On turning 73 and greeting a new lunar year

Yesterday I turned 73, a number that was once quite inconceivable but not anymore. Like a number of friends in my generation, I prepare for my upcoming new age at least 6 months early--not unlike my childhood behavior: "I'm 8! Ok, I'm 7-1/2, almost 8!" Three of my friends have just turned 70, going through the shock of entering a new decade. I'm probably a little smug in thinking I'm well past that--still several years away from my next decade shock at 80. "If I make it," I whisper to myself, as if just saying that will appease the luck gods into letting me continue to savor this wonderful gift of life.

And then again, I'm lucky to be able to put age in perspective.  I live in a senior building, where I occasionally join neighbors in our optional one-menu-per-day dinner program. Last Friday, I chatted with Joan, who is in her early 90s, and Jeree, perhaps in her mid-80s. They asked me how old I would be on Monday (monthly birthdays are posted in our elevators). When I answered, they smiled with a look of nostalgia in their eyes. Oh, yes, I remember 73....

I moved into this community of mostly-retired over 62-year-olds nearly four years ago, and have not regretted it for a minute since then. It's independent living with many opportunities for socializing or simply enjoying life in a vintage but well-managed building (sort of like my body, I like to think). It's centrally located in Denver, next to City Park with its many trees, twice as many Canada geese,  a small lake, a couple of ponds. I spent a good part of my birthday gazing at the park from my 11th floor window and enjoying birthday greetings, written or spoken, from neighbors and friends. I did venture out into the falling snow at midday to meet friends in my laughter yoga group for a celebration and well, lots of laughter.

I didn't mark the occasion with a photo, so I took a few selfies today, marking varying reactions to being 73. So here I am, posing in front of a wood framed photo and card exhibit in my living room.

Yes--surprise, acceptance, laughter at the joy of having made it this far. I'm continuing to celebrate all week. Why not? A filmed version of The Met's Porgy and Bess tomorrow with an opera-loving friend; a Friday women's salon where we talk about a variety of topics relating to life, love, imagination or survival, one each month; another monthly meeting (OLOC, an aging support group), a dress rehearsal for a Valentine's Day dinner concert of The Sage Singers (my first chorus!). Today I'll miss dancing with the new class of square dancers in The  Rainbeaus, due to reluctance to driving on icy streets, but will catch up with one of their always-celebratory events soon.

This year my birthday coincides with the lunar new year, a period of two weeks which began Jan. 25. I plan to mark the occasion Thursday with a dim sum lunch at one of Denver's best (as in tasty) Chinese restaurants with several long-time friends. Although Japan celebrates the new year on Jan. 1, like most Western countries, I always felt during the years I lived there that the lunar holiday was a far more suitable time. At certain latitudes (e.g. Tokyo), the first hints of spring are already apparent. The plum blossoms emerging, a few green shoots poking through the soil. Also, the lunar holiday feels like a kind of second start. Still feels that way--a decade after I left Asia. So for you, dear readers, whether or not your January 1 new year started out well or not, happy new year to you! Especially to those of you who may have already broken a new year resolution. (It's not too late to begin again.)  We are starting the Year of the Rat (or mouse if you prefer), supposedly an auspicious year, as rodents proliferate when harvests are bountiful. Unless, as a Chinese friend informs me, you were born in such a year (coming around in 12-year cycles). In that case, you will have some challenges.

My challenge lunar year was 2019 (The Year of the Wild Boar), the year I experienced a stress fracture in one toe--and a lesson in how one small thing can impact activities for weeks. Other challenges: replacing my passport, stolen after a careless moment, and paying a big repair bill for body damage to my aging car, done in a not-mindful moment. Otherwise, it was quite a fortunate year: continuing love from people I love, several reunions--one in Germany and Poland with 2 special friends from Tamagawa University days. Other first get-togethers in a long time came in Chicago and environs with relatives in the Bogdanski family (my mother's side), and another with my first boyfriend, Phil, who I had not seen in nearly 50 years. And then treasured yearly reunions with my sister and brother-in-law, Joan and Jim, the Orozco clan, and old friends from my youthful life in Chicago. And then there was treasured time in rural Colorado at my tiny house in Florissant, still nestled on the property of my long-time friend, Linda. Only a few weeks there, due to being sidelined with my broken toe, but precious all the same.

