to its sad conclusion with a rapid escalation of the death toll). No, Anata and I survived The Holidays! We made it through the obligatory November and December events, even added a couple extra and hosted two, yes, two, dinner parties! Well, to be fair, there was a blizzard on Christmas Day, so we didn’t actually make it to every event on our jam-packed social calendar, but I was still pretty proud when the last guest left at 2 am New Year’s Day, and I was still alive.

I really missed Japan this holiday season. Don’t get me wrong, I was so excited to spend the holidays at home with family and friends, but I found myself longing for the quiet, relaxed winter break I had as a gaijin in Japan.

Japan doesn’t celebrate Thanksgiving (obviously), so my Novembers weren’t spent trying to cram and much turkey and mashed potatoes down my gullet as I could get a hold of. Otose did host a party around Thanksgiving each year to celebrate the anniversary of opening her clinic and to make the foreigners staying with her feel more at home, but there was no turkey or pumpkin pie. And there was just the one. This year I had two Thanksgivings!

Christmas was also a much more subdued affair. Not being a Christian nation, Japan doesn’t really celebrate Christmas. They still do some presents, but it is more a date night for young couples than a celebration of Jesus’s birth. There is cake and, surprisingly, buckets of KFC. That is the Japanese equivalent of Christmas Ham – KFC. I guess Colonel Sanders does kind of look like Santa (who does visit Japanese children, by the way)…

I have never been huge into Christmas, so I kind of enjoyed not hearing Christmas carols starting in October or seeing Santas on every street corner. It was nice to not have to decide between saying, “Merry Christmas” or “Happy Holidays” to friends and coworkers. There were sales of course (remember, I said it was a date night), but I felt that the Japanese were at least honest with themselves about the commercial juggernaut that Christmas has become. They weren’t trying to hide behind “Jesus is the reason for the season” or any other feeble excuse we offer up rather than admit that Christmas has become all about the gifts regardless of which happy holiday you celebrate. As a gaijin with a husband and family back in the states, I only had to worry about gifts for a very select few. It was amazing!

Not that I hate giving gifts (or getting them). I just hate how important they seem to have become.

Instead, I like the Japanese New Year gift giving tradition. They give kids money. Plain and simple.

And while we’re on New Year, I think it was one of my favorite holidays as a gaijin. For Japanese people, New Years can be super stressful. The family comes over and basically hangs out for three days. A lot like Christmas in America. Most families will visit the local shrine on New Year’s Eve or New Year’s Day to get the first blessing of the New Year. These can be crowded, raucous (in a Japanese way) outings. But for the most part, New Year’s is a time to be with family. To visit, play games, and just inhabit the same space for a brief time. With everyone running in so many different directions and for insanely long hours during the year, this is their time to relax and come together. I am sure daughters-in-law suffer through the same stony silences and critical looks, children get as antsy and tired of being scolded, and young people roll their eyes at Grandpa’s anecdotes (or want to) just as many times as Americans, but in my mind Japanese New Year is a wonderful time of family and togetherness. What I wish Christmas were a little more in this country.

I guess I am kind of jealous of Japanese New Year traditions. I would love to spend three days sitting around a kotatsu with Otosan and Okasan, without anywhere to go or anything to do. In America, we do nothing but run, cook, shop, and eat from November till the first week of January. I would much prefer to sip tea (or sake), share a bento with my loved ones, and just be.

I am sure I will get back in the hang of the holidays by next year. I was grateful for the time I got to spend with everyone, the meals we got to share, and the catching up on everything missed, I just wish we could have spread it out over a few more weeks (or months). Maybe next year I can convince Anata to try Japanese style holidays. Or at least build me a kotatsu so we can enjoy watching the snow in warmth and comfort.

2017: The Year of Bamboo

Bamboo is flexible, bending with the wind but never breaking, capable of adapting to any circumstance. It suggests resilience, meaning that we have the ability to bounce back even from the most difficult times… Your ability to thrive depends, in the end, on your attitude to your life circumstances. Take everything in stride with grace, putting forth energy when it is needed, yet always staying calm inwardly.

