The Earth & The Heavens

The sky shines colorlessly, bright against the lavender hues fading and darkening along the eastern horizon. To the west the mountains absorb ambient light, becoming blue and purple shadows. They are hazy in the distance and appear to have been painted by a young artist still caught in the thralls of the flat, 2-dimensional realm of his canvas.

The colors of the Colorado landscape are so very different than those of Japan. Not nearly as deep and rich, but possessing a more ethereal quality.

And the space... it always seems so much more vast and overwhelming after having spent some time on an island that doesn't have much.

Somehow, I love both.

From Desert to Sky

It seems fitting, reacquainting myself with this space by bringing in a new look.

Solid, dusty browns give way to a vast blue expanse, where much is felt and thought, but refuses to be defined. And so we float, gently drifting along the will of Providence that knows where we're going, even if we do not.

A symbol of our passing into yet another uncertain time in our lives. Questions of what our future holds bob about, unanswered. It's another period of searching. And waiting.

To be honest, I'm not that fond of waiting.

Nevertheless, all we can do is pray.

And wait.

Inspiration

It begins as a fluttering touch on the outermost edges of awareness, betraying nothing until it has roused more than a cursory acknowledgment. Demanding attention in the gentlest of ways, it draws out those buried elements left too long unattended- starlit dreams, air-breathed hopes, even the dangerous yearnings and beastly darkness all begin to stir. Still it teases until, able to bear it no longer, it’s reached for, grasped at.

It responds in a most peculiar manner: dodging, eluding, leaving fingers dusted with the silken touch of memory, fading into the realm of barely recollected what-ifs unless given some sort of form, be it in a painting, prose, or a song. Even then it’s rough, a poor reproduction. Rougher still is the clumsy ‘bringing together’ that occurs afterwards.

Strange indeed, is the first attempt of any artist to bring out the full beauty of the half-forgotten spark that tickled their senses. It produces embarrassment, which quickly spirals down to shame if left unchecked. The prudent let their work lie, a difficult feat after the frenzy of inspiration and grittiness-of-clenched-teeth tenacity to push through to the end.

It’s well worth the wait.

The next visit to this earliest of efforts is done, this time, with a shield of emotional distance in place. This detachment allows for an honest (as honest as anyone can be of their own creation) assessment. And more often than not, something astonishing is found.

The piece has begun to blossom. Difficult as a cactus to handle perhaps, but nevertheless, worth nurturing. Afterwards each shoot, each petal, each needle bursting forth (some from whimsy, others from careful deliberation) is either carefully placed to add to the whole or, with driving agony, discarded for its failure to contribute to the moment, the purpose. And yet this cascade of fallen whispers adds its ghost to the living composition, making it more vibrant, full of layers mostly hidden, yet as essential as the nerves underneath our skin that dictate this or that action.

So. The rough draft does have its place.

Fluency

I saw it today, a sign announcing mind-boggling fluency of a non-native language. Or rather, I heard it today as it bounced off the walls of the house in sharp bursts full of commanding resonance. A little *click* brought some things together as I moodily sat at the kitchen counter, contemplating my chances of becoming successfully fluent in a second language amid occasional jumps at particularly piercing points in the phone conversation raging down the hall.

This is a normal practice around the house, as it seems that a typical, even friendly conversation in my mother's native tongue appears to be full of passion to those of us who've lived in the U.S. most of our lives.

While it may seem odd that I would be able to mostly ignore a discourse cranked up as loud as the human vocal cords can produce, something intruded upon my brooding thoughts during one of my mother's animated responses to her friend on the other end of the line.

She was speaking in two languages almost simultaneously. One moment she was speaking in English, the next switching to her native speech mid-sentence, and vice versa. The stunned astonishment of this discovery stopped me right in my mental tracks as I listened to the seamless melding of two completely different tongues.

And as I watched my mother effortlessly banter with her counterpart without the slightest indication that she was conscious of what she was doing, I realized that fluency isn't just the ability to communicate effectively in a certain language. It's the complete absorption of a language to the point where conscious effort is poured into what to say in the context of relationship and situation rather than into the mechanics and structure of how to say something.