And now a new year of life and new lunar year begins, so last year's memories will blend into the new ones created. And hopefully new actions--dare I say, accomplishments? My prime goal is to do everything I can to help Democrats win in November and end this years-long nightmare on Pennsylvania Avenue, as well as my intermittent despair over it all. Among other things, I'm eyeing organizing some weekly sessions with neighbors and friends to write postcards to voters in flippable districts. See Postcards to Voters for more information on that. Another prime goal: to be a good friend to my friends and family, especially those with health challenges. Other less urgent goals: to continue the Essentrics exercise program I'm doing with neighbors every week. And of course to write more entries in this blog. And in general being mindful all the time and especially with passports and cars. May each of you reach your goals this year too.

2018 in eight photos

So many images appear in my photo feed from this year, virtually all happy and beautiful times, since I tend to avoid taking photos of sorrow. Of course the year had its share of disappointments and loss, and I remember them in this season for looking back. Today, however,  I'd like to share with you some of my happiest times this year. Perhaps they'll resonate with your memories as we all slide into 2019.

First up: January 20: The second women's march in downtown Denver drew tens of thousands of participants, including me, hoping for inspiration to survive and resist another year with T-rump in the White House. There were so many creative signs and so much energy. I was particularly charmed by this pink-hatted group of family and friends, proclaiming their support of inclusive human rights. Another march is planned for January 2019--and I'll be there. Perhaps there will be things to celebrate as a new Congress convenes.

April: Oh, what a joy spring is. This flowering tree is in City Park, where I walked nearly every day I was home--my apartment being across the street from this oasis of trees in Denver. This photo was taken on April 1. In just a few short months now, this yearly miracle will return.

July: A neighbor in my senior apartment building in Denver turned me on to Postcards To Voters, a project started by "Tony the Democrat", a Georgia man who organized postcard-writing campaigns for Democratic candidates running in special elections and the midterms. Focus was on flippable districts and the concept was simple: one handwritten postcard to one registered voter in a particular district. I got together with neighbors several times during the summer to write postcards for various campaigns. Our first was Danny O'Connor who was running for Congress in Ohio (special election and later the midterms). He lost, but came closer than any other Democrat to winning in his district. My neighbors and I enjoyed getting to know candidates around the country and in the process, getting to know each other better.

Early September: As often I could this summer, I spent time at my cabin on Linda Lane's land in Florissant, a rural area west of Colorado Springs. The cabin (pictured here next to a 3-sided carport which looks bigger than it is) is actually a park model RV which I bought 16 years ago when I was still in Japan. Still summer, though Linda's wearing a jacket, as mornings are chilly here at nearly 9000 feet above sea level. I love the big sky and having time to gaze at it. Although I have better photos of the summer sky--some amazing sunrises and sunsets, this photo is one of my favorites from the land this year.  On most mornings, I enjoyed taking a walk with Linda and Belle, her border collie.

Mid-September: Renate (at right) is a treasured friend who I met in Japan when we were teaching at the same school--she taught German classes while I taught English. She came to visit me for the first time in Denver this year as part of a cross-country trip across the US and Canada. Here we are at the Denver Botanic Gardens one sunny morning. I plan to meet her next spring in Hamburg, Germany, when she celebrates a special birthday.

Late September:  I've enjoyed many good meals during 2018, but one of the most special was during a visit to the Orozco clan, part of my extended family, at Laura and John's house in Crystal Lake, Illinois. They outdid themselves with a feast of shrimp cocktails and homemade tamales amid other tasty sides. Love this photo of them and so proud to be part of this family. I don't see nearly enough of them. A wonderful day it was.

And then I spent a very fine week in Chicago with my sister and brother-in-law, Joan and Jim, before heading to the Loyola University Campus for my 50th college reunion. Yes, it's been half a century since I graduated from Mundelein College, which became part of Loyola in 1991. It was avery special weekend and I'm still processing all of the feelings that arose from seeing my classmates, being feted with events and tours, remembering how we were and learning how we are now. I have a number of photos from that weekend but this might be my favorite--Friday night before it all started, when some of us gathered in the lobby of the Hampton Inn in Rogers Park, ate pizza, drank wine, and plunged into sharing our lives over the past 50 years. Those red beanies? Yep, we wore them freshman year LOL.

