Remembering Kim Oswalt

I'm thinking of Kim Oswalt, a dear friend of mine, who died two years ago today. Writing this blog today is my way of remembering her and sharing with readers some photos and memories of the the times I spent with her over the years, starting in the early 90s in Japan.

First, here's a picture of her in 2009, smiling and holding her sweet dog, during a walk we took in Kariuizawa, a small mountain town north of Tokyo.

Kim lived there with her partner, Mima, in a beautiful house. In the early spring of that year Junko and I visited her, enjoying the crisp cool air and the natural beauty around the house. Here's what it looked like from the outside.

And here's what it was like from the inside, revealing a lot about Kim. I spent two happy days there that spring. Note the flowers, comfortable pillows, wide views of nature, art on the walls, a dog in the background, a coat hanging on the door, ready for a walk, planned or unplanned. 

So much beauty in early spring--still the muted colors of winter, but broken by soft greens.

Kim was probably best known as a musician among friends and appreciators of traditional Japanese music. Born in Japan when her family was stationed there by the US Army, Kim spent some of her formative years in Japan before the family went back to the US. After college, Kim returned to Japan, and became one of the few westerners to study the 20-string koto at that time (1980). By the time I met her in the early 90s, she was an accomplished koto player who performed with her fellow musician, Helen Dryz.  I was a little in awe of them both then. Helen played the shakuhachi (Japanese flute), and as a duo, they performed both traditional and modern tunes. One of their concerts is recorded on youtube and it's well worth a listen. Click here (Note: concert begins a minute or so into the video.) They performed beautifully, both then and today, when I listened to their performance once again.

While living in Japan, Kim met Mima Yufu and they became life partners. Several years later, they moved to the US, to Boulder, Colorado, where Kim studied psychology and counseling at Naropa University. During their 10-year stay in Boulder, Kim received a master's degree and began a private practice. Then in 2002 they returned to Japan, and that's when I came to know Kim as a friend. 

We often saw each other at "dyke weekends", periodic gatherings north of Tokyo, where lesbians came together to socialize and share ideas. Kim had an innate gentleness and ability to listen--no doubt fostered by her training at Naropa.  Once, when I was asked to facilitate a session between two members of a group I belonged to--members who had conflict and difficult feelings about each other, Kim talked to me about facilitating strategies, and I was able to create a dialog that worked well. A success all around thanks to Kim. 

Over time we came to know each other better, perhaps due to being relatively close in age (I was 6 years older), sharing an extended lesbian community, and also having an interest in social and political change. As undergraduates, I had majored in political science and she in criminal justice. Her obituary notes that she was a "social activist-minded individual who was passionate about changing the world and worked in the Cuban Refugee resettlement, for fair housing rights for African Americans and with Acorn and Witness for Peace." We talked about many things, such as the peace movement that developed in the wake of Bush's war in Iraq, as well as the challenges facing transgendered people in Japan. Kim worked with members of that community through her private practice in Tokyo. Toward the end of my stay in Japan (2009-10), we started to meet once a month for dinner in Yokosuska, site of a naval military base near Yokohama. Kim had contracted to train counselors enlisted in the Navy. Trains made it possible for me to make the 2-hour round-trip journey from my place in Machida, and I always looked forward to our get-togethers. We both loved Japanese food and good conversation.

Then I returned to the US. Except for a brief visit in Boulder after that, I didn't see Kim again until early 2014--this time in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. She and Mima spent two months there following a visit to Kim's mother in Texas, and I came for the second month of that. We stayed in different places, but enjoyed meeting up before and after massage sessions (by a local practitioner at her home), for art events, and of course for good food and conversation. Here we are on a happy afternoon after a massage and on another at a San Miguel restaurant.

Throughout the time I knew her, Kim bravely faced a major health challenge: kidney disease. She had two transplants over a 20 year period, and when the second one began to fail, hoped to have a third. That was not to be. Kim and Mima returned to the US in 2015, primarily for Kim's medical treatment. On July 31, 2017, at the age of 64, she died in her home in Ashland, Oregon. She had been under hospice care, and from what I later learned, among loving friends who supported her in her final months. 

I think of Kim with a mixture of gratitude and regret--gratitude for the great opportunity to be her friend and regret that I didn't really stay in touch during the three years between our last meeting and her death. It comforts me that she had Mima and her friends close to her, people who could give her the daily love and support that's difficult to give over distance. Today I remember her with love, feeling close to all others who also had the great good fortune to be her friend and who still carry her memory in their hearts. 

A party at an inn in a forest by a lake

It's been two months since I returned from the event that brought me to Europe for a 3-week stay this spring. My friendship with Renate T., who I've known since my early days in Japan 25 years ago, resulted in a special invitation when R visited me in Denver last fall. She would celebrate a special birthday, her 80th, the following spring and she (along with her granddaughter Yoko) were planning a party to celebrate. Would I come? It was to be in her hometown, Aumühle, Germany, a small municipality north of Hamburg in Schleswig-Holstein.

I knew then that it was a done deal, but I waited until November to buy a plane ticket to Germany. And then this invitation came, decorated with photos of Renate as a child and the adult she is today, doing a lifelong favorite activity: reading. My anticipation grew.

Renate and I share February birthdays, but mercifully, for weather considerations, the party was planned for late April, a time when spring would be in the air and the days somewhat long. The location was the charming and historic Hotel Waldesruh am See, which translates to something like "forest rest by the lake". I would be treated to a two-night stay there. Ah--I was hooked.

This hotel, in a building dating back to 1737, is often described as "quaint"--WiFi service notwithstanding. Here's what it looks like from the front.

Both interior and exterior have no doubt changed a lot since the early 18th century, but there's certainly a feeling of previous decades--and centuries--inside: large vases of blooming shrub branches, dark wood paneling, faded photos of yesteryear's hunting parties.  My room delighted me, comfortable, with a casement window opening into the Sachsenwald Forest, now in early spring green. Here it is on the mid-morning day of departure. However, it's the untaken photo of the window in early morning, opening into a wall of green leaves filled with birdsong, that stays in mind.

