Thanks to all of you who wondered about the blog going silent. For every message you sent I know there were even more prayers. I am not here alone.
I hadn't realized how abnormal this year has been until my body caught a nasty cold and laid me flat for four days. I had fair warning. When you drive through devastation again and again, and you find yourself saying "oh how terrible" with no emotion, it's time to pull back and take some time to reset. And small problems loom large when fatigue sets in. So my body forced the reset switch.
Thank Heavenly Papa for wise leaders. They heard more than I knew to say, and once I was well enough to get out of bed, they sent me off to winter camp to rest up.
Rest comes in many forms. Tubing and snowshoeing are two of them. Knitting and getting interrupted to teach finger-knitting to eager kids are two more. Chopping onions and wiping dishes in the camp kitchen work too. Trying to convince a snow country kid that I really truly don't know how to ski is remarkably refreshing. (She hasn't tried to teach me yet though.)
In the quiet moments, I wonder what I can bring to people who live in the midst of destruction. Not all that much, beyond stealth prayers and a little bit of normal. But unlike my last trip, I'm beginning to see that simply "being with" is valuable. I like that.
There's just under a month left on my tourist visa. A not-quite-traditional New Year here at the camp, and I'll be ready to jump in again. Can't wait to see what happens next.
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Normal
What a normal week. Not an everyday week, mind you... You don't get hula dancers everyday, and I haven't been recruited to help pling out Silent Night on handbells before. Nor do we hang out with a gospel singer duo too often.
But the activities are normal. Putting on a program at a nursing home, and distributing gifts. Singing in the cold in front of a daycare. Preparing for a city Christmas concert. This would work anywhere, and should be happening everywhere this Christmas week. We're trying to cover the bases, making sure people know they haven't been forgotten.
Except that this kind of normal hasn't happened here in a while. And this year, the half-shattered city of Ofunato can use as much normal as it can get.
Have yourself a very normal Christmas. Remember that those you meet may be carrying tremendous grief. Make sure to share the hope, and treasure someone forgotten. Big wave or not, we all need that.
But the activities are normal. Putting on a program at a nursing home, and distributing gifts. Singing in the cold in front of a daycare. Preparing for a city Christmas concert. This would work anywhere, and should be happening everywhere this Christmas week. We're trying to cover the bases, making sure people know they haven't been forgotten.
Except that this kind of normal hasn't happened here in a while. And this year, the half-shattered city of Ofunato can use as much normal as it can get.
Have yourself a very normal Christmas. Remember that those you meet may be carrying tremendous grief. Make sure to share the hope, and treasure someone forgotten. Big wave or not, we all need that.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Manger and shepherds
Look past the wreaths and Christmas lights. Christmas is coming quietly to Ofunato hearts this year.
Round granny cried. "Ain't really cried since the tsunami, not in front of nobody."
It wasn't the cheery wreath she made in the meeting room at her temporary housing unit. It was Baby Jesus sleeping in a manger. Not in a palace, but with the poor. With the suffering, so that He could understand.
She heard that Jesus is the kind of God who understands, and her tears started flowing. She needs Someone to hear what she told us: that her kids are far away, she's old, and doesn't know whether she can rebuild her house. More importantly, there's all those things she carries but has not spoken of. We'll hear whenever we can. The One in the manger can hear all the time.
Once her tears started flowing freely, she started chuckling about crying so much. She headed back to her temporary home with a rather shimmery smile.
At another housing unit, our task was to decorate the meeting room building with Christmas lights, along with adding lights to the Christmas tree they had already cut from the mountain out back, and decorated with whatever they had.
We decorated, and they made us lunch.
Did you catch that? That's right. They made us lunch. Do you hear the life in that? The tide is changing. The mamas and grandmas are clanging and chopping and cooking in their kitchens again. Company's here.
Nothing like a home-cooked meal to bring out the stories.
Oh the stories they had of barely making it. Of neighbors who didn't. Of gratitude to a neighbor who yelled "TSUNAMI!!! RUN!!!" Of feeling the car float. Of houses torn down, ones that could have been fixed, but where the bodies of their next-door neighbors had been found. Of their careers. One lady had sewn the wedding kimono for a famous singer. Of dogs saved. Of cats lost, and of kids grieving over their pets. Of relief that the wave stopped just short of the crest of the hill, which saved the next neighborhood over.
They've lived this for nine months. It doesn't dawn on them that last year none of them would have considered this to be appropriate mealtime conversation. They need to tell their stories.
The Christmas story was told here, too. The Baby in the manger was visited by shepherds, who were at the bottom of society. They were kicked out of town, and slept in the fields with their sheep. Yet it was the shepherds who were visited by angels to tell them that the Savior was born. They were the ones invited to come meet God's Son.
"That's what we are. Shepherds." So said the leader of the housing unit. His quiet smile lingered awhile.
Merry Christmas.
Round granny cried. "Ain't really cried since the tsunami, not in front of nobody."
It wasn't the cheery wreath she made in the meeting room at her temporary housing unit. It was Baby Jesus sleeping in a manger. Not in a palace, but with the poor. With the suffering, so that He could understand.