October: A day after returning from Chicago, I began another reunion--with two wonderful friends from Japan: Junko (who I consider my Japanese sister) and Reiko, who I first met more than 20 years ago. We enjoyed 3 weeks together--mostly traveling. First, to the Tetons and Yellowstone National Park, then Denver, then a week in New Mexico. On our last day visiting the Tetons, we took a hike to a beautiful lake, and this is the scene and spirit of that day. Loved every minute, and it was all new territory to me as well as to them. Here's Reiko (left) and Junko, on the path toward the lake and those amazing peaks.

So many other photos I could have chosen, but I'll stop here. Reiko's wave seems somewhat symbolic of waving at the past before heading into the future. I hope you enjoyed my moments of joy. May you have many of your own to create and remember in 2019.

Meeting MLK on his birthday, in a dream cafe

It was a snowy, cold day in Denver yesterday, the day of what is usually the largest march/parade in honor of the birthday of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. I sat at my desk, listening to the megaphones in City Park, as a hardy band organized itself, and suddenly I found myself sitting in a cafe facing the Marade route, Colfax Avenue. An elderly gentleman sat next to me, and as he turned to acknowledge me taking the seat next to him, I gasped in surprise. Beneath the wrinkled forehead and thinning hairline, there was no mistaking those eyes and calm gaze.

"Dr. King," I stammered. "I can't believe what I'm seeing....."
"I can't either," he said smiling. I turned 88 yesterday. Hard to believe. Especially when you don't expect to live to old age, you can't quite imagine what it's like."
"But...how....how is this possible? You died in 1968....and now...."
"Yes, I passed when I was 39, but I took the return option--leave a little sooner and you can come back once a year to see how things turned out."
"You can do that?! I always wanted to.... Never mind, I have so many questions! First--why here?"
"Well, I always loved Soul Food, and....", he glanced back at the chef, lowering his voice, "and this isn't exactly the best place for that, but when the marchers come down Colfax in a bit, we'll have an excellent view. Every year I go to a different city, and usually I march too, but today...."
We smiled at each other. "Me too," I answered. "As my friend Linda puts it, 'you don't want to break an old lady bone' by going out in bad weather. But enough about that. I want to know what you think about today, about what's happening, about your birthday being a national holiday, about Obama, about who really carries your legacy, about...."

"Whoa," he stopped me. "Let's start with one of those". Then he continued, using the more sonorous language he's known for. First, about my birthday. I'm honored, not because I need ego satisfaction, not because Martin Luther King Jr. needs people to look at him, not because the past needs exalting, but because the nation needs a day to focus on its soul, on its ability to love and to seek justice above all." He stopped and looked at me.
"Sometimes," I said, it seems that gets lost amid all the press speculation about possible disruptions or loss of corporate sponsors or news about your oldest son meeting with Trump."
He winced. "I'd prefer to not talk about that... Let's just say our children are always going to chart their own paths." He paused. "I wonder sometimes if I wasn't home enough, that too much burden fell on Coretta. I still miss Yolanda. We used to play and swim together when I was home...."

Seeing his eyes mist, I changed the subject. "Please tell me, Dr. King, who carries your legacy today? I mean in the community."
"Why, everyone, of course. Everyone who carries the message of love and commitment to justice. There will always be a special place in my heart for my contemporaries, those who shared the struggle of the early days with me. John Lewis especially. He's been carrying on for a long time and is getting some pushback this year."
"Yeah," I mumbled. "War by Twitter...." Hoping to pin him down a little more, I asked, "Who were you marching with last year and where were you?"
He smiled, seeing where I was going. "I could say I was marching with everyone, but in fact...I was in Ferguson, walking with Black Lives Matter. Some people think my spirit wasn't there, but it was. And those young people knew it was. I'm still with them."
"As you probably know--your know everything now, right?--the Denver organizers said the BLM disruption last year cost them some corporate sponsors--the people whose money pays for scholarships and all the costs of marching these days."