In addition to the party, there was a special reunion--of three teachers who had not been together as a threesome for more than a decade. We taught languages at Tamagawa University in Japan: German by Renate, Spanish by Marimar, and English by me. We often enjoyed our "chatting power" as Marimar called it, over coffee after classes were done for the day. Then Marimar left for another university where she met and fell in love with Frank. They married, had a child, and eventually moved to Frank's home country, Germany.

Renate and I had visited several times during the past ten years, but I hadn't seen Marimar since she left Japan and moved to Nuremberg with her husband and daughter. The tears of nostalgia and joy in our eyes as we met up in the central train station in Hamburg is my strongest emotional memory. Arriving a day early, we traveled together to Aumühle. Here we are a day later before the party. From left: me, Renate's granddaughter Yoko, Renate, and Marimar.

Many other friends and family members came to the party from various places in Germany; other countries too, including Portugal, where two of Renate's cousins live. I was surprised to realize how many of the guests I had met before and well, how time does indeed pass. Renate's youngest son Fumihiko, his wife Masako and younger daughter Haruko had flown in from Japan a day earlier; oldest daughter Yoko came in from Kyoto, though she lives in Tübingen, the German university town where she's studying to be a doctor.I  had met the family when Yoko and Haruko were very young children. Renate's sisters were there, Susanne and Christine, who I met during my 2005 trip to Germany;  Susanne's partner Jo, and their two children, Johannes and Charlotte were there too. I first met Johannes, now over 30 and established in a career, when he was a tender youth of 17, staying in Japan for a few months to study Japanese. Charlotte, only 9 when I met her in 2005, is a pediatric nurse now. And there was Renate's brother, Hartwig and his wife Fadime, born in Turkey, who I first met during their visit to Japan;  and the former pastor of the German church in Tokyo came with her husband, reminding me of the church's amazing Christmas bazaar and concerts which I had attended several times during my years in Japan. And then there were the two grown children of Renate's sister Angelika, who died suddenly two years earlier. She was in many hearts, including mine, during this reunion weekend. With all of these memories, I felt tender toward this assembled group who shared my affection for Renate,  our very special friend/family member.

Here's the best of the group photos (sans me), set against a late afternoon forest backdrop. The young woman to the left of Renate, is her granddaughter Haruko, who sat next to me at the party and did a fine job as translator and charming lunch companion.

And oh, the party! There were tributes and presents, songs, a slideshow of Renate's many shared events with family over the years, even a literary quiz. Granddaughter Yoko gave an especially heartfelt tribute to the grandmother she loves and feels so much in common with. The Waldesruh staff brought us a delicious lunch of wine, cream of tomato soup, a ragout of Sachsenwald venison with green beans and potatoes (locally raised of course), and red berries with vanilla ice-cream. And during and after, smiles and conversations and catching-up stories, and photos; and it seemed to me, so much shared pleasure that this family, with its origins in a very small town in Germany, had spread so far over time and distance. Below is my favorite photo of Renate from that afternoon.

Evening came after a golden sunset, and Renate, Marimar and I had a chance to remember our language teaching days, as well as exchange news of our lives since then. An opened bottle of wine, Marimar's present, enhanced our "chatting power." I had last seen Marimar in Tokyo about a year after she had given birth to her daughter Amaya--now a cheerful, bright 9-year-old. How do I know? The following morning we Skyped with Frank and Amaya, who were at home in Nuremberg. That morning Renate, Marimar and I prepared to leave the Hotel Waldesruh shortly after a generous buffet breakfast of cheeses, meats, fish, breads, fresh fruit and yogurt, cold fresh juice, and some of the best coffee I ever had. We dined in style. A photo of the breakfast room: 

 

Then lots of goodbyes, hopes expressed for meeting again, a walk to the train station in the cool morning air. Marimar encouraged me to visit her and Frank and Amaya in Nuremberg. And who knows, maybe with Renate in Spain in two years. ("I'd like to take you there", Marimar had told us the night before.) A very good idea we agreed.

I was due to meet Renate in two days for the start of our 9-day trip to Poland, which I looked forward to. Yet, as I told Marimar, very, very sincerely, no matter how wonderful Poland would be, this weekend would remain the highlight of this journey.

In memory of Gillian Shaw

This morning I woke up to what I thought would be an ordinary day, nascent cold notwithstanding, and opened my email. "Sad news", wrote a friend, telling me that Gillian Shaw, a friend and former colleague for many years in Japan, had died on December 4.  It was sudden, I later learned from her closest friend, the woman who had shared her home. When she complained of chest pains, an ambulance was called, but Gillian's heart stopped on the way to the hospital. She had turned 70 just a week earlier, celebrating her birthday with our mutual friend in a special restaurant we all liked. She was still living in Japan, her adopted home since leaving England many years ago. Below is a photo of Gillian, taken at Italiana Restaurant, on her birthday in 2009.

It's evening now, and I've been thinking of Gillian ever since I read the news. Besides the shock of any sudden death like this one, there's the secondary shock, like after an earthquake, often worse. I will never, ever see Gillian again, and any kind words unsaid or issues unresolved will remain that way. Fortunately, over time, she and I had gone a long way to resolving ours. We taught together at Tamagawa University for 15+ years until I retired nearly a decade ago. During those years we sometimes rubbed each other the wrong way, so it was not always an easy relationship.

Things changed as I was getting ready to leave Japan eight years ago. I found myself with more stuff than I knew what to do with, and Gillian was instrumental in helping me cart and carry. She liked to bake--her own creations, seldom from a recipe--and shared them with me, another boost to the packing process. To my relief, she took what she or neighbors could use from my pile of possessions,  practiced as she was in living on a shoestring and repurposing things. I felt humbled by her help, and promised to continue our connection after I returned to the US.