This is a tall task to be sure. Children of bilingual homes often do this "mixing" of languages as they're learning to speak, because both are such a normal part of their environment. It doesn't seem to be so common in adults though, perhaps because it's not so often that you find yourself speaking to someone who's just as familiar with the same languages as you are. A few of my bilingual friends have said that there's a switch that flips when they're speaking, and that it's very hard to switch back to their other language very quickly. It's as if they have to mentally rearrange things to fully understand one or the other, and it doesn't mix very well.

For whatever reason, my mother can do it. And I'm profoundly grateful that she can, because it brings my dreams down into the area of "possible" in a very personal way.

Sometimes you just need some encouragement.

And so we wait...

We wait for responses to resumes and interviews...
We wait to see how the experiences of the last two years will influence future ones...
We wait while the lives of friends and family move on...
We wait to discover the changes wrought within ourselves...
We wait to see what this new season back in the US will bring...

We wait.

Pre-emptive Measures

It has begun, earlier than I expected. It’s not much, but there’s a world of satisfaction hidden in the two boxes occupying a corner of our humble abode. What it means… is that there are twenty less things to concern ourselves with when crunch time arrives and the last-minute scramble that is the inevitable fate of all movers ensues. This is our attempt to ease the stress of those seemingly endless yet perilously short hours, less than two months away. In my humble opinion we’re off to a good start, thanks in no small part to my husband.

I feel funny saying this, especially since I have a sinking feeling that I will regret it later on when eggs can fry on our kitchen counter simply by existing, but I’m actually a little impatient for warm weather to make itself comfortable enough where it has no intention of disappearing into a pocket of cold. With this invisible line drawn, another good portion of packing can be done, and thick bundles of winter attire can slumber in the moisture-proofed darkness it knows for six months of the year.

Despite all this rather definitive mental and physical activity, our pending adieu to Japan still hasn’t registered emotionally. I’d say the odds are pretty good on the side of bittersweet, what with the farewells and homecoming and new beginnings and all of that… which I’m okay with, as I’d prefer it to feelings of “meh” and instant adjustment. I guess I’d like to feel something, rather than nothing at all.

Two Sides

The day is coming… when chicken breasts of the skinless variety will be readily available once more. The notion of no longer peeling the limp epidermis off my protein pleases me greatly.

The arrival of the aforementioned day also means I will no longer hear the peals of a deep-toned bell reverberating through the air at precisely 7am every morning. Housed in a shrine around the corner, my husband uses it to judge if he’s running behind schedule in the mornings. I’ve visited it a few times, and it’s as serious-faced as its somber, dutiful morning announcement would have you believe. Today, with a small pang, I realized that I will miss it, especially now that I’ve finally begun to wake up naturally about ten minutes before the rope is pulled with measured strokes.

Re-Discovery

I peeked my head through the side door, glancing around the familiar earth-toned workroom. Debbie was busy at her desk the next room over, or at least, I assumed she was busy as the sound of typing drifted from her direction. The copy machine/printer/book producer/hovercraft-if-we-could-just-figure-out-the-secret-code was quietly humming to itself, every-so-often spitting out a page sent by someone around the office.

My eyes lingered on the mammoth CM for a moment before coming to rest on a little machine that would never know the joys of flight. Nevertheless, it had its own gravitational pull and I was soon standing in front of it, papers clutched to my side and left pointer finger flexing in anticipation. A slight smile formed as I indulged in one of my favorite occupations during my stint as an assistant admin at the church.

In another land far far away…

I had been working diligently on preparing materials for my husband’s upcoming elementary school lesson while he was away at a conference. Mostly though, I was getting a cramp from hunching over large rigid plastic sheets painstakingly transforming them into giant BINGO cards. It was time to give my screaming back muscles a rest, and besides, the machine was ready. Moments later I was doing my best to sing along to a Japanese pop song on my iPod as a familiar aroma tickled my nose and the first toasty warm sheet depicting the letter “A” peeked out the other side.