"Corporate sponsors." He tilted his chin, staring into the distance. "Did you know when I went to college back in 1944, Morehouse College said it would accept any high school junior who could pass its admissions exam? They were trying to fill classrooms. So many young men and women had left to fight in World War II. I got in, got my degree and then went on to the seminary. Free of encumbrances."
"Very different situation today," I responded.
"Yes," he nodded slowly. "And I think we have to remember that corporate scholarships are not the answer. We need justice: an educational system dedicated to excellence, affordability and non-discrimination. That's really the root of everything," I've become convinced. Today's young people will inevitably create the future. Our life spans are limited, and we must always be aware of what we are passing on. I think Mr. Obama understands that."

"Do you ever wish human life spans were just longer?" I asked. I mean that a person could live to see more of the 'moral arc of the universe', as you used to call it--could live to see more of what happens with the struggles they were part of, could live, for example, to see the first African-American president take office."



"I think about that every year when I come back," he admitted. And I've concluded....well, the answer is no. The Creator knew what he was doing when he gave us 'fourscore and 10'. You see, I've realized that 'arc' was not the best metaphor for progressive change. Change doesn't move in a line, we see. It's more like a spiral, and with every return to an old issue, the issue becomes more complex. I don't know how I could lead if I were still on earth today. Perhaps I would have learned to cope the technology, continued to reframe my assumptions...lived through the death of a child...." His voice trailed off. Then he turned to me and said, "No, it's best that we have new leaders, new chances for youth to show us new directions to the promised land. I do wish I had had a chance to shake Mr. Obama's hand, though. I'm 88, two years shy of 'fourscore and 10'. Had things been different...."
"I remember that day," I said, turning to him. "I was a college senior, walking home from the library when I heard the news. I couldn't believe it. I remember feeling frightened about this world I would soon graduate into."
We both grew silent. Our food had arrived, and the first marchers were passing by, braving the cold and tapering snow. "Look at them," Dr. King said, sipping his coffee. "We have hope, yes, we have hope."

New Year Resoluteness

I stopped making new year resolutions years ago.  A combination of reasons for that; tops on the list were a desire to avoid embarrassment at the likelihood of failure and a growing appreciation for the difficulty of changing a habit --however small. Gradually I learned that letting new things into my life bit by bit and then seeing where I wanted to take them was a much better approach. And so it is this year as well. That means life is more like this:


And less like this:


A major thing that I have let into my life since the November election is exploring ways to resist likely assaults from the Trump administration on human rights and the climate.  Have to confess I wish we had a sudden change away from all that, but it's not likely. And so I think about how to focus and stay committed for the long haul. Recently I found this graphic on my Buddhist newsletter (Lions Roar) from a teacher who made this mind map of the process.



The A section--Use "right effort"--has a plant-nurturing image, a perfect fit for me. Then there's B--Use "right mindfulness" to determine the situation, clarify intention, make a strategy, and determine what's needed to allow that to happen. Good stuff there, and I believe I've made some steps in that direction. Determining the dimensions of this resistance movement and making my own strategy should get a boost next week when I join the Women's March on Denver, a sister march to the massive one planned for D.C. on Jan. 21.

Open to everyone, these events are called women's marches because they were planned and organized by women. In Denver all of the speakers and performers are women, and you can find more about that, as well as any other aspect of this march and rally here. I expect that many ideas and strategies will be offered, and perhaps one of them will become mine. This week I'm spreading the word among friends and neighbors at my new address and inviting them to join me in traveling to Civic Center Park by bus that morning.

Meanwhile, I've been looking at how to keep balance in my life. See "C" on the mind map above. A major question is how will new activity find room in my life, which already seems quite full. I've realized that much as I enjoy Facebook, I don't need to access it every day or more than once a day, as I've been doing lately. I also don't need to feed fear and worry with reading endless speculative articles on the new regime's plans. I can better use my time on the day's chosen tasks.

Today's tasks in the spirit of "right effort": redesign my work space, write letters to two treasured friends, take a walk, laugh, make a big bowl of miso vegetable soup, and most important: post this blog, tell you, the reader, about the march and sending you my best wishes for a mindful, productive, joyful new year.