Gillian wrote me after I left Japan--long handwritten letters. She wrote in great detail about her garden, her childhood in England after her parents' first family (four siblings) died in a bombing raid during World War II. She wrote about her early days in Japan, the books she was reading, about the little girl next door, a child she befriended through her growing-up years. Years earlier Gillian and her long-time friend, Michiko-san, bought a house together near the university--not ideally constructed or situated--so there were always stories about household projects. She was a skilled carpenter, and for a number of summers she donated her time and skills to a non-profit working with deaf children in The Philippines. I always looked forward to her letters, always interesting, hopeful, showing interest in my new life as well. Over time I came to believe that writing had allowed a different relationship to emerge between us, one far more satisfying than the one we had before. Later we switched to email for convenience, but it's the letters, written on the backs of calendar pages and sent in slim envelopes with beautiful postage stamps, that I treasured most. I saved most if not all of them.

In many ways, life was not easy for Gillian, who did not marry and had no children. Her parents were long gone, she was estranged from her sister in the UK, and only occasionally in touch with a brother who had emigrated with his family to South Africa. She was a part-time teacher for all of her career in Japan, with all of the insecurity that brings. When I first met her, she was teaching at other schools as well as Tamagawa, but as Japan's demographics changed, classes dried up, and her class load was significantly reduced. Through it all, Gillian, a former missionary, was buoyed by her Christian faith and belief that God was looking out for her.

She retired two years after I did, but remained closely tied to the university. She was a frequent visitor in the Agriculture Department, and enjoyed visiting a professor in the English Department, one who shared her love of reading English novels. Health was also a challenge for her. She had mobility difficulties as well as heart and breathing troubles over the years, so the cause of her death was not a total surprise.

The last time I saw Gillian was on my trip to Japan in early 2016. We talked of ordinary things--the changes at the university, her continuing difficulty walking, a variety of hopes and worries, the closure of Italiana--our favorite restaurant in the neighborhood and scene of many birthday parties over the years, and of course, the plants she had in her garden.  We parted, expressing hopes to meet again on my next trip, travel no longer being an option for her. As is the case with most of the time when death comes suddenly, we did not guess this would be the last time.  Below: Gillian, me and RT outside The Harvest Restaurant in Shin-Yurigaoka during that visit.

Her last message, however, came just two days before she died. She talked about her wonderful birthday lunch at The Harvest with RT, and her promise to write soon. I had not answered yet. If I shared her belief in God and an afterlife, I'd send a loving response with a nod up to heaven, but I'll have to settle for keeping her memory alive and sharing something of her life with you. We will remember you, Gillian.

Laughing for no reason with Laughter Yoga

I'm enjoying a quiet morning indoors here in Florissant, looking out the dining room window at passing wildlife (raven, squirrel, deer)--and laughing. I just finished watching Day 130 of Dave Berman's Laugh of the Day on youtube. It's part of Daily Laughers, a channel Dave created for his daily 5--10 minute laughter sessions with Laughter Yoga teachers around the world. It's become part of my daily practice, and today I decided to do 3 sessions in a row, as I'm missing a session with the laughter club I'm part of in Denver. A great day to start the day--or in my case--put some energy into my mid-morning. I'm an early riser this week, as the cats I'm caring for expect their breakfast at 6:15, and being their devoted servant, I oblige.

Laughter Yoga is a practice, a way to benefit from the joy and healing power of laughter without need  of jokes or humor. It began with Dr. Madan Kataria in India 21 years ago and has since expanded into thousands of laughter clubs throughout the world. Dr. Kataria's great insight was the fact that laughing for no reason can produce the same physical and mental effects as laughing at a joke: increased endorphins (pleasure-inducing chemicals in the brain),  bonding with community (oxytocin) and all of the other positive effects of letting go of stress. The yoga part of the practice started with Dr. Kataria's wife, Madhuri, a yoga teacher who believed that yoga's breathing, meditative and spiritual aspects had a place in this healing art. Laughter yoga sessions often end with quiet time and a reflection on spreading world peace through laughter.

Over time I've gotten to know the friends I met through my laughter club, and part of the fun each Monday is going out to lunch afterwards to talk and, well, laugh some more. I first discovered Laughter Yoga toward the end of my stay in Japan when my friend Denise Olivieri took me to a World Laughter Day in Tokyo. (Yes, there is such a thing! First Sunday in May every year.) There I was with dozens of others simply laughing for no reason via a variety of short (a minute or so) exercises. Breathing, clapping, laughing--those are the elements of Laughter Yoga. Here's an example of a laughter yoga session on Youtube.  No doubt one laugh equals 100 words or more. You can watch this 3-minute clip here.

When I moved back to Denver two years ago I found an on-going club which meets weekly at noon at the Unitarian Church at 14th and Lafayette.* The number of participants varies from just a few to perhaps 15, depending on everyone's schedule or inclination. There is no fee or need to sign up for a course. Starting in June, the group moves to nearby Cheesman Park and continues there until fall.

Here we are one morning in the upstairs room at the church, where the stained glass window creates a beautiful light.

As this blog is part memoir, I wonder, as I write, how my laugh has changed since I was a child. I remember taking a voice class once and being told "Your voice is not your voice. It's a collection of habits, mostly unconscious, that you have heard and adapted." I imagine the same is true of laughter. I have no videos or other recordings of my earlier selves laughing. Probably, as a young child, my laughs and giggles were a lot more spontaneous, but then came my teen years and an infusion of self-consciousness. If laughter reflects our self-confidence, our emotional depth and sense of freedom, then I know my laugh is stronger and freer now than it was during my more timid adolescence.