                                                                                                            -Ping Fu

2016 was a turbulent year. I moved back across an ocean. I had to say goodbye to some wonderful people. I had to readjust from a life in a bustling metropolitan area to life in a rural agricultural area. There was more than an ocean between me and the friends and family I had left behind, but I had to find a way to reconnect. I made new friends, which has always been a little difficult for me. I had surgery, was laid up for months, and found myself drowning in the same dark emotions I had fled from two years before.  I floundered. I rallied. I floundered again. Like a small ship on a rough sea.

This sounds very negative. Did nothing good happen in 2016? It did. I am glad to be home with Anata and my puppies. I have a new job working for the local newspaper, which keeps me involved in the community and actually uses my degree. I picked up another new job writing English lessons for an online company. I get to read good books and think about them critically. But 2016 was also full of emotions that I am just now able to process.

And now it is 2017.

Study the teachings of the pine tree, the bamboo, and the plum blossom. The pine is evergreen, firmly rooted, and venerable. The bamboo is strong, resilient, unbreakable. The plum blossom is hardy, fragrant, and elegant.

                                                                                                            -Morihei Ueshiba

While many will celebrate 2017 as the year of the rooster (or the year of Betty White), I have decided celebrate it as the year of bamboo.

Did you know that bamboo, like rice, is not native to Japan? It was imported from China. But it didn’t take the Japanese long to integrate the bamboo into the very soul of their culture. With their trademark ingenuity, bamboo became indispensable. It was used for building, crafting, and every kind of utensil imaginable. It grew into a beautiful and symbolic staple in their literature, art, and culture.

Bamboo always thrilled me while I was in Japan. I loved to listen to the wind rustle through its leaves. To watch it bend further and further under snow and wind only to bounce back. Its green always reminded me of early summer, my favorite time of year. It was comforting. I took so many pictures of bamboo!

But it is more than the beauty of bamboo that made me choose it as my spirit plant for 2017. It was the strength and flexibility. I have always struggled with mental flexibility. I tend to get ruffled and stressed when plans are changed last minute. I had started to come to terms with this in Japan, but maybe not in the best way. I didn’t get flustered when people flaked out on plans, but I just did them on my own. I quit inviting people to do things and just tried to enjoy my solo adventures. It worked well, for the most part, but it didn’t really solve the flexibility issue.

And now that I have returned home to a spouse and responsibilities, just going on my own doesn’t really work. I also took two jobs that require a lot of flexibility. Sometimes have just a few hours to get an article done. So I decided to be more like bamboo. Bruce Lee said, “Notice that the stiffest tree is most easily cracked, while the bamboo or willow survives by bending with the wind.” The bamboo can do this because it has strong roots, but a flexible stalk. I can’t control everything, there will be winds that blow me, snows that weigh me down, but I can sway with them as long as I have strong roots.

The seed of a bamboo tree is planted, fertilized, and watered.

Nothing happens for the first year.

There’s no sign of growth.

Not even a hint.

The same thing happens – or doesn’t happen – the second year.

And then the third year.

The tree is carefully watered and fertilized each year, but nothing shows. No growth. No anything.

For eight years it can continue. Eight years!

Then – after the eight years of fertilizing and watering have passed, with nothing to show for it – the bamboo tree suddenly sprouts and grows thirty feet in three months.

                                                                                                            -Zig Ziglar

For over thirty years I have been building my root base. I have been spreading in different directions, collecting experiences, ideas, and knowledge. My roots weren’t always spread in the best soil, there were weak spots; there have been times I got to close to the surface and got burned or went too deep and drowned. But I continued to grow. Now, 2017 is my year to sprout. To pull all of those things together and push upward toward enlightenment. It is time to try and realize the potential that so many have seen and nurtured in me – Okasan and Otosan, Anata, teachers, mentors, friends, and family. They have watered and fertilized me with opportunities, adventures, and education. They have been patient while I spread my roots, trying this and that, never faltering in their care. 2017 will be the year they see their labors pay off. It will be my year.

あけましておめでとうございます! I wish you all a Happy New Year. I hope that 2017 is your year too. Good luck and 頑張って.

Itadakimasu - American Edition

Anata swears that I am not his wife.  I am some doppelganger or changeling that has come back in her place.  This is especially true when it comes to food.