My American "bonenkai" season

During my years in Japan, December was bonenkai season, time for "forget the year" gatherings among friends and co-workers. The tradition grew out of drinking parties at work, where supposedly bosses and employees could speak the truth and all that would be forgotten by the next morning. It was never quite like that for me. Our school parties were usually delicious dinners and polite talk, a departure from our sometimes mind-numbing faculty meetings, those broken only by the excitement of someone actually speaking their mind. I digress....

This December, when so many of us needed a "forget the election" break, the Christmas-Hanukkah season brought some excellent opportunities to do just that--though it proved impossible to really forget the guy due to take office in January, as new horrors unfolded everyday. Still, I tried, and before the season slides into a more purposeful new year, I want pull out the best moments, thanking all those who shared with me times of  joy and hope and good food and company, all those essential things for life and survival.

The season opener for me was the annual Lavender Gala, designed for LBGT elders in Boulder County. And since we've all had a lifetime to hone our party skills, it was a lavish affair. The invitation postcard with a collage of photos from the 2015 gathering, shows some of the spirit of the event. (Yes, that's me laughing, left middle). Lots of happy guests, along with our emcee, Ms Eda Bagel (upper right), and dance instructor extraordinaire, Susie Pringle (lower left)

This year was just as much fun--with entertainment, door prizes, dancing, and a tasty buffet. Two photos from that afternoon at Nissi's Bistro in Lafayette. My dance partner in this artistic blur of red is Susan Osborn.



It seems dancing was the theme of early December, as I also enjoyed the holiday party of the Rocky Mountain Rainbeaus square dance club. Our unique blend of campiness, nerdiness and just plain silliness might be reflected in this 2015 photo. The theme was Hawaii in December, and here are a few of my dance partners during a break. I have totally forgotten why our caller, Bear Miller, is holding a red crab. At right is a photo from this year's party. By pleasant mistake, I'm wearing my Edo 8's badge--the club I belonged to when I first learned square dancing in Japan.



More dancing--this time with me as an audience member--was a visual treat when I attended the holiday concert of the Denver Gay Men's Chorus. One number was their gender-playful rendition of The Nutcracker Suite.

My best spiritual moment this year was an impromptu Solstice ceremony Dec. 21 at Deb Taylor's house. Her housemate, Kate, orchestrated it--with beautiful music, readings, and candles that we lit, knowing that the longest night of the year had just passed and the days would now be getting progressively longer. No photos from that night; just picture 3 flickering candles and whatever poem or reading you would contribute if you were there. I chose one by Mary Oliver, called Mindful.

More music: Two days before Christmas a group of fellow residents here in Montview Manor organized a carol singing event, starting in the penthouse and coming down to each floor, inviting anyone to join them. I'm on 11, so it wasn't long before they arrived and I accompanied them down to the lobby, floor by floor. Marion (with Santa hat and tambourine), a retired music teacher, tried to keep us all on key.

Christmas fell on a weekend this year, and Saturday morning was my date with my adopted niece Sable Rall and her family--husband, Ted, 7-year-old James, 5-year-old Lily and canines Hunter and Sosha. After a tasty split-pea soup lunch, James and Ted took off to do errands and the rest of us bundled up for a walk through their sunny neighborhood. Somehow I never got us all still enough for a photo, but the images remain: Sable pushing Lily's stroller over still-snow-encrusted curbs, with dogs attached--an amazing feat in strength and coordination. It had been a long time since we had an uninterrupted talk, so that morning's discussion was truly welcome and hopefully the beginning of many more in '17.

And then afternoon rolled into evening and I travelled over to Sharon and Denise's place nearby for  Christmas Eve dinner. A gourmet event it was, thanks to Denise's patient prep and cooking. We started with a blind champagne tasting, a French version in one bottle and a New Mexican equivalent in another. As is often the case, the French version won, with bubbles literally bursting on the tongue. Then came a vegetarian soup with a base that took hours to make, a crab cake main course, flavorful mushrooms, a uniquely-flavored cranberry dish and key lime pie for dessert.  Feasting was followed by an exchange of Christmas stockings, filled with small, silly and surprising gifts. Sharon and I have known each other since the '80s, when I spent a number of Christmas Eves with her and then-partner Nancy, and Nancy's mom, Helen. Lots of laughter and food and silly or sweet gifts then too. Below are photos of Sharon (holding Frosty), Denise (far right), and their other guest, Teresa.

