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 few thoughts on turning 69

I turned 69 this month, which means I’ve started my 70th year of life. It was not so much a plunge into a new decade as a swirling of a toe in its waters. I’m in the habit of getting ready for birthdays at least 6 months in advance, so when the day actually arrives, my new age seems just a slight shift on the calendar, a new number on a form. When I was younger, old age really seemed like a foreign country. I sang along with Simon and Garfunkel. You know, that song about two old men sitting like bookends on a park bench; “how terribly strange to be 70.” Simon and Garfunkel wrote the song in their 20s, when that foreign country was still so far away for them. Since then, they've arrived, as have I, and perhaps they'd agree it’s not so strange after all. There are people and buildings and nature, more or less different from the ones you knew, but not as disorienting as you feared. So you walk ashore and the journey continues.

Here I am at 21 in my college graduation picture. Did I even think about my 70s when 30 still seemed like a somewhat strange and distant land? Perhaps not.

Every year a wave flowing into the next. At the same time this process of aging is like an undertow, not always seen but there nonetheless, a danger, a pull to an unknown place with no return. People my age, a little younger or a little older, are dying. Sometimes from long illnesses, sometimes suddenly. Decades ago my parents passed away, both suddenly from heart attacks at ages 74 and 77.  More recently (2009), Paula, a friend and once my partner, died suddenly at 59. Celebrities I remember growing up are now dead: Robin Williams, David Bowie, Leslie Gore, Natalie Cole, many more. Like everyone, I hear or read about fatal accidents. Of course, I’ve always known an accident is possible anytime, but older, I'm somehow more aware of the danger and the arbitrariness of it all.  Witnessing these deaths, I pause, promising myself to be more mindful, to make every day count.

Like other friends my age, I say sometimes that I wouldn’t choose to go back to my 20s even if I could. We agree that so many youthful worries have since been eased or abandoned. We’re stronger, freer, happier now. For those of us who are retired, there’s more autonomy than we had when jobs and/or growing families structured our days. It’s a kind of second adolescence, except we’re old enough to appreciate it. We don’t waste a minute sulking in our rooms. Five years after retiring from teaching English in Japan (a job and country I loved), I still wake up mornings, thrilled to be able to create my days pretty much as I like.

I’m also lucky to be aging along with the largest generation in US history: the post World War II baby boomers. Every month, when my AARP* magazine arrives, it’s full of stories about other people my age who are still in the game through their professions or making a new start in something. The cover of the latest issue includes these stories: Money Issue (get hired, best investments), Disrupt Aging, Choose Your Cruise, proactive health articles.

Surrounded by age-positive opportunities here in Denver, I take free Silver Sneakers exercises at my local YMCA, laugh with my laughter yoga friends (mostly older, as we meet in the middle of the day), and square dance with the Rainbeaus, a club known for having many senior members with playful spirits. Summers, when I return to my cabin in Florissant, I’m surrounded by enterprising seniors there too—hiking mountains, planting gardens, building stuff. The list goes on. A great time to be an old person. And yet this, from Emily Dickinson:

Presentiment is the long shadow on the lawn—

Indicative that suns go down—

Notice to the startled grass

That darkness is about to pass—

With this presentiment that time is getting shorter and the darkness is not all that far away, what still needs to be done? What can I still do? What do I really want to do? What should I do now while I’m able? Perhaps those youthful worries over how to create my future haven’t really gone away, just changed form, become more urgent. Thinking of my younger self, I shake my head with the other elders. What after all, did she have to worry about? She had youth!

“Aging sucks”, says my 84-year-old neighbor when I ask her about it. “I never thought about it until I got cancer.” Once a violinist and composer, she can no longer play because of arthritis in her fingers. She does her best to live on a very limited income. She's clearly not the only one. For two Decembers in a row I’ve helped deliver fruit baskets from Volunteers of America to seniors who are alone or financially poor in Denver, and have seen glimpses of the stresses endured by many seniors: failing health, loneliness, too little money for making ends meet. Many homeless people I see on the street are seniors.