Laughter yoga has its offshoots and one of them is Laughter Wellness, developed by Sebastien Gendry, a laughter specialist, I guess you could say, based in California. He started Laughter Online University, through which you can get certification in leading Laughter Wellness groups. I enrolled this year, and my goal this month is to finish the program. When I return to Florissant in June, I'd like to bring more laughter skills with me and lead a session or two here. I led my first session in Japan when I returned for a visit in March. It was at the annual retreat of WELL (Women Educators and Language Learners), a group very dear to my heart. About 20 participants turned up for a 9 a.m. session and I was delighted with their enthusiasm and creativity. Later I visited Denise--the friend who had introduced me to LY--and I visited a Tokyo laughter club (see info below). Here we are looking a bit flushed and relaxed after that session.

*Anyone interested in finding a laughter yoga club in your country/area can go to this website. A great source in Japan is Mary Tadokoro. She and her husband are experienced laughter yoga trainers in Tokyo. You can reach her via the Kichijoji Laughter Club. The link for Laughter Online University is here. There are also a growing number of Skype laughter clubs in various countries. You can get the call times at this link. What a way to travel--hohohahaha!

Visit to Tamagawa, Part II: Reunions and memories

Life at Tamagawa University was more than a stroll through forested bliss, as I hinted at in my last blog. Memories of my students and colleagues are just as salient as those of trees--more so, actually. I was happy to relive some of those during my recent visit to Japan. My first tour of the campus last month was with former colleagues, and among the first people I saw were Hirobumi Matsumoto, now the director of the Center for International Programs, and Keiko Sato, a former student who also works there. Here we are in the lobby of Building 5. I first met Matsumoto-sensei when he was a student and I was a freshman teacher. As we are Facebook friends, I've followed his career with pleasure, seeing the gifts he brings to the university's evolving program. As always, a face-to-face reunion brings joys Facebook just can't match. It was a treat to see Ms. Sato for the first time in 6 years.

Soon afterwards I met Ethel Ogane-sensei, who I first met when she joined the full time faculty of the Business Department. She has her office in the new Center for English as a Lingua Franca now, and I was so happy to see her thriving there. Sylvie Suzuki-sensei, another former colleague joined us for a tour of the new center and later dinner at a local Italian restaurant.

For working teachers, it was that happy time of year just before the new school year starts and after the work of the previous one is finished. Graduations are in March in Japan, and the new school year begins in April, which continues to seem like the natural time for a school year to begin, just like the growth of plants.

Just a few days later I visited the campus again, this time with a group of students who were in my junior/senior seminar. They graduated in 2005, and now 10 years later, those who could make our date, came together for a reunion. Before I show you our group picture (alas, not inclusive) taken on April 2 this year, here's how they looked 10 years ago on their graduation day. (An aside: I always enjoyed graduation day fashions, with everyone appearing in beautiful colors and individual choices--something worth noting as the country is often stereotyped as conformist.)

And now jump to 2016. Here we are in front of the building where we used to study together.

Most are moms now--or will be soon. This year, Yoko came with her daughter, (and her husband) as did Shiori. Mami brought her two sons, and she'll give birth to a third child this year. Asami left her young son at home with her husband, but had pictures and stories to share. Rika and Maiko will both be moms later this year for the first time, and Hiroko will celebrate her wedding. Graduation was the start of new adult lives and now parenthood is giving those lives a new dimension.

Not all reunions took place on campus. Phil Rowland-sensei, who taught many of the same classes I did, met me at a coffee shop near the day care center where he was due to pick up his 3-year-old daughter, Haruko Sophie. I was happy to hear he's pleased with his courses and with his poetry. A book of his poems will come out soon and he continues to edit Noon, an online journal of the short poem. Regrettably, I didn't take a picture of him, and my hopes of doing so were thwarted when I walked over to the day care center with him. Little Sophie was feeling shy that day, so no pic was snapped, but I left with the tender mental image of Phil holding her, her bare foot dangling free, as he got ready to put on her shoes. A sweet parent he's become as well as an excellent colleague for his Tamagawa peers today.

Another reunion off-campus was with Renate Tamamushi, a retired German teacher who graciously hosted me for a week at her place, and Gillian Shaw, who taught English at Tamagawa for many years. We met at one of my favorite restaurant haunts in Shin-Yurigaoka: The Harvest, a buffet of local, organic dishes. Here we are, posing outside after a delicious and filling dinner.

A heartfelt thank you, one and all, for the old memories I share with you as well as the new ones made on this visit. For all those in the Tamagawa community who I didn't have a chance to see, thanks to you as well. Looking forward to next time!




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A stroll through Tamagawa University

One of the things I loved about the Tamagawa University campus, where I worked for more than 15 years, was its beauty. Walking through the gate, I would see to my left a pond with a small fountain, surrounded by trees. Walking slightly uphill along a curving path, I would pass many more trees, diversely planted to show off cherry blossoms in the spring and intense colors in the fall. There were no leaf blowers. Staff members took turns raking leaves with a bamboo broom. I appreciated the silence those autumn mornings. Of course, there were classroom buildings and then further on a small tea house with a thatched roof. 

Sometimes I took breaks mid-day as well. There was a little stream near the tea house and a statue of the Buddhist deity Benten.

Not far away was a small white wooden chapel—the school founder having been a Christian lay minister. And if I walked even further back, an imposing statue of Beethoven, another small pond and somewhat neglected area of grass and flowers. Not a student haunt. Perfect for a short stroll. 

Just behind the chapel was the music building labeled with the Biblical phrase, "No Vision, the people perish". (Often shortened in the phrase, "Meet me at No Vision at noon.") Finally, I came to the building housing Foreign Language Department, as it was known when I arrived as a part-time English teacher in the early 90s. By the time I left, it was the Department of Comparative Cultures.

I have many memories of my years at Tamagawa, but 6 years after retiring from my job there, it’s the beauty and tranquility of my surroundings that come to mind first. Thanks for nature preservation goes to the founder, Kuniyoshi Obara, who was committed to zenjin kyoiku (education of the whole person.) He believed that education was more than just study or job preparation. It was something that involved the heart, soul and body as well as the mind. When he started an elementary school on the campus in the 1920s, it was what we’d call today an alternative school. Students lived there and school life was a broad mix of study, living on site, taking care of the grounds, as well as tending plants and other projects. Gradually, Tamagawa evolved into a kindergarten through university campus. As with all alternative movements, Tamagawa's zenjin kyoiku gradually became something different in a continually changing Japan.

