Japan: Part 2

We sat there chatting for a few minutes, bouncing from topic to topic as we waited for calligraphy class to begin. At one particular point, we talked about Japan's decreasing population and the problems it has created for their country. Oishi, at 61 years old, told me that when he was born, there was a baby boom in Japan, though now it's quite the opposite. I mentioned that around the same time there was a baby boom in America, too -- somewhere around the end of World War II. "Ah yes, our baby boom occurred after World War II as well," he replied back. We both caught each other's eyes for a quick second and shared that same kind of half smile you would exchange with a friend when you both silently notice something unexpected, that only the other would understand. He searched for the word for a minute and eventually came up with "enemy." "Japan and America used to be enemies." I let out a nervous laugh, remembering how much of our history I've forgotten. "But now, we are tomodachi (friends)," I replied.





















So far in Japan, I've been to music festivals, added at least 10 things to my list of favorite foods, seen some of the most beautiful and untouched nature that exists in the world, and lived alongside the most interesting insects I've ever encountered, but the thing I still look forward to the most (besides my students, which I'll save for another post) is my calligraphy class. After two months in Japan, I realized I had come a long way since I arrived -- I'd made friends, learned enough of the language to get by, and built a routine for myself. But I lacked the creativity I could easily immerse myself in back home. It wasn't until my calligraphy class, where I felt that release I was searching for. And just as important as the art itself, is my teacher, Oishi. Perhaps the most interesting story he's mentioned is of a pilgrimage he took in Shikoku. It's called "Henro" and consists of a 1,400 kilometer trek through an entire island and more than 80 buddhist temples. It took him nearly two months and he did the hike by himself, as many people choose to. Though he was in his late 50s at the time, when I asked him "why," he said that he needed to find himself...or the parts that were still missing. I continued to prod, asking him what the most important thing he discovered was. He said that during one of the days as he was hiking, it was pouring rain and he could barely see. He was also by himself trudging through a mountain and began to cry. It was one of the most difficult days of his journey. But the next morning, it was sunny and he was incredibly happy and thankful. It was then that he heard a rooster singing. "The night before, the rain had been horrible. That morning, it was sunny. I was happy. The rooster was happy. And it was then that I realized that maybe we're not so different from each other."










*Included are various thoughts from the past few months as well as some quotes from Chuck Palahniuk's "Choke" and Kurt Vonnegut's "Slaughterhouse Five"