The truth is, I’ve always secretly enjoyed laminating. The first place I did it with any regularity was at the church, and although it was always done in a brisk and efficient manner, I could have happily laminated all day if there were that many things to laminate. While I like tasks that engage my brain, there are some repetitious jobs that serve the important function of helping you unwind while still accomplishing something useful.

Now, my husband hates laminating, which is unfortunate considering the nature of his job here. Teaching just seems to be one of those professions that require the transformation of fragile paper materials into a virtually non-destructible representation. It appears that Providence brings people together for a myriad of reasons, for I am exactly the opposite (although I must point out that I’m not a compulsive laminator. There has to be a purpose behind the madness).

For some strange, undefined reason, it’s actually fun for me. There’s something soothing about going through the motions, that brief second before the plastic becomes unyielding, the jerk of the page at the rollers’ release. The slow, steady, and meticulous work reminds me of other instances when I worked to bring chaos under control, resolving it into order… like finding a place for a mountain of Christmas ornaments that didn’t equate to being shoved in a corner or placing every picture and sticker “just so” in a scrapbook. It’s a good feeling, one of accomplishment.

I also happen to think that the distinct scent of the laminating machine melting plastic together must be what the process of transforming chaos into order smells like… at least a little bit. There’s a tang to it that just smacks of conflict- two opposing ideologies battling it out with one slowly succumbing to the other.

The truth is, I’d forgotten about this little joy until the need arose to engage in it once more. Discovering the little quirks that make a person unique is interesting in and of itself, and re-discovering my own connects me once again to the fact that we’re all so similar, in completely different ways.

To My Husband

"Therefore be imitators of God, as beloved children. And walk in love, as Christ loved us and gave himself up for us, a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God."
~Ephesians 5:1-2

Thank you, dear husband, for lavishing me with love unrestrained, unaffected by storm or sun, but held constant by the simple fact that you chose me to share this life with you.

This past year has most certainly been an adventure, with all the highlights and challenges the word implies. We’ve somehow spent more of our married life abroad than we have back home! And yet, I feel I’ve gained much more than I’ve lost, for my understanding of the Lord’s love has deepened as I’ve watched you strive to follow Him.

Here’s to an unforgettable year and the hope of those to come as we journey this life together! I love you, my beloved.

Random Observation- Grocery Store

United States: We buy enough food in one fell swoop to feed the army that is our family for at least a week, quite possibly two. The combination of ample living space and huge food storage units (oh freezer that’s bigger than a microwave, how I miss you so) makes this possible, and even desirable in our quest to save time, gasoline, and hassle.

Japan: Fresh food is the pinnacle of delectability, which feeds the need for daily foraging and supersedes the otherwise coveted quality of convenience. While not everyone is limited to the foot locker of an icebox that we have (think the mini-fridge most commonly used for beer storage during college), it appears that simply having more space doesn’t erase a practice intricately woven into the society’s psyche.

We can follow these two distinct patterns of behavior without difficulty as they trickle down into the subconscious of one of the most basic, yet necessary steps : going through the check-out line… which brings me to my observation of the day.

Every single time I check-out of a grocery store (which is to say every single day), the check-out lady quietly informs me of the price of every single item in my basket, culminating in the total yen due. It doesn’t matter if I’m buying 3 things or 20, the price of each is faithfully stated at the moment the numbers flash on the register.

There’s no way that would ever happen in the states, if only because of the sheer volume filling the average cart. The total price is the only number uttered in the entire interaction... at least in my experience. I’d be interested to hear if there are exceptions to this generalization.

…now that I think about it, it’s not just food shops around here. It’s every store that sells tangible goods and products.

I hope this random little tidbit eases your mind the next time you’re in Japan, have a mind to purchase something (like a cheese bread thingy from a bakery… they’re quite tasty), and wonder what it is the check-out girl is muttering under her breath.

Or check-out boy. They’re not as common, but they do exist.

And if you do happen to make out what’s being said, a pleasant feeling of accomplishment will run through your veins, fueled by the fact that you have learned your Japanese numbers well enough to both recognize and comprehend them.

Yes, I am a simple soul...

