Exit Strategy

I've never been in a place in which people are so interested in the exact date of my departure. It seems like 8.8.2006, although not yet set in stone as my date of departure, has been tatooed all over my body. "When are you leaving?" is the one question besides "genki desuka?" that everyone asks me. It's not exactly buckets of fun. Buckets of rain, however, are now falling down over my roof in the darkness of the night.

It's taken me a while to realize just how much of a world-unto-itself this town is to so many of the people who live here. For the first half of the year, many of my superiors would practically yell for me to stay three years (the maximum someone in my position can stay in a town). The truth always was that I'd never planned to stay more than a year. I am not going to lie though: it was tough never being able to meet those high expectations - and it drained me. I felt a little like Santa Claus refusing to give presents to kids or something. For a while I would reply "maybe," when people asked me if I'd stay another year. "I'm sorry" or "it's life" was all I could ever come up with when I finally told them the truth.

The kids, of course, are probably the most open-minded people of this town. They are what make this town - and the job - so special. And it's they who I really care about when I am leaving. I want to be sure that they will keep growing up strong, healthy, and happy. And I am almost positive most of them will. They have so much going for them, such great teachers. Today my class with two sets of twins (in eight students total) asked me when I was leaving and I wrote the date on the board (which didn't seem to upset them too much). Then I told the three fifth graders (all girls, including the Gotou twins) in the class that I might go on the beach trip with them in the start of August. They were really happy and the five fourth graders (all boys, including the Watanabe twins) were a little disappointed they couldn't come as well.

All in all, the kids of Ubuyama will be fine - and that means I will be leaving this town with neither worries nor grief (and many happy memories of being a teacher of pre-K through 9th graders).

June Update

Yesterday the 2nd year junior high students were sculpting clay models of their peers' faces. It was really interesting to watch. As artists, it was like each student became a god who could sculpt his/her own beings with his/her own hands.


June is here and it's getting hot. It's also getting to be time for me to leave soon, although it doesn't feel that way. Each day fewer means that each remaining day feels like it holds more possibilities for living and enjoying my life here. As the days pass I take less and less for granted.

And soon I will be drafting my farewell speeches, of which there are two or three. I am tempted to say "I really don't want to leave," but don't know what kind of reaction this might invoke.

The truth is that I really don't want to leave, although I know it's probably best that I do... But the heart and the mind rarely sing in unison. The trouble is that even my mind is a little confused about this decision. The bottom line, however, is that I have no choice in the matter; to stay or leave was a decision made in Februrary.

Today I was teaching the toddlers at the nursery school. They are more adorable than ever and growing up fast! One of them, who reminds me of my childhood friend Yoni, exclaimed "I want to eat vegetables, I want to eat tomatoes" after he had already finished his boiled cabbage and mini-tomato during lunch. So I decided to carefully, secretly pass one of my tomatoes to his dish. About ten minutes later it had disappeared from his plate. The tomatoes of Kyushu are outstanding. So are the restaurants! And affordable! Ahh!

Also I happened to glance down at my feet today and notice how awkward those body parts really are. It became apparent to me, more than ever, that feet haven't always been used to hold us upright - we humans have such an awkward posture; I mean, have you ever tried to stand up for three hours straight without walking or sitting? It's really hard. From time to time I can see the humanity beneath the surface of a dominating social reality; it's bizarre to say the least.

Oh yeah, I haven't forgotten about my new project; I am actually in the process of designing a website for it.

An Idea Changed My Life

I was hiking up to a hiker's-only hotel deep in the wilderness around Mt. Kuju with six Japanese people all over forty. None of them spoke any English except Hiroko Koga, a beginning student from the Monday-night conversation class I lead (and only a little English).

Late in the night, after having the dinner provided in the large dining hall of the the hotel (Hokkei Inn), and after a drinking party with my hiker comrades, I could not sleep. I decided to go to the hotel's onsen and then to watch some World Cup in the dining room. But at some point in my sleeplessness an idea came to me that I think will change the course of my life.

Although I cannot describe exactly what this idea entails, I can say that it involves a publication that promotes creative thought, contemplation, living well, and being alive while alive. An international, interdisciplinary publication driven by articles from all over the globe that focuses on these positive ideals. Sustainability, nature conservation, and eco-tourism would be possible topics. The unerlying ethos, however, would be something even broader: the promotion of conscious, vital living. The reason I am so excited about this is that not only is this an undeniably positive endeavor, but it seems like there is nothing short of death that could stop me. If it remains a barely profitable website that just a few thousand people visit, it is still worth it to me (because I believe in it and what it stands for).

The next day, after virtually no sleep, we hiked around 30 kilometers - up and down a mountain the same height as Kuju-san and through many an arroyo to our destination from which we escaped to a beautiful onsen. The name of the onsen translated to "Cold Hell" and featured a cold bath next to the larger, warm bath. The cold bath had egg-smelling sulfuric minerals in it. After the good feeling that that gave me (especially after the 30k), I don't think that I'd ever regret my wonderful weekend in the mountains. A wise man once said that insomnia never killed anyone. So when you can't sleep, still be grateful for your time (who knows, maybe a good idea will sweep you and your life away into a new future).

We all were babies once...

I was swimming in this Olympic-sized pool a couple hours ago with my chest facing up so I could watch the high ceiling and some sort of dragonfly trying to get out of the place when I started to think about what kind of ownership each individual human being has over his or her own life.

