Dear Family and Friends,

Most of my working life I have been a teacher. Even though I greatly value life experiences, I also am keenly aware of the benefits that a formal education can give. Because of that, when one of my students consistently slept in class this past year, I sat down to have a chat with her. It turned out she had a part-time job in a restaurant where she worked very late hours. She often got home at 3 or 4 in the morning, and then had to get up around 7 to get to her first class on time. I know the kind of pressure bosses here put on their employees, especially since they are usually short staffed. Even so, I told my student that the choice was hers: to put her efforts into work or into her studies.

“But Sensei, I learn so much at my job.”

“I know you do and life will give you valuable lessons for as long as you are alive. But now, these four short years may be the only window of time you have for this sort of guided education into other cultures, other mentalities, and other languages.”

In the end, this young woman chose her job over her school work. She wrote the worst research paper of the entire class, even though her English abilities were some of the highest. I do not begrudge her her choice, but I do feel only she is responsible for the consequences of what she values.

Yet I continue to ask myself, “What for her, and many others like her, is the meaning of a formal education?” “And what can I do to make my students’ university experiences more relevant to their daily lives?”

 * * * * *

A second situation happened long before I came to Japan. When I was in my late twenties, I lived in Morocco. One vacation I chose to go by bus as far south as the road would take me. I went well beyond Marrakech, until I reached the outer fringes of the vast, unfathomable Sahara Desert. On that journey I met an older man who was making his annual trip home from France to see his two wives and many children. He told me there were no hotels in the teeny dusty village we both were heading to. But being steeped Arab hospitality, he offered to put me up. I had no choice, so accepted.

It turned out he had one large square house with an open courtyard in the center. Half of the house was for his first wife and their twelve children; half was for his much younger wife and their one daughter. In fact, the man was in his last 60s and his newer wife was barely in her 20s. I stayed with her, even though all the kids, some older than she, enjoyed spending time with me, practicing French and telling me wonderful stories of their life in the village.

One afternoon the very pretty second wife told me about herself. Her father had collected all his money to send her to Casablanca to go to school. While there she learned not only to read and write, but also about life in a big city. After she graduated, she went back to her village and was married off to the much older man her father had selected for her. He was an excellent catch because he had worked in France, so received a good pension. The father benefitted and his prestige soared.

However, as this young woman and I talked about Casablanca and how bored she was in her current situation, she turned to me with incredibly sad eyes and said, “If this was to be my life, why did my father ever educate me?”

What, indeed, was the purpose of a formal education for this unhappily aware woman?

 * * * * *

The other day I volunteered at Imai Sensei’s Yomawari Group. I deeply respect Imai Sensei and admire the truly admirable work he does with many of the homeless folks here in Sendai. That particular day, there was a small seminar on health. The main topic was blood pressure. Of course, all the attendees got theirs measured. Not surprisingly, most, if not all, had high blood pressure.

Then a nurse lectured about how to deal with that unhealthy situation. She started by talking about how baths were good for reducing stress. And then she went on to discuss diet; how lots of vegetables were good, and of course, low salt intake. She then moved onto exercise, like jogging. And finally said that if your blood pressure was dangerously high, you should surely see a doctor for treatment.

As this nurse was giving her well-rehearsed speech, another volunteer, a foreigner, whispered to me, “What does this have to do with these people? They are living on the street? How can they get a bath? As for food, they eat whatever they can get; they don’t choose. Exercise? They spend all day walking, or night when it is cold. Seeing a doctor? Do they have health insurance that would cover the visits and pay for medication?

“Why let these people know they have a greater chance of having a stroke or dying if they can’t do much about it? This whole thing is an utter waste of time. It would be so much better to teach them something useful, like meditation or even yoga.”

I listened to this woman’s wise words and asked myself: “What does it mean to get an education?” “What is the purpose if it cannot be used?”

* * * * *

On my way home, I passed through a park filled with Sakura in glorious bloom. There were many people enjoying the gracious splendor. And sitting quietly on the edge of the green was a homeless man. He was gazing up at the delicate cherry blossoms, fully absorbed in their beauty. He was very relaxed, fully present, and keenly aware of the privilege of bearing witness to the ephemeral wonder of life.