Pavlov's Dog

‘It’s a matter of instinct, a matter of conditioning, and a matter of fact… you can call it Pavlov’s dog.’ ~BNL’s Brian Wilson

It’s been a whirlwind of a day revolving around household duties such as mold clean-up (sigh), finicky irons, and crazy loads of laundry… which is a little surprising since I actually haven’t been slacking on it lately.

In the middle of it all, I got a call from a friend of mine. Instead of fast-paced and jovial, her voice had taken on a subdued tone normally associated with distress. Unable to convince her to tell me what was up, I regretfully apologized for being unable to go to lunch due to all the work awaiting my attention. It was at this moment that she blurted “I would really like to see you today, there’s something I need to tell you face to face”.

As the last ten words struck home, my heart dropped to my stomach and I faintly agreed to swing by her house on my way home from the grocery store. I was instantly transported back to college and the “conflict management” that was practiced among my circle of friends as we strove to walk in the principles of the Bible. Usually that simple sentence carried the unspoken meaning of “There’s an issue between us that we need to work out”.

I’m a firm believer in tackling problems before they become huge and unmanageable (and certainly try my best to back this up with action, although I’m sure I drop the ball from time to time), but that doesn’t mean I don’t wince and fervently wish I could jump in a deep hole and hide from the bombshell.

Either I’d done something to hurt my friend (the most likely conclusion given the word choice), or she just needed someone to talk to about something that happened in her life that didn’t have anything to do with me (the conclusion I hoped for).

It was the latter reason… and I silently sighed in relief. I’ve the head-knowledge that something is lost in translation when speaking in a foreign language, including unspoken cues on what’s really going on, but apparently my initial knee-jerk reaction wants nothing to do with such frivolous details.

Then again, I’m not the most incredibly perceptive person to begin with.

Looking back, it’s interesting to see what we become conditioned to and the resulting reaction that’s as predictable as clockwork.

Fan Fiction

I guess you could say I’m even a little addicted to it… or, more accurately, addicted to one particular author and his tales of DBZ beyond the GT storyline. If you have no idea of what I’m talking about, I’m guessing anime isn’t your thing, and thus you have no interest in learning about it in the first place... which means what I'm about to say will be exceedingly boring for you and it would be best if you skipped down to the last four paragraphs/sentences of this post. If I’m mistaken, leave a comment and I’d be happy to fill you in on one of the classics.

Back to this author guy… his creations are the first, and thus the only fan fics I’ve ever dived into. I wasn’t sure if I’d like the whole realm to begin with- you might say living in Japan had soured me to the thought as a majority of things I’ve inadvertently come across relating to fan fiction (it’s frighteningly easy to stumble upon such things by accident around here I might add) unabashedly immerse themselves into an, let’s say, erotic realm that I wouldn’t touch with a 100 foot pole. Creativity is great and all (and I’m sure there are plenty of talented writers out there who don’t sink to that level), but there’s a point where it just degenerates into sick stuff no one should dwell on.

Still, I felt I could trust this particular fellow, and so I took a deep breath and began reading. It didn’t take long before I saw one upside to writing a fan fiction- the world and characters are already known, so you can dive into the story itself without spending time on building up background. At the very least, it seems like a good exercise for an aspiring writer. The downside, of course, is that it’s not your original idea, at least not completely.

It’s fun to see a writer growing and evolving in his craft, which is what happens as you read chapter after chapter of these series. As for the content itself, what isn’t there to like? There’s action, suspense, romance, more action, betrayal, drama, even more action, emotional turmoil, tear-jerking moments, golden comets racing through the sky only to collide and disintegrate entire planets action, reconciliation, good triumphing over evil… The characterization is well done and stays true to the original series as well, which I would imagine is important in this genre. Thoughts, memories, motivation, internal conflict, weaknesses; exploring the “what ifs” of these things concerning beloved icons keeps the story from becoming stale.

The best part is that he’s able to bring the cast of this fighting anime to a place where the reader can actually empathize with them. The biggest issue I had with DBZ was the fact that the characters (heroes and villains both) were ridiculously powerful and could only be defeated by another slightly more ridiculously powerful individual.