Fast forward to 2016.  I already knew that Tamagawa was in the midst of a building and renovation boom when I visited last month, my first visit in 5 years. I already knew that the school's famous Christmas tree had been felled to accommodate a grand new building housing a state-of-the-art library, administrative offices, cafeterias and more. “No vision”, the old music/concert building, is being remodeled into a state-of-the-art facility as well, and most important to me, the building where I worked for many years has had a total makeover. 

The Christmas tree, circa 2010:

The new administration building, now sitting on the same site:

I confess to a conservative streak—that impulse to value the old over the new when the old carries my history and memories.  Especially when symbols, like the Christmas tree, are involved. A light show in front of the new building replaced that Tamagawa tradition last year. Perhaps the new display was more impressive—or not. Symbol aside, many trees still remain on campus—a good thing indeed.

Entering Building 5, where I taught for 15 years, I was disoriented—that feeling that comes when the familiar is disguised but still you know you’re in physical space you once knew very well. The building is now a center for English as a lingua franca, a term usually used in countries with a number of indigenous languages and a need to use English as a language of communication. Perhaps not entirely accurate for Japan, but I like the concept. To consider English as a foreign language sets up an opposition between native and foreign. The term lingua franca connotes a tool, a linguistic addition. Already English language instruction had been consolidated into a center open to students from various colleges in the university system. Last year my old department morphed again, this time into The Department of English Education. All students will be expected to study in another country for a time through one of the university’s partner programs. 

Photos of the interior of the new ELF Study Hall 2016 (Building 5):

View from a upper floor of Building 5, facing the new concert hall in progress:

“Surely this will be a good place for learning,” says my former colleague, Prof. Sylvie Suzuki. A former teacher of French and very proficient linguist, she was transferred to the Tourism Department after Tamagawa stopped offering majors in other languages. On the day I visited, she and another former colleague met me in the Center for English as a Lingua Franca. On the ground floor, there’s a multi-purpose room that offers places for small group work and discussion, a wired space to practice presentations, a coffee and tea bar, and comfortable seating. Colors are designed to match psychological states, such as calmness or creativity. There’s a lot of natural light, and as always, nature’s display outside large windows. All signs in the building are in English. The floors have been renumbered—somewhat disorienting. This, the former first floor, is now the second.

Across the aisle is an independent study area with spaces for tutor-student conferences. Already these one-on-ones are quite popular, I learn. We move upstairs—via an elevator, a new feature. I visit the “third” floor where my office once was and meet several of the faculty members. Serving many more students, the faculty is larger and more ethnically diverse than it was when I taught there. Everything is new, including the bathrooms: one for gents, one for ladies, and one “for everybody”. We continue to other floors, where classrooms have been upgraded and seating has become more flexible. I feel a strange mixture of envy and sincere pleasure in seeing these positive changes. Yet, another conservative impulse springs up--the desire to defend the value of the old structure. The changes here hold much promise, but there are trade-offs, as there always are. I regret that German, French, Spanish and Chinese language departments do not have a place here anymore. I remember the colleagues who taught those languages and the students who chose them. Now the focus is on English, and choice will bring a new set of benefits and challenges.

I leave the campus as the day fades. Past the concert hall construction, which obscures my glimpse of Benten, past the tea house, classroom buildings, trees and then the pond with it’s imposing new building, lit for the evening and the future.

Reflections on March 11 in Japan--5 years later

Every time I travel, the experience becomes a weaving. One strand is the real-time activities and conversations I have. Another strand consists of my memories of other times with certain people and places. Woven into those two is the news, the stories happening back home or in the world. All of those strands are shaping this month-long sojourn in Japan and making it much more that a visit back to the life I had when I lived and taught English here.

This week, during a two-day visit to a hot spring in Hakone, I spent the evening of March 11 glued to the TV news programs commemorating the 5th anniversary of what's known here as 3/11. That's the date when a powerful earthquake produced a huge tsunami off the coast of Tohoku, resulting in the deaths of nearly 20,000 people amid extensive destruction of their communities. Shortly afterwards, the shock of the quake turned the heavily-damaged Fukushima nuclear reactor into a deadly radiation source, still leaking and uncontrolled 5 years later. The news stories gave the resilience of people and the on-going reconstruction its proper due; yet, the focus was on all of the grief and suffering and uncertainty that still remains. Here's a short video of some of the observances here in Japan.

My memory strand wove into those stories my own story on March 11, 2011. I was visiting Japan, finishing the closure process I started a year earlier when I retired from teaching. One of the things I had wanted to do in Japan but never gotten around to was a Vipassana meditation course. A 10-day course was starting on March 8 in Kyoto, so I signed up and left Yokohama where I had been staying with my good friend Junko and her partner. Excited about deepening my meditation practice, I began the program which involved setting aside cell phones, computers, books and so forth, necessities in daily life but distractions at a retreat. I settled into the routine of meditation sessions and silent meals--until the third day when a notice appeared on the news board. It reported the tsunami and invited participants to call home if they wished. I didn't think that was necessary for me, as Kyoto was far from the disaster site. In fact, we hadn't felt the quake or its aftershocks at all. The next day another notice appeared. This one announced the nuclear disaster in Fukushima. A number of participants left that day. On the 5th day, the retreat was cancelled. The effects of the nuclear accident were unpredictable and likely to worsen, we were told. Embassies were already calling on their nationals to return home.

I felt a strange disconnect as the bus dropped us off at Kyoto station. There life seemed so normal as workers and shoppers went about their daily routine. I took a train to Kobe and from there went on by bus to my friend Sumi's house, where I had planned to stay for a few days after the retreat. There I caught up with email and Facebook posts, realizing with dismay that friends and family had not known I was safe. US news was filled with footage of the tragedy, with no coverage of normal life in Kyoto.