Before I left for Japan, I was a very picky eater.  I hated vegetables.  Anata had to almost trick me into eating them.  I had no trouble with lettuce, but I hated cabbage and wouldn’t even let it in the house.  As a northern boy, this made him very sad.  I had the same aversion to cucumbers, radishes, and most root vegetables.  Really, the only vegetables I liked were lettuce, tomato, carrots, potatoes, broccoli, green beans, and onions (and that was only recently).  I would grudgingly eat some other vegetables, like beets or kohlrabi, but it took a lot of coaxing. 

I was equally picky with the prepared foods.  I liked foods that were slightly outside my childhood staples, but I wasn’t one to travel too far off the beaten culinary path.  He was able to get me to experiment with Greek, Indian, and Middle Eastern foods before I left, but even that tended to end in a fight.  I was a by the recipe cook.  He was not.  It made things tense. 

Fast forward two years.  Things are completely different.  Living in Japan forced me out of my food comfort zone.  When you can’t read the menu, you just have to eat what comes out.  I never did develop a taste for daikon, but I found that I could handle, and actually came to enjoy just about everything else.  There were parts of animals I had never heard of.  Raw fish I had never seen.  Vegetables that were not much to look at, but tasted great when they were cooked.  I made a point to try everything once, and I usually went back for seconds.  I even discovered I liked things like cabbage and cucumbers that I could never stand in the U.S.

Anata is excited and frightened by this dietary change.  There is almost always cabbage in the house now.  We had a garden full of Asian vegetables, including cucumbers, that I happily munched on all summer and fall.  I have tried to recreate my favorite Japanese dishes for him with great success, even when I don’t use a recipe at all.  I really am like a different person when it comes to food.

Samurai Pie

Kimchi Nabe

Kabocha Pudding

Ramen from Scratch

Omurisu

Ochazuke

Steak Ssam

Sukiyaki

Hiyashi Chuka

Zaru Soba

Anata is taking it well.  It has made the transition to a gluten-free diet, which he needs for health reasons, easier.  Sometimes he makes a game out of having me try things I hated to see if there is any change.  But that hasn’t always worked out in his favor. He wasn’t pleased when we found out I like eggnog this winter.  That had always been his thing.  He was not too thrilled to share.

If you had told me two years ago that I would be eating ketchup fried rice covered in egg and mayo, I would have called you crazy.  If you had told me that my fridge would be stuffed with leeks, cabbage, carrots, and eggplant, I would have shaken my head in denial.  But it happened.  Maybe I am a doppelganger.  Or a clone.  Imprinted with the memories of the old me, but with taste buds. 

木

The death that shocks me the most is the death of trees.  I find it much easier to accept the death of animals, pets, and people.  The death of people and animals close to me affects me much more than the loss of a tree, but there is something so tragic in the death of a tree.  I find it deeply unnerving. 

Otosan is a landscape architect, so growing up our yard was full of beautiful trees.  There was the American Elm in the middle of the front yard.  It had a hole in it that bled and was terrifying to me as a child.  Roaches lived there.  And who knew what else.  We had to stand on tiptoe to reach the hole, so it naturally became the ultimate dare in any childhood test of courage.  Then there was the mulberry that grew between our house and the neighbors to the north.  Easy to climb – that one was our escape from summer heat.  The bark was always cool – even on the hottest Texas day.  I always remember the waxy green leaves being bigger than they were.  Must just be because I was smaller.  On the opposite side, between our house and the southern neighbors was one of my favorite trees – a Japanese Black Pine that Otosan had been grooming since before I was born.  The needles were so thick that they were a solid surface.  Otosan spent days pruning it every year, thinning the needles by hand until his fingers were black as tar.  One year we found a nest of morning doves nestled back near the trunk.  We watched them grow and fly away.  Two sprawling Yaupon Hollys shaded the front porch.  Every winter the branches almost broke under the weight of all the bright red berries.  We waited patiently every year for the arrival of the Wax Wings that came and stripped the trees bare in just a few days.  There was a fence just below the Yaupons, for privacy.  Every Halloween picture growing up has Imōto and me sitting on that fence with our pumpkins.  And in front of my bedroom window, a Texas Pistachio with small, fern-like leaves where we buried our pet hamster when I was in 5^th grade. 