I mean, let’s face it, the battle scenes of the anime, while exciting for a while, could easily slide into a monotony relieved only by some sort of new revelation about the opponents… which mostly consisted of a new technique to unleash. It was terribly one-dimensional and predictable. I know, there’s only so much one can show in a half-hour episode, and in a fighting anime, it’s not exactly a surprise that character depth and development take a back-seat to flying fists and ki blasts. Nonetheless, I found it disappointing to watch essentially the same thing over, and over, and over.

Not to worry- there’s still plenty of ascension to new power heights as well as well-written knock-out fights for those of us who liked that aspect of the anime (and don’t get me wrong, I did), but these have been balanced with a thoughtful insight into the characters, and most importantly, into their very real (and often not power-related) vulnerabilities. Strength will always be important in this particular universe, but at least it’s not the only way to taste victory.

Well, I suppose that’s only the second best part. The supremely best part is that I happen to be friends with the author, who has a distinctive writing style I rather enjoy.

The reason I haven’t gotten around to updates or any writing of my own lately (despite the millions of ideas and thoughts that have exploded in my head revolving around story off-shoots) is because I’ve been too busy being glued to the computer screen reading his stuff. I think I’m on chapter 32 of the second saga now…

Thus I can say with complete honesty:

Kyle, it’s all your fault.

Sensitivity Training

Some mornings I wonder what will be going through my head when I no longer have to fold and put away our sleeping futons every single day. Then I try to decide which scenario I prefer- making a bed or putting away the mess of cushions and blankets we use for the same purpose. Putting stuff away does free up the tatami room for other purposes, but having a bed to fold laundry on is nice too… not to mention easier to crawl into when I’m dead tired, because I can skip the whole “preparing a place to sleep” process.

This was one of those mornings.

On a completely different note, today I was helping my friend practice making up stories off-the-cuff in English. Towards the end of the hour she froze in mid-sentence, and I silently wondered if her mind was running through the impressive list of English vocabulary it has stored away. Then I noticed that my bottle of tea was shaking of its own accord.

A few seconds later she straightened up and, after giving my puzzled expression an odd look, said “I felt an earthquake. Didn’t you?”

“Uh, no...” I answered.

After an audible gasp, she began admonishing the importance of being sensitive to earthquakes, especially now that I was living in Japan. So what if it was a tiny tremor a non-earthquake acclimated person would never detect? Always be ready to dive under a table at a moment’s notice.

I blame my lack of sensitivity on the trucks that shake the very foundations of our living quarters as they race by. It’s a daily occurrence that I’ve learned to ignore.

I also blame my parents for raising my brother and I in states that rarely see natural disasters. One would think they were trying to keep us from knowing the thrill of danger and learning how to respond to the ground trying to eat you by the old fashioned way of experience. How will my brother ever survive his globe-trotting ambitions??

...

It wasn't long before we were laughing about the whole thing, especially after she admitted that she often jumped to the conclusion that an earthquake had struck when in reality, it was all in her mind.

I forgive you, Mom and Dad.

The New Japan

I found an interesting article today about immigration in Japan. Although we personally have no plans to apply for naturalization, we have certainly seen the lack of foreign support inherent in the society as a whole. Things like signing up for cell phones and the internet, purchasing a car, even finding a place to live are incredibly difficult without the support of someone, be it friend or company, who is indeed Japanese.

I don’t mean to sound arrogant, as if the nation has to get down on its hands and knees and cater to foreigners. I believe those who move to a foreign country have a responsibility to spend time and effort learning the language, government processes, and rules of their new home. But I also think that it’s necessary to have structures in place that will assist these efforts, especially if the nation begins to rely heavily upon these immigrants for their economic well-being.

At the very least, pave the way in legislation that allows the immigrant groups themselves to support each other effectively and without governmental hindrance. It would be a step in the right direction, which is anywhere away from the "gaijin may be in Japan, but they're not part of Japan" mindset.

Sadly, second-class citizenship is not a thing of the past. It can even be found in the teacher's room of a junior high school.