fudge

It seemed smaller, in the way places do when you haven't been there for a long time. Funny; I always thought that was because I had physically grown in the time between visits, gotten taller. But here I am, the same size, and the temple in Koenji seems smaller.

I walked to the back and stood by the wall in the sun, shadows from the ferns clearly demarcated on the mossy ground. The earth was soft and black under my feet, like fudge. I thought about how long I could stand there pretending to be a tree.

orchestra

On my lunch-break yesterday I found the last of the dwindling sun and, resisting the urge to curl up like a cat and fall asleep in it, I closed my eyes and opened my ears. At first I was struck by the quiet, so uncharacteristic of this place, then I began to notice a cacophony of different sounds, rising in almost-harmony like an orchestra tuning before a performance. For once I stopped and listened, and this is what I heard:

footsteps clattering down a side-street; the squeak of an opening door; the rustle of plastic as a man opened his lunch; a child's laughter to my right, and a child's complaint at my far left; the harsh call of a crow overhead; the distant echo of another's reply; the sweeter, shriller call of a different bird in the trees ahead of me; the click of a car door; the wind rustling through the leaves; a joke from the men eating their lunch (deep laughter); the plastic wheels of a child's toy rolling awkwardly on stone; someone sweeping the dusty ground below (there will be water there in summer); a train rumbling in the distance; the station jingle bouncing off the platforms; and finally - voices from long ago, in a memory that felt much closer than it had for some time.

高尾

north

 

A trip to Hokkaido marked a transition into a cooler, calmer chapter. Sapporo reminded me of Manchester, a city I still (perhaps misguidedly) call mine. It's a grey, wet sprawl where the people look as if they are cold for most of the year, and it felt somehow familiar to me. Unlike anywhere else I've been in Japan, in Sapporo I could sense the human unpredictability of the city around me. In short, it was kind of miserable, but in a way that felt not unlike home.

Since then I've entered a period of quiet reflection and slow growth. It's almost as if I was just simmering with the heat of summer, spurred on by the constant drill of the cicadas and the sun dancing in my eyes each morning. Since my trip north, autumn has crept down the country to Tokyo and beyond. My blood has begun to cool, and though at first I was terrified of slowing down I'm starting to see the merits of sitting still for a while.

I always hate winter, because for me it's something I have to physically battle against. I feel robbed of my energy by the cold, and the dark evenings press down on me. But to be so full of energy as I was in the summer is exhausting, and now I'm taking the time to sit back and take stock of my collection: people, places, pictures, thoughts. I just wish I could hibernate on it.

Something feels different about autumn this year. It does feel like the world is winding down, and I do feel the pang of loss for summer. But this year autumn feels very cyclical, like this, too, is the beginning of something. A few weeks ago I was brimming with positivity, skipping into every room and laughing out loud. Now I feel quiet, and tired, but every now and again I catch myself smiling at something without even trying and I feel...well, happy.

full circle

 

We're back where we began, and look how far we've come.

I've been talking a lot to a friend/guru who is big on Buddhism lately, about cutting ties with the past and shedding all our expectations for the future, the idea being that we live entirely in the present and no other time exists. I can accept that there is no future, that it's pointless dwelling on events that have yet to (or may never) pass, but how can we sever ties with the past? The past is everything that we are, and while a lot of the experience that we've accumulated does little but weigh us down, carrying that knowledge with us is how we learn, playing with it and building on it, and if we're not learning then what's the point? 

Speaking of points, I do have one somewhere. My point is that my past took me right back to where this whole journey started, eight or so years ago: Hachijo-jima. It's a powerful literary device, this framing technique, and I should have spotted that that's what I was doing; tracing my steps back to the start for a better picture of how much has changed. Eight years ago I landed on that island, a cripplingly self-conscious teenager with no serious intentions (because that wasn't the time for intentions) and a stack of uncompromising ideals that had yet to be tried and tested. It's where, on a whim, I decided to learn Japanese, which is a decision that has changed the course of my life beyond belief.

Now here I am, living in Japan with a degree in Japanese, doing a job that makes no use of my knowledge whatsoever, once again clueless about where to go next. But I think what I had forgotten is how easily I made the decision to learn this language, before it took on so much meaning and dreams became metiers. I thought it would be cool to live in Tokyo, to speak a language most people are clueless about, and it is - but it's not my everything and it was never going to be. 

Going back to Hachijo, which was as seductive and enthralling as the first time, reminded me that  this seemingly key decision was totally arbitrary - and it's impossible to regret the consequences. The future didn't exist for me then, so I used my imagination and committed to something big without fear of regret, and what do you know, it actually worked out (I think my 16-year-old self would be pretty proud of me). Obviously we can't go through life making decisions like a teenager at every juncture, but right now it seems as good an approach as any, and frankly I could use a little more faith.

I recently read a novel called The Elephant's Journey by José Saramago, and one idea really stayed with me. As a convoy consisting of several men, some royalty and a very valuable elephant travels through the perilous alps, the narrator describes the royal carriage tumbling down the mountainside and the mahout heroically leading his elephant to the rescue. The episode is described in some detail before it's revealed that it's all in the wandering imagination of the bored and under-celebrated mahout, but just the fact that he imagined it means that it had the potential to happen, which is significant in itself. So: there is no future, the past is not how I remembered, and imagination = possibility.

foliage

water

It's been a very surreal couple of months. While existential crises may not be unprecedented, it's hard to know exactly what's happened in the wake of the major earthquake/multiple tsunami/nuclear meltdown (personally, nationally, internationally) and if we've dealt with it well (or not at all). Trying to find your own path when an entire nation is floundering is not easy, but I can say this: fresh air really helps.

I once had a very eccentric boss who insisted I take a walk by the local duck pond when I received some bad news at work, and though I laughed at his illogical concern at the time I am beginning to think this might be my ultimate goal in life. On a hiking trip amidst Japan's hot-spring-punctured mountains I walked the length of Lake Ashi, listened to the wind rustling through the trees and the water lapping on the shore, and I thought - what if happiness is really this simple? What if, whatever happens between here and there, ultimately all I need to do is live by the water?

Obviously, a fair bit of whateverhappens has to happen first, and I'm faced immediately with the small matter of deciding what I want (discovery part II: I'm so petrified of staying true to myself I can't work out what the hell it is that my self wants).