Love,
Anne

However, this time before breaking into separate discussions, one man raised his hand and very seriously asked, “What is dessert?” (Dessert was a word on the question sheet I had just handed out.) I was taken aback. First, I was surprised because dessert is so obvious to me that I did not think it needed explaining. And second, because this particular gentleman had lived in America. But then the rest of the class pipped in, “Yes, what is dessert?” I was not expecting that either. 

Love,

Anne

January 14 is Dontosai, the end of the New Year season, the Naked Festival. It is a Shinto celebration, so shrines are bursting with people flocking to offer prayers, to seek fortune, to discard decorations and other beloved items, to clear out the old so as to prepare for the new.

Every aspect of this festival is highly symbolic. People walk the streets in groups, scantily clothed, shivering, stretching their physical and mental abilities to the limit. 

They ring bells to forge their way, to awaken the gods, to disperse evil. Together they are absorbed in the collective energy of face, of proving prowess, and primarily of humility before forces far greater than any of us could ever muster alone. No pretenses, simply the effort to fend off cold, to endure, to challenge to the very end.

There are huge bonfires. New Year items are piled before shrines throughout the day. And when night comes, set ablaze for people, clothed and unclothed, to encircle in a form of ancient dance emerging from deep within the human psyche. People come to pray, to eat, to teach the young what it means to have Shinto in their soul.

Usually I head to the most popular shrine after dark, when the roar of celebration is loudest. But this year I added another dimension by going in daylight to smaller shrines, before the merrymaking had really started. It was humble and gentle, very personal and deeply touching.  

There were families, individuals, old and young. Even pets came to be blessed.

In many ways this festival symbolizes a peeling away, not only of things, but of all preconceived ideas and past, shameful behavior. It is also a letting go of what we have known and loved so as to make room for what is to come. 

What? We do not know. But part of the experience of Dontosai is surrendering to trust. Trust that as we move forward into the new year, we will find the inner resolve to face what needs to be faced. We will discover resources that come to our aid just in time, just as needed, just as we, in turn, assist others. Hopefully, too, we will come to realize that the nakedness of this festival encourages us to blossom our hearts toward life with a new sense of openness and of purity.

But even as we make personal promises, collect personal fortunes, and make personal efforts, we know that anything we do or have is part of a collective offering. Indeed, as all the individual decorations are united to become fuel for one huge bonfire, Dontosai reminds us that each of us in this life is privileged to work and serve a greater whole. Some people see that as family, others as community or society, and others as this vulnerable world we call home. Whatever the dimension, the work is always there for us to serve in purity, in courage, and in deepest love.

Love,
Anne

 

I find all this incredibly depressing and soul numbing. But that only makes me more determined to find simplicity and naturalness wherever I can.


And today I was fortunate to able to do just that. Every year the Wakabayashi-ku Community Center has its Vegetable Celebration, offering the produce locals have grown as delicious soup. Today, as always, the atmosphere was alive with enthusiastic volunteers and eager guests. The cooking was simple, traditional, and rural in feel and in taste. 

When it was time to go, one of the organizers came with a basket of daikon. “We used the leaves of these for your meal, but we have many left over. Please take one or two. And if you have not had your fill of soup, maybe you would like a rice ball to fill the void.” Such is the nature of Japanese generosity. You have in order to share.

Near this Soup Day Festival there was a bazaar at one of the neighborhood temples. While exploring, I suddenly heard my name called. It was the blueberry farmer and his wife whom I know from downtown Sendai market days. 

“Oh, I am so happy to see you,” I said. “I will be going to America soon and was thinking of taking some of your jam as presents.” “Well, if that is the case,” came the reply, “then here is an extra jar for you.” “No, no, I am fine,” I said. But he insisted saying, “It is our honor that our jam will go half way round the world. This is our way to thank you.”

Two folks near my home have their own vegetable patches. One is very homemade. It was constructed in a parking lot out of flower pots. Besides the parking lot garden, this clever man, once a farmer who lost everything in the 2011 tsunami, also turned his entrance area into an abundant patch. Currently he has a daikon hanging from a lone tree to dry.