For the first time, I began watching TV coverage of the disasters along with hourly reports on the radiation levels and containment efforts at Fukushima. Through those programs and talks with Sumi, I began to understand the magnitude of the disaster, feeling increasingly worried and off balance. How much security we take for granted in daily life (those of us not in a country at war, that is) and how quickly it can disappear. Like Kyoto, Awaji was not seismically active then. I left a few days later and returned to eastern Japan.

In Yokohama aftershocks continued--though none severe enough to force us outdoors. There were rolling blackouts and lights in stores were dimmed or shut off.  Every day brought more news stories, but no resolution of anything. Relief efforts were underway, but tsunami victims continued to suffer in relocation centers in Tohoku, where the weather remained cold and rainy. In Tokyo I heard friends' stories: walking home for hours after the trains stopped on 3/11, running outside shaking buildings and hugging neighbors in fear, discussions about staying or leaving. By then it was vacation time for university teachers, with school due to start again in April. Although I had hoped to stay until early April to see the cherry blossoms once more, I left early. Airlines allowed ticket changes for no extra charge.

Now 5 years later I'm in Japan again, listening to stories of progress or lack of it, wondering if 3/11 changed people's lives as much as 9/11 did in the US. Though it's hard to generalize, I believe it did. A newly-energized people's movement against nuclear power in this earthquake-prone country took hold, and volunteer efforts aimed at relief and social change emerged. As is the case everywhere, though, change is hard to come by. The current government has authorized the reopening of nuclear facilities closed since 3/11, saying the country cannot produce enough energy without it. I sense from my friends that safety in Japan is just not taken for granted as it once was. Every community is making disaster management plans.

In a couple of days I'll go to Tohuku with Junko for 5 days. For the last two we'll join a volunteer group planting flowers in communities affected by the tsunami. Another blog to follow. Meanwhile I'll continue to follow the news, including news from back home. It seems that the Donald, Hillary and Bernie will be part of my Japan trip as well.

A Japanese New Year: Part 2--Seven Lucky Gods

One of the many things I enjoyed about New Year in Japan was the fact that it did not end on January 1. The 3—5 days following were usually days off for many if not most workers—time to catch up on sleep, relax, or visit friends or relatives. My favorite activity was a Seven Lucky Gods walk in one of the neighborhoods in or around Tokyo. I usually went with my friend Renate. We chose a neighborhood and the best-weather day, and then off we went for a day-long hike, including stops at 7 different shrines or temples, each devoted to a different deity.

“Gods” seems a misnomer for the Seven Lucky Gods, all but one derived from mythological or historical characters from China and India. Collectively, they reminded me of the things we hope for in a new year, like riches (defined broadly), happiness, prosperity, longevity, and protection. You can often see their images as the new year arrives in Japan—usually smiling atop a takarabune (treasure ship)—on flyers or cards. At each temple or shrine on our walk, a monk would stamp our cardboard with the deity’s image.

Some years we got small figurines instead of stamped boards, and I still have my favorite set on display each New Year and beyond.

Sometimes there would be stone reproductions of the dieties in the shrine gardens.

Like pagan gods of the West, they often had funny or eccentric characteristics and special groups of devotees. Fukurokuju (riches, happiness, wisdom), has an enormous head, long beard and sweet smile; Jurojin (wisdom) is more normal-looking, often portrayed with a sacred deer; Daikoku (demon chaser) dresses like a dandy and is short-legged and plump. The only woman in the group is Benten, who is often pictured with a stringed instrument called a biwa; she is the goddess of music, arts and eloquence. Then there’s Ebisu—the only native Japanese god—often elegantly dressed while carrying a bamboo fishing pole and huge fish; he’s the god of good fortune and fair dealing. I'm especially fond of Hotei, said to be modeled on a real-life Zen priest, who has a narrow forehead and huge belly and was so funny to the Chinese that they called him “Cho-tei-shi” (old cloth bag); he is the patron of children, wits, bartenders and fortune tellers. Rounding out the cast is Bishomon, a warrior and guardian of Buddhist virtues. He is sometimes considered a god of healing on the theory that sickness comes from evil and Bishomon defends against evil. A photo from a shrine honoring this guardian deity:

Most years I did the walk with my friend Renate, who enjoyed it as much or more than I did. Here she is on a particularly chilly day in early 2008, posing in front of a map above an illustrated takarabune, with an image of Benten on the right:

Approaching a shrine, we always found a fountain, where we could purify ourselves by running water over our fingers, using a bamboo or tin ladle. Some fountains were especially decorative. 

The walk was often a day-long affair, allowing train travel time, periodic rest breaks, exploration of the shrines, and food stops (sandwiches or onigiri, cookies and a small bottle of champagne being popular choices).   Some years our friend Marimar joined us, and one time she brought along her fiancé (now husband), Frank.

Usually we stopped at a restaurant at some point, when a tea break or warm spot for chilled fingers and toes seemed like a good idea. Food displays could attract, including this basket of these rather fiercely-decorated sweet potatoes outside one shop.

Returning home, I’d usually feel pleasantly tired and content that my new year had started well—with exercise and a kind of hopeful and peaceful feeling from all those shrine visits. Back in the US now, I still like to display a print of this photo which summarizes that feeling. 

I used to think that people in Japan were less focused on making new year resolutions than we are in the US. I don’t recall making them or hearing about them very much. Yet, when I quizzed my friend Junko about this, she told me that Japanese are often very focused on making resolutions for things they want to commit to in the coming year. They just don’t talk about it very much. The old proverb, “Actions speak louder than words” is taken to heart. Shrine visits are a way of getting spiritual support or enlisting a diety as witness. I was surprised to hear this, realizing once again how easy it is to make cultural generalizations. Just because we don’t notice something doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.

