Hanami haiku

Sakura

reluctant performers

too soon their show ends

they scatter

The mountain and the graveyard

Kyoto sits in a valley. So no matter where you go, whatever direction, you are invariably in the foothills of a mountain. I sometimes find myself on streets in these foothill communities that end (or begin) at a mountain trail. I’m not a hiker, but these paths always beckon me. There is something intriguing about a path to nowhere. In the States such trails would be inhabited by homeless perverts, tree-hugging delinquents and axe-murderers. In Japan it is just you and the natural world.

I generally start down (or more often up) such a trail with no idea where they go or how long they are. Every 30 or 40 yards my American brain tells me, okay, you should turn back, this will be your demise. But I’m always so curious to see where it leads, what lies around the next bend, over the next hill, that I keep going.

I was on a walk recently, Tetsugaku no michi (the Philosopher’s Path) in Northern Higashiyama. I came upon a shrine and beyond the shrine was this trail winding up a fairly steep mountain. There was a sign in English: "Grave of Joseph Hardy Neesima", and an arrow. Who was Joseph Hardy Neesima? Why was he buried here? And why did his grave merit a sign written in English?

The mystery was too enticing. (I learned later that he was a 19th Century Japanese missionary and founder of Doshisha University.)

It had rained heavily the night before and the path was a bit slippery with fallen leaves and mud. It probably wasn't such a good idea to climb this mountain, but I did anyway. The silence of the forest was eerily deafening.

As promised, at the top was a graveyard. What a crazy and amazing idea! A graveyard atop a mountain, so close to the heavens. The most quiet place you could find for an eternal resting place. It was delightfully spooky. Me, alive, with hundreds and hundreds of dead people from centuries past high above the city, sweat beading over my brow, moss climbing over their grave markers.

The grave of Mr. Neesima was not a giant monument covered in wilted flowers, spent candles and empty sake bottles. In fact it was so obscure I never found it. And I wasn't inclined to search around, possibly disturbing the slumber of less famous and more irritable diseased.

Beyond the graveyard the stones of the trail disappeared under mud. There was a large swathe of cut trees. Someone with an axe...or chainsaw. I stood for a long while in the clearing watching my breath hang in the moist air contemplating my advance or retreat. I don’t know if it was hunger or fear of meeting the woodsman that had cut down all the trees that finally turned me around down the mountain.

Miyama (美山町): notes and impressions

The morning frost in the fallow rice paddy clings to the shadows.

The train burst from the tunnel into the bright morning.  Below a blue-green Hozu River flows between rocks.  Film running through a projector: darkness, light, darkness, light.  Broken.  Traversing the bending river five times.

Fog covers the farmland, a ghost blanket.

Fir trees straight and tall, quills in the back of the mountain, mad acupuncture.

Houses from another century, alive, living, thatched roofs growing, green with snow melt.

Naked winter trees blur the mountainside.  Soft focus.  Adjust, readjust.

The smell of wet straw, drying under the winter sun.

Japanese indigo: polygonum tinctorium.

医師 と 歯科医 (the doctor and the dentist)

Living in another country is not easy, especially when your grasp of the language is limited. Though my Japanese has improved, I still cannot read Kanji and even Hiragana I struggle to understand.

But one adapts and through mistakes one learns something new.  If you order the wrong thing in a restaurant, you eat it and discover a new type of cuisine.  If you misunderstand the directions, you ask someone else further along and discover a new route.  If you get on the wrong train, you transfer and discover a new station or train line.

But the medical world is another thing entirely.  The joy of discovery does not exist in this realm.  There is no joy in discovering it was your kidneys not your liver that were failing, or that it was your molar that should have been removed not your incisor, or that the medicine you needed was for a common cold, not a venereal disease.

The Japanese national health care offers annual check-ups for a nominal fee (¥500).  As I haven't been to the doctor for such in at least 5 years, I decided to go.  My friend Emiko helped me with the basic health questionnaire before the appointment, but I was on my own once I stepped into the clinic.

The small reception was filled with people 20 years or more my senior in stained track suits and wool caps making awful noises.  As one expects in a doctor's office, there was a Muzak soundtrack playing.  Only this was not just bland instrumental versions of pop songs.  It was music-box-lullaby remixes of the Beatles and songs from the Frozen soundtrack.  Was this children's music meant to calm these senior citizens as they waited to be prodded and probed?  Dreadfully insipid.

I brought along my Japanese study book.  It has a section on anatomy and other medical related vocabulary.  "I have a stomach ache." = "Onaka ga itai."  I was hoping to cram as much of this vocabulary into my head as I could before seeing the doctor.

"Wallace-san.  Dozo."

The staff of youngish women didn't speak a lick of English.  This did not surprise me.  I might very well have been the first non-native Japanese person ever to enter this clinic in Katsura.  But while I can usually caveman my way through Japanese in most situations, and often find it amusing, this was totally nerve-racking. 

I was asked to lie on a bed with Miffy rabbit sheets (again with the children's theme).  They attached some apparatuses to me and ran an EKG.  Next they measured my height (180cm) and my weight (65kg).  I'm sure there is an impossibly polite and thoroughly professional way to say "pee in this cup" in Japanese, but I'll never know.  I understood when they handed me the cup and showed me to the toilet.