The next day, was Sunday, Christmas Day, another occasion for feasting and lovely company. Sally Perisho, who I first met when she moved to Denver from Illinois in the late 70s, invited me to dinner at her beautiful, art-filled home in Littleton. Gourmet chefs there were Sally and our long-time friend, Gayle Novak, and I was the lucky beneficiary, along with two other friends of theirs. I humbly contributed some cheese, while the chefs put together a delicious, color and taste-balanced meal of pork roast, brussel sprouts, scalloped potatoes, and cranberries, accompanied by wine. Sally, a retired art curator, is not pictured below, but her dinner table creation is, in front of happy guests anticipating all the bites to come. (From left: Kathy, Mimsy, me and Gayle). At right is Sally's Siamese, Remy, my long-time feline crush, winning the fashion award. (Not pictured: Violet, her stylishly attired canine sister.)

Gifts and conversation continued, smiles around, and then we drove off into the evening, streets nearly empty, and I arrived home safely, counting my Christmas treasures like beads on a rosary. A year to forget and also to remember.

"Casablanca" and "Allied": different fundamentals apply

I was thinking about the movie Casablanca the other day, wondering how many times I've seen this iconic film. Surely at least a dozen times, probably beginning in my early adolescence. Undoubtedly, I saw it on TV, as I was part of the first generation able to see outside of a movie theater. It's been on TV and in theaters for more than half a century now. I associate it with New Year's Eve, that special time of year full of excitement and longing and nostalgia for times past. One Dec. 31 comes to mind, when I watched it as my partner slept, unable to stay up until midnight. Nothing like a wartime film to remind me how petty my discontent was.

Released in November, 1942, Casablanca stars Humphrey Bogart as Rick, a disillusioned cafe owner in wartime Morocco, who meets his lost love, Ilsa, played by Ingrid Bergman. They were lovers in Paris, but she left abruptly after learning that the husband she believed had died was in fact alive.

"As Time Goes By" was their song. Take a moment to enjoy one of the most memorable scenes from this film. Yes, you must remember this.... Watch below or click on this link.

Now Ilsa is in Casablanca with her husband, Victor, an important fighter in the Resistance to the Nazis. I try to remember what my teenage self might have absorbed from this movie. Less about the war and more about gender roles and adult life, perhaps. Actresses were beautiful,  actors not necessarily; that somewhere there is or was an adult world where important things happened, where people were complex beings who could change over time, where love was public but sex private, where sometimes people had to make sacrifices for the greater good of their country and the world. In later viewings,  I could see other things, such as the dynamics of race relations in the 1940s.

(Spoiler Alert for the film Allied.) I was thinking about Casablanca last Saturday when I saw a new movie that has been compared with it: Allied. This film, which also opens in wartime Casablanca, stars Brad Pitt as Max, a Canadian intelligence agent whose first task is to meet the woman who will pose as his wife, Marianne, a French Resistance fighter played by Marion Cotillard. This film also invokes more of another Pitt film, Mr. and Mrs. Smith, leaving just a superficial resemblance to Casablanca, which was filmed well before the feminist revolution of the late 20th century. Pitt is a trained assassin, sent to kill a German official, and Cotillard is every bit his equal handling a machine gun. This film also has explicit sex, and a sudden change in location mid-film. Pitt and Cotillard escape Morocco and marry in London, where we suddenly see Cotillard giving birth to a daughter in the middle of the Blitz. Then the plot turns: Is Cotillard who everyone thinks she is? Evidence has been found that she is really German, a woman who took over a French woman's identity and is now funneling secrets to the Nazis. A test is set, and if failed, Pitt will be ordered to kill her.  