The other gardener in this area is an old woman who has been here for ages. She is very poor materially, but strong and rich in her attitude. Her home is a shack, so shabby that the front door no longer closes. But out front she, too, has a garden that feeds her year round. 

I often stop to chat with this remarkable woman, to offer her something that might add variety to her diet. “Thank you, my dear,” she says, bending to yank something out of the earth for me. “It looks delicious, but it would be too heavy for me to carry up the hill,” I tell her so she need not lose face.

Yes, there is much beauty in this area. Even as homes become like unwelcoming fortresses, the hearts of so many are somehow able to remain extremely generous and profoundly kind.

Love,
Anne

 

Dear Family and Friends,

I grew up in Frederick, Maryland. In my childhood every autumn there was a grand event there called the Great Frederick Fair. It was a marvelous local happening. There were farm animals on display, for example. Students from my class were allowed a week off from school to stay with the sheep, pigs, or cows they had raised. There were stands of vibrantly alive vegetables and contests for patchwork, bread, and jams. The whole event held a small town, farming atmosphere that was special and surely love-life-filled. Even now I carry much of those rural roots in my soul. Maybe that is one reason I love Miyagi Prefecture as I do. Much of it, too, is rural and farming.

Today was a splendid autumn day with shimmering blue skies and crisp air. I had to go downtown and to my delight I came upon the Miyagi Marugoto Festival. It is a yearly event to celebrate what this prefecture has produced over the summer. 

Indeed, these dance rituals bring every cell of our being to oneness with the cosmos and the infinite worlds manifested therein. We are not separate. We are each a living cell in the incomprehensible immensity of our infinite universe.

Murata is a small town south of Sendai. It is famous for its historic Merchant Street. 

That short, but charming walk especially boasts a wealthy merchant’s home, now a museum. But there are other places as well. In fact, paralleling that string of commercial establishments is a former Samurai Street. The two together offer much for the imagination about the history of the area. 

These days several festivals are held throughout the year, which bring in a gentle flow of visitors. But in general, Murata is a sleepy little town surrounded by rice paddies and blue hills.

Like many rural places in Japan, Murata’s population is dwindling. So, officials are seeking ways to keep it alive, and hopefully, to attract new inhabitants. There have been a few successes. Besides the merchant’s home, there are several places selling local crafts, a small restaurant with homemade, natural food, and a newly opened restaurant-bar. Also, several artists have shown interest in moving there. So, in the future there may be shops selling weavings, pottery, and stained glass.

With all this excitement about future possibilities, the town has begun to renovate some of its charming old buildings. One house in particular has recently been the focus of attention. In fact, the final touches of renewal are being made there now. When they are finished, the town officials hope to open it as a hotel. 

Of course, there are many final logistics to be worked out. And that is where a teacher friend, three of her students, and I entered the picture.

My friend’s students are majoring in business. And this soon-to-be-hotel provided a perfect opportunity for a class project. From a business perspective they would evaluate their experience of spending the night in this newly renovated gem.

That sounded like a perfect plan, but there was one catch. There were no sheets or pillow cases, no towels or soap.  (So, we brought our own.) But there were futons, a small kitchen (with no pots or pans), and a bath, a large TV and an air conditioner. Also important for consideration, the layout was essentially one long tatami-mat room. That meant guests would have to share one sleeping space.

That evening after dinner my friend called her students together for a class. I was not involved, so headed directly to my futon. When the business discussion was over, my friend also went to bed. But not the girls. For them the evening was just beginning. They switched on the TV and yanked out packaged food. They took (soap-less) showers and washed their hair. They listened to music on their iPhones and chatted late into the night. The next morning, on minimal sleep, they spent hours putting on make-up, arranging their hair, and making sure their clothes were just right. 

I smiled watching those lovely, bleary-eyed girls, stumbling around, making every effort to be more beautiful than they already were. They did not realize that while they were busy focusing on themselves, they were being cradled in the very subdued, historical atmosphere of their surroundings. For me that perfectly revealed Japan’s impressive ability to absorb everything and its opposite. In this case, the subtle and traditional quietly embracing the most vivid and new.