I’ve pretty much stopped making resolutions. My friend Roberta and I were talking the other day about how we want to continue the good things we’re already doing—things that bring us energy and satisfaction. Some things on my list: the strength training program I started last fall at the YMCA, time for being, communicating, dancing or laughing with friends, exposure to more books and ideas and finding opportunities for being at least a part-time political activist. Perhaps I can summon the Seven Lucky Gods as my witnesses. According to the Chinese zodiac, 2016 the Year of the Monkey, so I’ll try to be as clever and playful as one in the process.

A Japanese New Year: Part 1

One of the many things I got from my years in Japan was a new appreciation for the New Year holiday, which became my very favorite holiday there. In the US I just couldn’t get into it. I had no enthusiasm for football or travel amid substance-impaired drivers or for balls dropping at midnight in large crowds. But in Japan—where the new year is a family holiday— there were various rituals I enjoyed exploring: eating morsels of osechi ryori (special holiday foods) placed in lacquer boxes, watching the variety show, Kohaku Uta Gassen, followed by the Joya no Kane (the ringing of temple bells), and then a day or two or three later, taking one of the Seven Lucky Gods walks held in neighborhoods throughout Tokyo and environs. Fortunately, I’ve had a chance to repeat some of those rituals in Colorado over the past several years. Thanks to Susie, Anne and Marga, who live in Boulder and have a subscription to the Japan Broadcasting Network (NHK), I could renew my favorite rituals this omisoka (New Year’s Eve).

This year Susie’s daughter Gwyneth was visiting from Japan, and she managed to bring an ojubako (lacquered box) of osechi delicacies to the early evening feast of goodies: small colorful heaps of black beans, small fish, puree of sweet potatoes and chestnuts, a sweet rolled omelet, and more. (For photos and recipes, try this chef’s blog.) I remembered the many beautiful osechi arrangements I had enjoyed with Junko, who lives in Japan and is still family to me. Here’s a photo of her and one osechi feast she shared with me in 2004.

Of course, other foods make their way onto the table on this holiday, especially if kids are there. I still remember my surprise when I first joined Junko’s family for a New Year dinner and two of her nephews brought McDonald’s take-out. Kids don’t like the traditional foods that much, I was told. So I suppose the non-traditional tidbits we had this year, such as guacamole and chips, were right in step with changing traditions.

Having a buffet is useful on New Year’s Eve for all who watch Kohaku (Red and White Singing Battle), as I did with my friends in Boulder. Junko first introduced me to this show about 20 years ago; she has been watching it since childhood. The closest image I can suggest for this unique event is Las Vegas, Walt Disney and Lawrence Welk all rolled into one 4-hour extravaganza. Technically it’s a contest between the Red (female) and White (male) teams, with the audience voting at the end. I’m not sure how much anyone cares about the result, though. The important thing is how important it still is in Japan. An estimated 40% of the country watches, and it’s a big deal to be selected to perform. There were fifty-one acts this year, ranging from teenie-bopper acts with once-improbable names, like AKB48 to elaborate dance numbers (Sandaime J Soul Brothers from the EXILE TRIBE) to enka veterans (Yoshimi Tendo, Shinichi Mori) whose songs tell of heartbreak and struggle and longing, to pop stars who’ve had long careers or made comebacks.  A photo of idol group AKB48 (from The Japan Times):

Although the NHK-produced show avoids political controversy (no mention—at least none that I could catch— of the widespread peace demonstrations in the country last year), it pays tribute to disasters survived. This year marked the 70th anniversary of the end of World War II, and there were songs commemorating the struggles of that era. The future got its due also, as Olympic athletes were honored, with an eye toward the upcoming 2020 Summer Olympics in Tokyo. Kohaku emcees vary from year to year; this year one of them was 82-year-old veteran actress and UN cultural ambassador, Tetsuko Kuroyanagi. The show continues to fascinate, and occasionally, appall me. (Must so many young women dress and sound like little girls?) The fascination comes the showmanship of it all and the reminder that we are not all living in a globalized, homogenous world. It’s a very Japanese production. The number of costume changes throughout the evening is astonishing, and increasingly, computer graphics have been integrated into the choreography. 

Is there any other show that has such a broad reach? The producers are clearly mindful of the fact that New Year’s Eve is still often an intergenerational event in Japan, that new audiences must continually be attracted while satisfying the older ones. This has benefits for all viewers, I think, as everyone appreciates having acts they don’t mind missing to make a trip back to the kitchen for something. This was true at our Boulder party, as attendees included Susie’s two granddaughters, ages 5 and 8, who joined us around the screen in the basement, all of us taking breaks for rollicking play or food.

Unfortunately, I couldn't snap a good picture of our group, but I did manage this mother and daughter (or are they twins?) photo of Susie and Gwyneth.

In addition to the osechi buffet, there is another traditional food, usually served around midnight on New Year’s Eve: buckwheat (soba) noodles in a soy-flavored dipping sauce, topped with chopped onion. They’re called toshikoshi soba, meaning long-life noodles, a very appropriate and tasty idea, as we all get ready to plunge into the uncertainties of the new year. Our hosts brought our lacquer bowls of soba downstairs, which we ate as we watched the Kohaku finale. It was a rousing finish and then the winner was announced (Red broke White’s 3-year winning streak), and then came the part I always stayed up for and never tire of: the ringing of the temple bells. NHK cameras are stationed at various temples throughout Japan, including one in Fukushima that had been closed since the 2011 nuclear disaster. In Buddhist tradition, the bells toll 108 times, for the number of evil desires humans suffer from. (And to think Christians focused on only 7 deadly sins, perhaps the original sin-labelers had no time for the many minor ones we commit.) Mercifully, the cameras did not wait for all 108 strikes of the bell; rather, we saw lines of people waiting to enter the Buddhist temple or Shinto shrine—both traditions co-existing in Japan. Some were waiting to pray or ring the bell, others to get a lucky arrow or sip a bit of sake around a bonfire.