When I finally saw the doctor, he thankfully spoke a little English.  He measured my blood pressure and told me the EKG results were "okay".  

Another nurse took some blood and I was told after some confusion the complete results of the examination would be available at the end of the month.

I paid my ¥500 and thanked the giggling women at the reception desk. 

Next up on my day of Japanese medical torture was the dentist.  A tooth that was long ago hollowed out and filled with silver amalgam was giving me trouble.  I'd ignored it for months fearing both my inability to communicate the problem to a Japanese DDS and the verdict he or she might give.

Again, Emiko came to my rescue scheduling an appointment with her dentist, explaining my problem and even accompanying me to the office.  Unlike my visit to the doctor earlier, this office was thoroughly and stylishly modern, not populated by the geriatric set and had a contemporary pop radio station providing ambiance.  This all put me at ease, but the dental procedure I was afraid may be necessary was confirmed shortly after I sat down in the chair.

Endodontic therapy, aka - the root canal.

Before this most dreaded treatment, the attractive dental hygienist took x-rays, cleaned my teeth and advised me on better brushing techniques.  I have always felt that hygienists took a sadistic pleasure in scraping away at plaque and generally inflicting low-key pain and discomfort before the doctor arrived.  This was not the case here.  She was remarkably gentle and extremely pleasant.  Perhaps that speaks to the Japanese character.

The doctor was a cool cat in red scrubs and stylish glasses.  He is an old friend of Emiko's husband, Genki.  He spoke a bit of English, but more importantly he worked quickly and subjected me to surprisingly little pain.

Doctors are to be avoided.  But if you must go, do it in a place like Japan where at least the pain and discomfort is only physical, not financial.



  

暁 (dawn)

Growing up in California you become aware of the term "local" at an early age.  The 840 miles (1,352 km) of coastline boast some of the best surfing in the world, and surfers are fiercely territorial creatures.  Though I grew up just 9 miles (14 km) from the beach, the distance was at least 8 1/2 miles too far to ever be considered a local.

Perhaps it was this outsider status as an adolescent that later in life, as a drinking adult, drove me to find my neighborhood watering holes.  I wanted to be a local somewhere.  Like in the theme song to the 80s television show Cheers I wanted to go "where everyone knows your name".

The traditional Japanese izakaya (bar/cafe) can be an intimidating place for a gaijin.  They are often very small spaces seating less than a dozen people all of whom appear to be best friends, and the menus tend not to be in English.  This adds up to a very "locals only" vibe. The truth is, if you have the guts to step into an izakaya and can find a seat they are usually very friendly places where by the end of the night everyone will know your name.

A friend of mine in Katsura opened her own izakaya called Akatsuki (dawn) in November of last year.  It is a tiny place, maybe 128 ft²  (12 m²), with just eight barstools.  The menu and ambiance is more European than Japanese, but she keeps it real with a proper oshibori (wet towel) for you hands when you sit down.

This has become my "local".  I followed the charming proprietress, Ume-san, from another bar in the neighborhood.  Some people follow race horses, some people follow the stock market.  I follow bartenders.  

Besides the Löwenbräu on tap, which I've never seen outside of Germany, it is the warmth of Akatsuki that keeps me coming back.  The people.  In a country where assimilation for a non-native at times seems an impossible endeavor, it is nice to step into a bar and feel welcome every time.

Akatsuki is definitely a neighborhood joint, but it is my neighborhood joint.

雪 (yuki)

Temple in the snow

white snow replaces white gravel, soft-hard

falling snow plays with time, slowing it

focus shifts, depths change

contrasts

the rocks slowly disappear

following the snow with your eyes

weightlessness, rising

this without sound

then the sun, a hot white spot

through the clouds

colors adjust

and the melt begins

trees remove their blanket

the temple transformed (again)

the end of this act

now captured

Ganjitsu rituals

The second time around.  For every experience there is a first time - your first day of school, your first goal in a soccer match, your first kiss, etc.  Everything that follows is always slightly less dazzling because it is already familiar.  But with familiarity traditions and rituals are established.

Last year I celebrated the new year at Matsunoo Taisha just up the river from my home.  Because I was so moved by this experience I decided to do the same again this year.  After breakfast I walked the 3 1/2 kilometers from Katsura to this Shinto shrine.  The long walk along the river through the mostly fallow farmland was quiet and meditative.  It's easy to drift and become reflective in such an environment.

Matsunoo Taisha was bustling, families eating, drinking and enjoying the New Year's Day customs.  Like the people around me I went through my own ritual, more or less mimicking last year: washing my hands at the chozuya (ablution fountain), buying an omikuji (fortune), drinking kinpaku miki (blessed gold leaf sake) from a masu (square-shaped wooden cup), eating yakisoba, grilled mitarashi dango and bebīkasutera from the many yatai (food stalls).

Again, I found myself drawn to the bonfire.  The heat of the fire and the sake had a  mesmerizing effect.  The smoke and ash swirled around; so too did my thoughts.

I don't believe any ritual however solemn or reverent can alter the course of one's life.  While life’s trajectory remains a mystery, we can nonetheless take comfort in these customs.  God only knows how long I'll be in Japan.  But as long as I am here I'll spend every Ganjitsu (New Year's Day) at Matsunoo Taisha.