Looking at my AARP magazine cover, I welcome everything that reinforces my sense of strength and agency. I need it to balance out my sense of vulnerability. A fall can lead to a broken bone which can lead to immobility and long recovery time, as happened to a friend in Florissant last year. (But our ability to heal is strength and my friend's neck brace was removed last week. Ah, freedom!) Other friends and family members are surviving cancer. Seeing their strength makes me feel stronger to meet whatever challenge comes my way.

 However, vulnerability is underscored every week when I visit a woman my age who has early-onset Alzheimers. I knew her before her illness and there seems to be flickers of our friendship in her long-term memory. This form of the disease is strongly linked to genetics, a time bomb hidden in a piece of DNA.  In offering caregiving services to her, I wonder about my own undiscovered vulnerabilities. “Just do what you can, make every day count”, I whisper to myself as the visit ends.

Memory is such a gift when and while we have it. When I was young, I thought it was a little sad to be old, to have most of life in the past. Okay, I had a point there. Unlike the past, the future always has hope and promise. I'm increasingly aware of how much of the future I'll never see.  But now I look at the past as a mansion, not quite Downton Abbey, rather much humbler, more complex, and very large. Mine has all sorts of rooms full of interest. A few rooms I’ve learned to keep closed; no need to revisit. As for the rest, wandering through them is a fascinating journey. I can go to any of them as the mood strikes: childhood rooms, classrooms, outdoor rooms, often alone or with others I’ve known and loved. Fun! As George Orwell said, “One’s memories grow sharper after a long lapse of time because one is looking at the past with fresh eyes and can isolate and as it were, notice facts which previously existed among a mass of others.” It’s fun to share these reminiscences with good friends who tell me about their own wanderings and new ways of seeing.

Still memory is always on a balance beam of strength and vulnerability. Just as maintenance of my body seems to take more time and work than before, so does memory. It always irritates me when my peers complain about not being able to remember names or where their keys or glasses are as if nothing can be done. Okay, it’s true--brain synapses slow down, but mindfulness and paying attention go a long way toward minimizing the problem, I argue. We can take notes or use one of many mnemonic techniques.   Just another exercise. Use those strengths. We can't abolish vulnerability but we can thumb our noses at it.

Speaking of strengths, it’s time to wet my toes in the current of today. Errands and more preparation for next week's trip to Japan. Yet there’s so much more to say about this and many other topics. Another day, another blog to come.

Reflections on the Marade

I attended my first Marade last year, and this year knew I wanted to go again. The Marade is an annual Denver event held every January on the birthday of Dr. Martin Luther King. This year it was held on Jan. 18, and two weeks later, I’m still thinking about it. Like last year, the weather was sunny and relatively warm, always a boon for outdoor events, and thousands turned out for it. Like last year, I walked from home and met marchers along the parade route, ready to watch and then join in. Judging by the signs, there were members of church groups and non-profits and progressive movements, along with parents and kids and friends. There were horses too, and bringing up the rear, a fire truck in parade mode. Unlike last year, however, there was less music and a different mood at the front of the march. Members of Black Lives Matter had displaced the traditional leaders—the mayor, various dignitaries and corporate sponsors. They did it by getting an early start, walking down a different street and then cutting in front of the others.

Looking at the diversity of faces and signs, I wondered how many others felt as I did, feeling that combination of pride in all that’s been done amid reminders of all that needs to be done for equality and justice in this country. Despite the pressing needs of now, I wanted the past to get its due. Dr. King’s work had been my initiation to political work. Fifty years ago, it was, and it still surprises me to realize that. Yes, half a century ago, I was a freshman at Mundelein College, a Catholic women’s college in Chicago, where a group of older students and nuns were planning to join the last leg of the historic Selma to Montgomery march. I knew right away I wanted to go, and when my worried parents objected, got a job to earn the $20 round trip bus fare. The Civil Rights Movement was in full swing in the South, where African-Americans were fighting for the basic right to vote and an end to oppression from the white power structure. Such excitement in the air! I remember many moments of that event—the beginning of my understanding of how people of different races could unite to make change. Months later, the landmark 1965 Voting Rights Act was signed into law.