During most of my 20 years in Japan, I visited shrines on New Year’s Eve or sometimes the day after. Here’s one of me with Junko’s late mother (circa 2004).

This year, with no shrine opportunity in sight, my friend Roberta and I bid our hostesses good night, and drove a mile or so back to her place, where we each soon fell asleep. On January 1, we joined Roberta’s friend Hannah for a New Year’s Day brunch at a restaurant in Chatauqua Park, and drove by the Boulder mall, where in years past there has been a Japanese-style celebration sponsored by a local sushi restaurant. It usually included mochi-poundings and the resulting soft rice cakes with toppings, as well as a stand serving hot soup and performances by taiko drummers. The event was cancelled last year due to extremely cold weather, so with this year’s warmer temperatures, we had high hopes for attending one. No luck. Instead we joined a few walker and shoppers on the mall, appreciating the sun and the start of a brand new year.

Next: Part 2: Beginnings of things and the Seven Lucky Gods

Hiroshima and Nagasaki: A reflection

It was my first year in Japan—1990—and I knew I wanted to be in Hiroshima on August 6. That date was the anniversary of the 1945 atomic bombing, and as an American I wanted to make my own amends by joining the memorial observance held every year at the Peace Memorial Museum. Arriving on a sweltering morning, I walked among the thousands of survivors (hibakusha), family members and peace advocates, feeling very self-conscious. How would I be viewed by those who had suffered so much at my country’s hands? I remember attracting very little notice, however, as people were there for their own reasons—for the moment of silence (at 8:15 a.m., the time when the bomb struck), the casting of lighted lanterns on the water, the museum exhibits, the speeches.

In 2010, a few months before I left Japan to return to the US, I visited the Atomic Bomb Museum in Nagasaki, which was devastated three days after Hiroshima. I took these pictures then, both showing paper cranes, a now-international symbol of peace.

This year, as Hiroshima prepared for the 70th anniversary of the bombing, a BBC reporter approached Jamal Maddox, an Princeton University student, who had toured the museum and talked with a survivor. The reporter asked him this question: Has this experience changed your opinion of the US decision to use the bomb? The student thought for awhile and then answered: "I think we as a society need to revisit this point in history and ask ourselves how America came to a point where it was okay to destroy entire cities, to firebomb entire cities. I think that's what's really necessary if we are going to really make sense of what happened on that day." 

To make sense of what happened....Today as I read stories on the commemoration, I came across this National Public Radio story: “70 years after atomic bombs Japan still struggles with wartime past”. I wondered why it seems the losers of wars tend to struggle with the past, while the winners tend to leave it all behind, except among pockets of remembrance—veterans’ groups, historians, those with a strong connection to the suffering.

Like nearly all children growing up in post-war America, I absorbed the standard rationale for the dropping of the atomic bombs: the bombings were tragic but unavoidable because they shortened the war. Japan formally surrendered the same month.  But I also absorbed the seeds of doubt. I remember my father, always skeptical of the actions of politicians but an admirer of President Truman (who authorized the bombing) saying, “But he should never have dropped that bomb”. Clearly Dad remembered the news reports of the time, of the bombing itself and the effects of a new disease: radiation sickness. Hundreds of thousands died in the blasts and in the following years. 

Yet, like my family, most Americans were probably happy to put the war behind them and get on with building new lives. As a child and teenager, I don’t think I thought much about WWII; it seemed like ancient history—as did all events occurring before my birth. College didn’t help much with my understanding of WW2, as we were then embroiled in a new war in Vietnam. Later, as I came to appreciate history and the importance of remembering the past, I learned more about the the US role in WWII, about the heroism (such as liberation of concentration camps in Germany) and also the acts that would be considered war crimes had we lost the war.

A few years after my Hiroshima visit, I saw how remembering depends very much on who is doing it. For the 50th anniversary of the end of WW2, the  prestigious Smithsonian Institution created an exhibit of the Enola Gay, the plane that dropped the bomb on Hiroshima. Veterans groups and historians clashed over differing interpretations of the war and the bombings. The show was taken down and a less controversial exhibit ensued, but in early 1995 that one also closed after more protests about self-censorship and the lack of context. 

The Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum really impressed me. First of all, I had never been in a museum exploring the context of war as well as functioning as a memorial.  This one focused on Japan’s imperialist actions leading up to the war as well as what happened to the country during the war. There were state-of-the-art videos as well as simple, yet powerfully touching, paintings done by child victims. The museum has expanded in the past 20 years and there is more to see and reflect on. Did I think then as I do now, that a part of healing is remembering, sharing stories, taking responsibility for one’s actions?

Today in Japan the average age of the bombing survivors is 80, and people are looking at ways to keep alive their stories and their strong beliefs in peace. A Washington Post story describes the Memory Keepers (denshosha). Through this 3-year-old project, younger people volunteer to learn the stories of a survivor, agreeing to share those stories at events where they can. This year in Hiroshima there was the unveiling of a large public art project, a composite of the work of a thousand young artists. A 5-minute video of this year’s memorial celebration from NHK World News shows the result and is worth a view.

While the mainstream American view of the bombings (“tragic but necessary”) lives on,

historians have challenged it. One of them is Greg Herken, an emeritus professor of US diplomatic history at the University of California. He cites—and then explains—what he calls “five myths about the bombing”: 1. The bomb ended the war. 2. The bomb saved half a million American lives. 3. The only alternative was an invasion of Japan. 4. The Japanese were warned beforehand. 5. The bomb was a “master card” in the early cold war against Russia. Read Herken’s analysis here. 

Herken's arguments make sense to me, though I have no illusions they'll go mainstream anytime soon. Nevertheless, I believe that we—meaning winners as well as losers—would still do well to “struggle with our war past”, to use memory as part of healing and taking responsibility, and of answering young Jamal Maddox’s challenge: to reflect on “how America came to a point where it was okay to destroy entire cities, to firebomb entire cities.” That’s a moral dilemma that speaks to the future and the present as well as the past.