Clearly, Allied is a plot-driven movie. The suspense had me on the edge of my seat, and only later did I question whether any of the characters made sense. They didn't, I concluded. Character development was definitely sacrificed to action, and secondary characters are stereotyped. What went on in the Cotillard character's mind, other than seeing what a good-looking hunk the Pitt character was? Was she ever a committed Nazi? What changed her mind? How did she learn to speak French so flawlessly? How did this trained assassin fail to find a solution to the intimidation of German agents in England? I wondered what my adolescent self would have made of this movie, had I seen it then. The gender roles would not have been inspiring. It was discouraging enough to realize that I would never look as beautiful as Ingrid Bergman; knowing that I had neither Cotillard's looks or bravado with a gun would have probably done me in. I would have also learned that sacrifice has more to do with saving someone you love than anything about patriotism or the common good.

What the first viewers of Casablanca had that we don't is a context: World War II. The movie was rushed into release to coincide with the Allied invasion of North Africa in 1942. In the US, the war was less than a year old, and people knew that sacrifices had been made and would be required for some time. It resonated with audiences of the time in ways that Allied cannot, and would not, even if set in present-day Syria, for example. There may be national unity about defeating ISIS, but no consensus on what role, if any, we should have in that.

Casablanca opened to good reviews, Wikipedia reports, but it did not get best picture at the 1942 Academy Awards, losing out to In Which We Serve. Its real success came later, thanks to new generations finding their own meanings in it. More than 70 years later, it's considered one of the greatest films of all time. The late movie critic Roger Ebert believed it is so well loved because the "people in it are all so good" and "it's a wonderful gem".  Umberto Eco said it was really a mediocre film, but because it touches on so many archetypes, including the theme of sacrifice, it reaches "Homeric depths."  In 2006 the Writer's Guild of America selected it as "best ever" in its  list of 100 great screenplays. 

Allied has gotten decent reviews (61% on rotten tomatoes). Its computer graphics are light years from what was available in 1942. Costumes, music and strong performances by the actors all contribute to a film that's well worth seeing. Still, I don't expect to watch it again, certainly not on New Year's Eve. I wouldn't mind another viewing of Casablanca. As time goes by, it seems, the fundamental things really do apply.

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

Christmas Eve at First Baptist Church of Denver

This Christmas Eve I met a new neighbor—the First Baptist Church of Denver, just a block and a half away from my apartment on Grant Street. Fortunately, we had no white Christmas this year; I say fortunately, given my aversion to walking on snowy or icy streets. On this chilly but snow-free evening, I walked this short distance, part of the way alongside a string of candelaria, leading to the entrance of the church for the evening candlelight service. Here's a photo of the altar. Imagine the candles lit and the background lighting softer.

 

First Baptist is a small church with a long (150 years) and respectable history. Martin Luther King Jr. once preached here. It has a large pipe organ that people are very proud of. You can hear it if you click here.

Plain setting, unadorned crucifix, no stained glass. Lit candles on the altar gave the space an intimate feeling. I took a seat and soon we were invited to greet our neighbors, the 100 or so congregation members who had filled half the benches that evening. I was warmly welcomed by two attendees who seemed about my age, Nancy and Mike, who sat in front of me. Their bench was strewn with children’s toys and books. It was a good beginning of the evening—also a good ending to a day of companionship among friends in Boulder. 

This evening was the first time I had ever set foot in a Baptist church, and I was curious to see what a service was like. Perhaps there was a taste of the forbidden in this decision, as during my Catholic youth, we were not allowed to consort with Protestants in their churches. I also knew, thanks to a friend who had once attended Northern Baptist services like this one, that this congregation would not fit my stereotypes of Southern Baptists, likely to be anti-pleasure and anti-gay. Not that I had any direct experiences with Southern Baptists either.  

This visit was the second in a new would-be tradition I started last year—spending Christmas Eve in a church in my area. I plan to go to a different one each year, preferably one I can walk to. Last year my friend Roberta joined me for a stroll to the spacious, stained-glass-infused St. John’s Episcopal Cathedral on 14th Street. We enjoyed the beauty, the trained voices of the choir, the flowers, and the message that churches do best at Christmastime: peace on earth and good will to all. Here’s a photo of the interior of St. John’s.