Love,
Anne

Dear Family and Friends,

I had not been to Yomawari’s Soup Run for a while. But today since I was free, I headed down to the park to help out. I got there a few minutes early, so was able to watch the recipients slowly assemble. Some I recognized, but many I did not. And that was the start of many surprises.

As expected, there were the old men who have come for years. They always seem both humble and grateful. And maybe a bit shy to be receiving food and various take-away items, such as fuel for portable stoves, rice, toothbrushes, and recycled clothing.

 

But this time things were also different. First, there were many more waiting to be fed. Also, they were an array of ages, including several rather young. There were also many women. Usually there are none, or at most one or two. Today one younger woman had been a sex worker, but became ill and had just got out of the hospital. She looked awful and vomited all her food as soon as she had eaten it. It is very rare for this sort of woman to show up at a soup run because a pimp is usually in charge of her.

Perhaps the most surprising, though, was the fashion. Some of the women had very attractive clothing, bold necklaces, and nice shoes. I found that confusing, something I had never seen before and surely had not expected.

Coupled with that was the attitude. Rather than showing a sense of appreciation, as the old timers do, the new ones seemed to expect this handout, even with a touch of entitlement. I found that unusual, especially in this culture, where humility is taught from an early age.

 

I have been a fan of OISCA ever since “by coincidence” I came upon a photo show promoting its very special work. It is a worldwide NGO, but is in this area for ten years, helping us get back on our feet. With them we are building a new forest, so the strong winds, eternally battling between mountains and sea, will be tamed and the coastline will become useable, although no longer for housing, but for agriculture.

OISCA guides; it does not control. Locals are in charge; OISCA assists. OISCA is here temporarily; locals will stay for generations. So, OISCA is more a teaching-learning project than a regular NGO. That is a philosophy I strongly espouse, so am happy, even proud, to lend my small support to this great organization.

I also love the people. They range in age from grandparents to new borns. One lovely gentleman, for example, has trouble walking, but volunteers with OISCA regularly. Today he higher minded his bad back in order to mentor an eager youngster on how to use a hoe and to plant properly. Surely, the seeds sown today were far more than black pine.

There were many high school students, too. I was lucky to pair up with a young girl, shy but lovely. We dug holes, planted, stomped the earth around our newly installed pine, gave a tug to be sure the tree was in securely, and moved on to the next. And the next. And the next . . .

There were grandmas and grandpas, too, knowledgeable, wise, and hard working. They expertly sped through their work, leaving perfect rows of baby trees behind. And then they shifted to give a helping hand where needed.

Probably everyone’s favorites, though, were the families with teeny kids. Two couples in particular were especially honored. One because they had met a few years ago — at an “OISCA Tree Planting Festival” — and today arrived with the latest member of the family. 

The father of the other family had grown up in this area. In fact, his house had been where we were working today. He remembers playing in the then forest when he was a child. He wants the same for his kids and grandkids, and beyond. He is so committed to his dream that he volunteers several times a month to do backbreaking maintenance in this very young forest.

And of course, there were the officials. Yoshida San, the man I met at the OISCA photo show several years ago and who turned me on to the magic and wonder of this organization. He is now the head of this rebuilding project in Natori. 

And there was Suzuki San, who manages many overseas OISCA projects, but who comes to Natori several times a year to help out. 

There was also Fujita San, an OISCA Vice President whom “by chance” I met on the train this morning and who arranged for me to go up in a crane to see the reforestation project from the air.

Compassion, the space that holds all events together and unites us as one.

Dear Family and Friends,

The other day a Japanese professor asked me to decipher a handwritten diary that he needed for a research project. The author was, as this professor informed me, “William Woodville Rockhill, an American diplomat and a famous Tibetologist, who visited Outer Mongolia in December, 1913.”

I was intrigued by the task and wanted to give it a try. However, the writing was barely legible in places, worn and fragmented in others, yet fluid and elegant in way reminiscent of that bygone era. 