Out back there were the trees with nice straight, thin branches perfect for making bows and arrows out of.  Easy to climb, too.  The great big Pecan tree left over from when the area was a Pecan orchard.  Our first dog used to chase squirrels around it, and Anata and I hung purple lanterns in it for our wedding reception.  There was the clump of Sweet Gums that we built the most well-enforced treehouse in.  We were never really good at carpentry – I think there ended up being more nails than wood.  There was the Weeping River Birch, and the Japanese Red Maple tucked away in the corner by the hose.  Otosan created a tiny moss and rock garden under it, his personal Japanese garden. 

Inside, we had two potted trees – one in the front window and one in Otosan’s office at the back of the house.  They would switch places from time to time.  One was a Fiddle-leaf Ficus.  I don’t remember the species of the other one, only that it had a beige bark, sprawling, spidery roots, and small, diamond-shaped leaves that were the brightest spring green.  Imōto and I liked to eat the dirt out of their pots, much to Otosan’s dismay.  We also used the trees as jungles for our toys and a place for our favorite rocks collected on our adventures. 

And then there were the bonsai.  In Japan, Otosan had picked up the tedious and beautiful art of bonsai.  The Black Pine by the driveway was bonsai on a large scale, but he also had also used native plants to create smaller bonsai.  At worksites, he would collect moss and tiny trees.  He would sit on the porch for hours sculpting and pruning.  We had a shelf of blue, brown, footed, and glazed pots in the garage.  I don’t think I saw a terracotta pot till I was well into elementary school.

But now, despite Otosan’s best efforts, almost all of those trees are gone.  The Mulberry was the first to go.  I was too young to understand why.  We played Robin Hood in Sherwood Forest in the branches before they were hauled off.  Then the Elm and the skinny trees out back.  The Sweet Gums were in the way of the power lines.  Inside, the tree with the diamond leaves went first, then the Ficus after.  The River Birch came down while I was in college.  Finally, and most tragically, the Black Pine struggled for a few years of drought and record heat before Otosan finally had to admit defeat. 

I remember crying at the picture Okasan sent me of the now empty spot.  Not just because that tree had been such an important part of my life till that point, but because it made my father human.  He couldn’t save it.  Until then, he had always had a miracle green thumb.  I couldn’t keep a cactus alive, but he was a gardening god.  Until that day. 

The only trees left from my childhood are the Japanese Red Maple, the Yaupon Holly out front, the Pistachio in front of my bedroom window that has tripled in size, and the faithful Pecan.  A few of the bonsai are still around, but many have been replaced with new specimens over the years. 

Driving up to my childhood home, I am struck by vastly different trees that greet me.  First, it was just our yard, but now trees all along the block – touchstones of my childhood – are gone forever.  New trees have taken their place and flourished, but the trees I played under, climbed, and loved are gone.

I guess I always thought of trees as immortal.  I toured the bonsai nurseries in Omiya with Okasan on one of her last trips to Japan.  Though they were still houseplant size, many of the trees were hundreds of years old.  The National Arboretum has a 390-year-old pine that survived Hiroshima. 

In Japan, ancient trees are everywhere!  Every shrine, even the tiny one near my house in Osaka, had a tree over 400 years old.  That is older than the United States!  The larger shrines had even older trees.  And deep in the forest, I am sure there are trees that have seen the world change over a thousand years. 

While civilization grew up around them, these trees remained.  Their roots dug deeper and deeper into the soil.  Their branches reached high and higher into the sky.  There is a reason that many pagan beliefs use trees as a symbol of the divine.  It represents our connection to the past and the future, creates a bridge between the gods and us, or remains steadfast while families grow and change around it. 

So for me, the death of a tree is something shocking.  Humans and animals are fragile.  Our lifespans are sadly short.  But trees are supposed to be immortal.

Every year I offer to buy Otosan a new tree – whatever kind he wants – but he always turns me down.  Last time I was home, he mentioned that he might have to cut down the Yaupon Hollys out front and that the Red Maple was struggling.  It hurt when he said that.  I understand now that trees die, and sometimes you can’t save them, that Otosan has done all he could to keep them alive this long in an alien environment, but the child in me is still deeply hurt by the thought of losing them.  They are a part of me.  They watched me grow.  They inspired me and challenged me.  Their roots are my roots.  I accept that the animals and people I love will pass out of my life, but the trees are supposed to be immortal.