Fast forward to the Marade. This year it was clear that the injustices needing to be addressed superceded any reflections on history. There were lots of signs and banners calling for specific things— an end to the death penalty, the freeing of Native American activist Leonard Peltier, a woman’s right to control her body, among others. Two Muslim women marched together holding a sign expressing hopes that children of all races might live in peace together. “Reclaim MLK” was one sign I noticed and wondered about. The answer came when the marchers spilled into the park facing the State Capitol and the speeches began.

I confess I skipped the speeches. Call it an aversion to crowds and waiting and noise. My friends and I watched the horses and the riders who let kids take a turn. I approached one of riders and learned that some of them were from Buffalo Soldiers of the American West, and some from a local horse rescue network. We enjoyed this somewhat quiet, pleasant corner of the park. In the background we could hear clapping, drumming, and the echoes of words. Before the speeches finished, we left the park and went to lunch.

Only later did we learn what we had missed. Thanks to youtube, I later heard the speech delivered by Amy Brown of Black Lives Matter 5280. You can listen to it here. The group—which had not sought any official permission to speak—had four demands. A key one surrounded the deaths of two men, one Michael Marshall, an African-American who died in police custody, and the other, Native American Paul Castaway, who was shot and killed by police called to help during a schizophrenic episode. In her speech, Amy Brown demanded the release of a video of Marshall’s death.* Black Lives Matter also called for more affordable housing in Denver, an end to the urban camping ban, and a renaming of the Stapleton community, as its namesake former mayor was a member of the KuKluxKlan. It was clear that the sign “Reclaim MLK” was a reference to making the day a time for taking on Dr. King’s own campaign against poverty and discrimination— not making it simply a safe acknowledgment of past victories.

Later, Denver Mayor Hancock was booed as he tried to say he was on board with Dr. King’s dream. You can hear his speech in this youtube video. My age shows here, as I don’t like what seems to be the political temper of the times: enhancing your own message by shouting down someone else’s. Yet, at the same time, I remember the words of Rev. Osagyefo Sekou, a Christian minister who gave an inspiring speech last summer. (Thanks to yes! Magazine for reporting on it.) “Martin Luther King ain’t coming back. Get over it,” Rev. Sekou said during a lecture at Warner Pacific College in Portland, Oregon. “(Today’s movement) won’t look like the civil rights movement. It’s angry. It’s profane. If you’re more concerned about young people using profanity than about the profane conditions they live in, there’s something wrong with you.”

Speaking to a Christian audience, Rev. Sekou had four suggestions for white churches who want to continue Martin Luther King Jr.’s dream. These are his words:  1) Your attitude toward the plight of African-Americans in this country reflects your theology. If you tell me what you think about Jesus, I can tell you what you think about Ferguson. Christianity in and of itself is not simply about the redemption of the world, it's about some peasant articulating a vision of the world and the state crucified him and he rose again.
2) White churches don't need to become multicultural. They need to show up. What if the next time a black boy gets shot a white church shows up? They don't say a word but they go sit with that mama and ask what she needs. What if some white clergy showed up in their robes and stood between the protestors and the police, telling the police, 'You're going to have to get through us to get to these babies.’
3) The first step toward understanding and justice is friendship.
4) Your opinion of the rioters' distasteful language and behavior shouldn't shape your opinion of their message.
5) Change is going to require sacrifice. Are you willing to fight for a world you’re never going to live in?

Perhaps, as much as the images and the pleasure of the day and the march itself, I’ll carry these words with me this year.

*The video was subsequently released, but the District Attorney did not press charges against any of the officers involved in Marshall’s death, saying multiple causes were involved.

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