Even though it is already December, here in Japan we are still honoring this year’s harvest. In fact, last weekend a nearby community center held its annual Thanksgiving feast. This event is always special because of the ingredients of the dishes. The Wakabayashi-ku Center has a community garden, which grows such delights as daikon, carrots, onions, potatoes, cabbage . . .  The list goes on and on. And of course, since it is a community project, when autumn comes, it is time to share.

Dear Family and Friends,

Gradually the concept of a separate self is emerging in Japan. But basically, the core mindset is, “You are, therefore I am.” This is a collective culture, so identities easily bleed into each other. “I am me, of course – but only because of my family, my teachers, my boss, my colleagues, my friends, and my community.” In other words, “I am a part of all that I have met.”



 
“My daughter works much too hard. She never gets enough sleep. She and her husband come here for dinner every night at 10 pm and fall asleep at the table. No wonder she became so sick yesterday. I’m worried about her with her terrible life style. That’s why I’m cooking her husband’s favorite dish for tonight. I’m sure that will make her feel better.”




The little lady who lives near me is very poor and lives in what could be called, as a compliment, a shack. When I passed her place last summer, I commented on the lovely vegetables crowded into her teeny garden. “Here, my dear,” she replied, “let me give you some cucumbers and eggplants. We can’t let someone go without giving them our best, now can we?” I thanked her for her generosity, but politely refused her kind offering, well aware she needed it more than I.

Another older woman lives in the same apartment complex that I do. She comes over three or four times a week with something still warm from her stove. “I grew up in a family of eight kids. We always shared. You know, food, clothes, school books, everything. Now I live alone, but I can’t stop cooking for a huge family. And besides, I like connecting to people, and I guess food is my way to do that. Giving like this makes me feel complete.”



 
Much to my annoyance, I lost my umbrella the other day. Since it was a rainy week, I had to buy another one. Quite a while later as I passed my local Shinto Shrine, what was there? My umbrella, exactly where I had inadvertently left it. “Of course, it was still there!” my friend said, surprised at my amazement. “Whoever saw your umbrella knew that if they took it, it would have inconvenienced you. So, they left it.” And sure enough, all over this city you can find lost items placed so they can be easily spotted. Even money is often left right where it happened to fall. “And besides, it was next to a Shinto Shrine,” my friend added. “No one would dare take anything from there.”



 
One of my favorite students graduated recently, plus landed a good job. “Congratulations, Toshi. What is the first thing you want to do in your new life?” I asked with interest. “I am where I am now because of my parents. So, with my first pay check I want to treat them to a gorgeous spa weekend. I want to let them know how grateful I am, not only for my education, but for raising me and taking care of me all my life.”

The other day in my advanced discussion seminar the students were discussing the difference between “the right to be happy” and “the right to pursue happiness”. “To be happy is passive; to pursue happiness is active,” came the obvious reply.
            “Yes, but can you give me an example?” I pressed.
            “I am happy when I work hard and get what I want. You know, like when I study diligently and get a good mark. Then I feel very satisfied. That is for me, so it is passive.” 

Dear Family and Friends,

With that in mind, maybe it is not too farfetched, even as daily news continually shreds our hearts and challenges the limits of what is credible, that I wish to share some reflections on Japanese reverence for the bath. Actually, probably the time is perfect. Who does not need inner and outer realignment and purifying in these very troubled times?

Since time out of mind, and stretching equally far into the future, bathing for Japanese reaches the level of the sacred. Both blessed and cursed by a fiery arc of volcanic jewels, Japan is a paradise of abundant water, often directed into hot springs, foot baths, health resorts, and spas. Young and old, fat and thin, strong and infirm, pretty and plain. All dualistic perceptions of outer identity are shed as the daily ritual of cleansing unfolds.

“Our bodies are natural. Being with others who feel the same is reassuring and community affirming. How ridiculous it was in California where they wanted us to wear bathing suits in the bath. How unnatural is that! We Japanese didn’t follow those silly rules. How could we?” remarked a student coming back from her stint in the USA.

“The bath is a return to our original purity,” said an older friend. “It cleanses not only the body, but more importantly the mind and spirit. You mask the deep purpose of bathing if you cover yourself. Literally by having clothing or tattoos. Symbolically by closing yourself in defensiveness or shame.”