First Baptist was the polar opposite of St. John's. Both setting and service were simple, without frills. Their mission is simple as well. They aim to be “a place that welcomes and affirms all people and their questions about life and faith. We are a progressive, justice-seeking congregation that strives to follow Jesus’ ethic of love.” Amen, I say. 

The service started with music—one of the major reasons I like to be in a church at Christmas. A small choir of 5, informally dressed, stood to the side. There were readings from Luke and Isaiah, interspersed with carols. Early in the service attendees were invited to light a candle for someone and then tell the congregation who and why. Ten or so attendees came up and lit tapers. Grandparents and other family members or friends were thanked or remembered; two men acknowledged their same-sex partners. The service continued with music. After the next carol, my bench-neighbor Nancy—introduced as the Rev. Darnell—got up and came to the front, inviting children to sit near her to hear a story. It was a modern-day story of an adopted special-needs child and family love. Then came more carols, a reflection on Christmas by the senior minister, and finally the scene that stays in my mind: the candle lighting. The candles we received upon entering were lit row by row, and we all filed out to the north porch, facing the dome-lit State Capitol building across the street. We sang Silent Night in unison on this relatively silent evening—no sirens or revelers’ shouts intervening. 

We sang all verses of the song, and afterwards, the minister reminded us of some of the ways First Baptist fulfills its mission: providing meals for those in need, shelter for homeless women, and a job training center for recently arrived immigrants. Earlier this month, the church provided space to The Spring Institute to operate a coffee shop on its premises. Eventually Spring hopes to create a program including ESL classes, something it already coordinates at other locations. 

Perhaps the the activities of First Baptist are not unusual. Not being a regular churchgoer, I don’t know to what extent churches have intensified their traditional role of ministering to people in need—a role needed now, more than ever, as social needs grow exponentially along with social inequalities. In any case, here's one place where that ministry is happening.

Years ago, when I attended Catholic mass with my family, I used to love Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve. But as I’ve grown older, my fondness for late-night events has shifted to appreciation for those that start early. Ninety minutes after the 7 p.m. service began, I was back home, ready to tend to my own personal holiday rituals. These have changed over time. For a number of years, I just had to watch Miracle on 34th Street (1947), one of the earliest film critiques of the commercialization of Christmas and a gentle tribute to the power of fantasy. 

However, my years in Japan changed most of my habits around this holiday. In my first few years there, I worked on Christmas Day, as did everyone I knew. Sometime in the 90’s, a globalized version of Christmas entered Japan. Falling two days after the Emperor’s birthday (Dec. 23, a national holiday), Christmas got included in a winter holiday break that gradually started earlier and ended earlier than the traditional New Year break had.  By the time I left Japan in 2010, Christmas was widely celebrated as a festival of lights and a romantic date occasion for the young. 

Still, Christmas has a limited place in Japan, preceding the real winter holiday celebration—the New Year, when families and friends come together to share special foods and memories, visit a shrine and watch incredibly bad junk TV. I usually used my time off from teaching to catch up with work and visit friends. Before classes ended for the year, I remember teaching lessons on A Christmas Carol as an internationally-known piece of literature or showing A Muppet Christmas in class. In private, I just had to pull out Dylan Thomas’ classic short story, A Child’s Christmas in Wales. 

Perhaps you’ve read it too. It starts this way: One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six…. Later, my sister and brother-in-law sent me a video version which I also enjoyed. You can watch it on youtube.

This year, after my lovely visit to First Baptist, I watched my favorite version of A Christmas Carol on Netflix: the 1938 black-and-white film starring Reginald Owen. It was so satisfying, as this non-colorized version was perfect for ghostly shadows. When it ended, I was still awake enough to watch A Child’s Christmas in Wales. 

Then sleep, and then Christmas Day, a Friday this year, marked by a ritual they say is common among many Jews—going out for Chinese food. I joined Roberta and her sister Bunnie for this, as I’ve done in the past, except this time we chose a Japanese restaurant, one in the small town of Lafayette near Boulder. They were doing a brisk sushi take-out business—perhaps a new ritual for non-cooks on this day. Late afternoon I drove back to Denver for a relaxing evening of Netflix watching, and then finally, snow began to fall. Like Dylan Thomas, “I got into bed. I said some words to the close and holy darkness and then I slept.”