I remembered this photograph of one of Ubuyama's youngest who had decided to cry for a while and I realized that although we've all been babies, almost none of us have any sort of claim or remembrance of that time. Furthermore, up until late-childhood, very few memories seem to be retained. Of course there are the photographs that you can point to and say "look I was a cute baby," but you probably have no recollection of that photograph having been taken.

Then I started thinking about just how much of our lives of which we have absolutely no ownership. The vast majority of even our conscious hours are lost, forgotten and never to be remembered. So what of our lives do we retain?

I do not necessarily think that the present moment is the only moment. Memories are things I like to think we can lay claim to and keep for a goodly amount of time. But so little is remembered isn't it?

The tragedy of most hedonists is that their momentary pleasures will always end, and after they have ended they will never be able to maintain the same pleasure as they had originally (this is debatable, but usually true). The hedonists who seek long-term pleasures (pleasures that are sustainable through time) are much more fortunate is this light.

Trying to own things, to hold on to them through time, is a noble human pursuit. Or is it not? The fact that we will always have to - at some point - lose those things certainly doesn't make trying to have them while we can a meaningless pursuit. But if it is all done without the awareness that they can and will be lost then perhaps it is a self-destructive pursuit... And self-destruction is something that our mentally dissonant species happens to be quite good at. So we'd best be careful while trying to own too much without the proper foresight.

Traveling Lightly

Today I was driving along the thin roads that lead me to and from the northern elementary school of my town when I started to think about all the people who are drifting around the lands and seas of the world. Those people, who are usually also the ones who know how to travel light, can go months, years, and even decades living among people with whom they cannot speak fluently. They seem to drift over the globe like exotic butterflies in gusts of wind. They bring little resistance and thus go with the flow, gently flapping their paper-thin wings.


Life, too, can be light for those who travel lightly. Various forms of social reality cannot reach them when they are drifting in such foreign lands. Their identity, for example, loses much of its prior (domestic) substance. They might become like the tame Nara deer in the photo above, not subject to being bothered by the passing, however real, events that constantly move around them.

At the same time, the life of the world traveler can be densely packed with indescribable, inexpressible emotion that makes life heavy, rich, and sometimes frustrating. They may become faced with the world traveler's dilemma: so many experiences that they simply cannot contain them as vivid or meaningful memories. It is a twisted sort of poverty for those people who have seen so much and felt so much that that which they most want to be able to relate to everyone around them is also that which they cannot communicate. They are, to put it simply, speechless. And speechlessness can be painful. Perhaps it is a similar kind of hindered expression that makes some young kids cry so much.

Plants, Roots, and Soils

If you take a young tree and you move it all around the garden without giving it the time to let its roots sink into the ground, then it's destined to be malnourished. Without those roots sinking in and finding the important minerals and water sources that exist below, the tree will be deprived - and despite the diversity of soils that it is exposed to - it may easily be blown over in the wind. (Of course the seasonal flowers rarely have this problem because life is short and sweet for them.)

In the past few years I have been that tree that has uprooted too many times for my own good. At first the diversity of soils felt awkward and unwanted, then new and eye-opening. But now the new soils feel unneeded, excessive. I need the nutrients that a good and healthy collection of roots could gather.

Concordantly, after many uprootings you find yourself all too aware of the ephemerality of your new (if temporary) resting place. It becomes a rest stop on the highway of life - and certainly not a profound or inspiring location at that. But everyone needs an exit off the highway eventually - and one that leads, if lucky, quite far away from the smog and noise of the highway.

For me I knew that I would be leaving in one year when I first got here (although I was almost persuaded by my boss that it would be three), and thus I did not let my roots sink to the depth with which I might be injured when moved again. Or perhaps they sunk in without my will or knowledge, just as wishful thinking and dreaming can, against the will, allow deep attachment to form quickly after having found a new romantic potential. But no, my roots in this town were even more inadvertent... They couldn't be contained; it's only natural. Still, they must be uprooted again and moved. They will be reminded of their old Japanese home by the residue left on them that never quite washed away during their transplantation. And with that I will end this over-extended metaphor.

Lessons in Loss

This morning I was woken up at 5am by a 6.3 quake that seemed to almost shake me out of my bed for a good 5 or 10 seconds. It was a wonderful reminder of nature's autonomy; it also brought to mind the lessons that life here has instilled in me.

(This week I've thought a lot about the deceptions of various forms of writing - the subject I promised to pursue in my last post, but did not have the motivation to write about them here. Perhaps I thought that this is not the proper venue for stuff like that. Instead, here is a picture of a waterfall less than an hour's drive away from my house.)

My grandpa died this weekend and so I decided to shave my head. Odd, perhaps, but it feels nice to have no hair again. He was my last grandparent and I have fond memories of him - a man always willing to tell a story from his long life. He was 94 and had had a 60+ year marriage. Talk about a life with many stories.

This year has been a sort of lesson in loss for me. Various forms of loss - some as minor as selling my nice camera on Friday in order to save up for going back to America. Then there was saying goodbye to someone who had become my very closest friend in Japan, not to mention all the people I left just by coming here. Also, I practically lost my identity here in Japan in a culture that is, naturally, not fluent in my culture.

But in loss there can exist the recognition that to lose you must have something to begin with. The chances are, if you have lost a good deal, then you probably still have even more to be thankful for. If you mourn the death of someone close to you, then you are fortunate (despite the pain) to still have life and to be able to care, to love, and to remember.

If you are lucky enough to have a lot of good people and things in your life then you will also have to face losing those people and things. But perhaps you could say that one is fortunate to be able to lose because it suggests that that person has also been lucky enough to have.