The oldsters’ community center where I often go for deep baths is a wonderful blossoming of folks at one with their bodies. The very old and not so, the extremely wrinkled, wobbly, sagging, and less so, we are all there. Some stay all day. “I need the friendship,” they say. “I appreciate the flux of people.” And “I feel part of society when I am here.”

 
 

I was taken aback by the breakfasts with huge slices of cake gobbed with thick, rich icing, the enormous slices of meat, and surprised by the easy availability of organic produce and natural remedies. 

 
 

I was very impressed by the famous wall art. 

And I loved the cool spring air, the beaches, the palm trees. 

And of course, the colorful markets and traditional houses dotting the city center with historical dignity and grace.

 

The conference I attended was themed “Seeing Differently”. We were invited, indeed challenged, to put ourselves into the minds and hearts of others, especially those entirely opposed to our own solid stance in the world. We struggled to do this, not so much by using the intellect, but primarily by vividly imagining and feeling different perspectives from our own. Needless to say, this exercise was very challenging, but crucial. Crucial because of today’s polarized war-raging / war-threatened world. Crucial, too, because mental and emotional flexibility add grace and potential to our own lives and to those around us. For better or for worse.

Sadly, upon my return I was greeted by news of North Korea’s latest flaunting of power, its assertive drive to display even more threatening capacities of self-protection / self-destruction. That immediately evoked the necessity of practicing what the Brazilian conference was all about: seeing differently. But can we stop wars by compassionately putting ourselves, as fully as we are able, in the place of those who most oppose us or whom we most resist?

“Seeing Differently” Yes. We must if we wish to survive. But how does that skill eventually become an integral part of us, so innate we use it as our primary tool for relating to others? How can that ability actually change, even save, the world?

How much do our beliefs influence the world? And if they do, how can we truly live what we say we believe?

Love,
Anne

Dear Family and Friends,

One of the greatest challenges I find is to be fully immersed in life and at the same time maintain a positive outlook. I listen to an array of news every morning, and each site resonates with despair beyond measure.  

One American friend sent a particularly poignant message, explaining her point of view. “I give dollar bills to homeless people who sit at stop lights at freeway exits.  It provides a momentary connection when I can acknowledge their humanity and the tragedy and injustice of their situation but I understand completely that I am not helping them . . .

“There are so many grassroots organizations, everywhere you look, it’s fragmented, disorganized, and there are duplicative efforts covering the same ground over and over. 

“My job gets harder and more demanding — patients are needier as the social safety net frays and breaks, AND corporatization is gobbling up the health care industry as every day we get “one more thing” that we are required to do along with the disingenuous and hypocritical exhortation to practice “work-life balance” and “self care” (new buzz phrases that make my skin crawl.)  

“I don’t have hope.”

 
Today I finally had time to volunteer with Imai Sensei’s Yomawari group. It was good to be back with those gentle souls, both the regular volunteers and the homeless. This time there was a rather large group of high school students with their teacher, gaining firsthand experience in helping those in need.

After lunch had been served 

 

and clothes distributed, 

Imai Sensei gathered all the young volunteers together for a question and answer session. He talked about the situation of the men and women who live on the street.

“You have seen firsthand that these are good folks. They have just had a hard time. When you are young, you think of life as a progression that moves forward, one step up after another. But sometimes misfortune happens and things change. Or you reach a certain age and then you no longer climb higher on the social ladder. In fact, you start going down. These people used to have good jobs. But one got sick and was fired. Another was laid off because the factory where he worked closed down. Another could never get a foothold after he lost everything in the 2011 disaster.

“It is not these people who are at fault. It is the system. It works against them. Changing the political and economic systems is a huge task, too large for any one of us. But we do what we can do. We address what is immediately before us. We clothe and feed the homeless. We get them medical attention, housing when we can, jobs if possible. But maybe the greatest gift we can give them is a sense of dignity, of being recognized as human beings worthy of our respect.

“Don’t forget what you learned today. Carry it in your hearts always. Keep your mind large. And always be on the lookout for how you can be of service to others.”

Love,
Anne