She heard that Jesus is the kind of God who understands, and her tears started flowing. She needs Someone to hear what she told us: that her kids are far away, she's old, and doesn't know whether she can rebuild her house. More importantly, there's all those things she carries but has not spoken of. We'll hear whenever we can. The One in the manger can hear all the time.
Once her tears started flowing freely, she started chuckling about crying so much. She headed back to her temporary home with a rather shimmery smile.
At another housing unit, our task was to decorate the meeting room building with Christmas lights, along with adding lights to the Christmas tree they had already cut from the mountain out back, and decorated with whatever they had.
We decorated, and they made us lunch.
Did you catch that? That's right. They made us lunch. Do you hear the life in that? The tide is changing. The mamas and grandmas are clanging and chopping and cooking in their kitchens again. Company's here.
Nothing like a home-cooked meal to bring out the stories.
Oh the stories they had of barely making it. Of neighbors who didn't. Of gratitude to a neighbor who yelled "TSUNAMI!!! RUN!!!" Of feeling the car float. Of houses torn down, ones that could have been fixed, but where the bodies of their next-door neighbors had been found. Of their careers. One lady had sewn the wedding kimono for a famous singer. Of dogs saved. Of cats lost, and of kids grieving over their pets. Of relief that the wave stopped just short of the crest of the hill, which saved the next neighborhood over.
They've lived this for nine months. It doesn't dawn on them that last year none of them would have considered this to be appropriate mealtime conversation. They need to tell their stories.
The Christmas story was told here, too. The Baby in the manger was visited by shepherds, who were at the bottom of society. They were kicked out of town, and slept in the fields with their sheep. Yet it was the shepherds who were visited by angels to tell them that the Savior was born. They were the ones invited to come meet God's Son.
"That's what we are. Shepherds." So said the leader of the housing unit. His quiet smile lingered awhile.
Merry Christmas.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Ohtsuchi
Ohtsuchi is just as horribly destroyed as any other town. A bit more raw, with the piles of mangled cars still in plain view, and more of the foundations clearly visible. You can imagine more easily that there was life here, going on as usual, just nine months ago.
This town lost its mayor in the tsunami. On the job, I'm told. The new town government is hard at work. This is my second visit to this town, and I see the intense effort that has gone into restarting the town. The outside of the mangled mall has already been rebuilt. Slap-together prefab buildings will do just fine as a shopping district for now. There's a big tent in a destroyed part of town. It houses the Reconstruction Restaurant. Styrofoam dishes and a several-item menu never looked this good. The bubbly young guy we met there is absolutely determined that this town is going to rebuild. It needed a restaurant again, so he helped to get it started.
He gave us quite a pep talk about reconstruction. Then he pointed to the ground at our feet and said that his mom grew up here, in a house that stood right here where the tent now stands.
The house was washed away.
For the morning and the afternoon, we went to temporary housing units and made Christmas wreaths with some of the ladies, and the occasional brave man.
Wash away their city. Wash away their homes, their wardrobes, their beauticians, their beauty budget, their jobs, and their gardens.
But you can't stop their love of beauty and desire to decorate.
"Oh dear, I so intended to keep it low-key, and now look what I've gone and done!!"
Dear sweet lady, if you could say that without that big grin on your face, and if I hadn't helped you arrange your purple, orange, green, pink, and other dried flowers on your Christmas wreath, and if I could still see much of any green behind all those flowers, I might actually believe you're upset about this.
Besides, it's been a dismal year. It's time for a splash of color.
Christmas is coming, wave or no wave. A good 30 little temporary apartments look a little brighter now. A bit more lifelike.
There are challenges ahead. Houses can be built but nobody will insure them. And can you imagine what the new town government is facing?
But for now, for today, life has won here at a feisty restaurant and in a few hearts bold enough to decorate.
We're behind you, Ohtsuchi.
This town lost its mayor in the tsunami. On the job, I'm told. The new town government is hard at work. This is my second visit to this town, and I see the intense effort that has gone into restarting the town. The outside of the mangled mall has already been rebuilt. Slap-together prefab buildings will do just fine as a shopping district for now. There's a big tent in a destroyed part of town. It houses the Reconstruction Restaurant. Styrofoam dishes and a several-item menu never looked this good. The bubbly young guy we met there is absolutely determined that this town is going to rebuild. It needed a restaurant again, so he helped to get it started.
He gave us quite a pep talk about reconstruction. Then he pointed to the ground at our feet and said that his mom grew up here, in a house that stood right here where the tent now stands.
The house was washed away.
For the morning and the afternoon, we went to temporary housing units and made Christmas wreaths with some of the ladies, and the occasional brave man.
Wash away their city. Wash away their homes, their wardrobes, their beauticians, their beauty budget, their jobs, and their gardens.
But you can't stop their love of beauty and desire to decorate.
"Oh dear, I so intended to keep it low-key, and now look what I've gone and done!!"
Dear sweet lady, if you could say that without that big grin on your face, and if I hadn't helped you arrange your purple, orange, green, pink, and other dried flowers on your Christmas wreath, and if I could still see much of any green behind all those flowers, I might actually believe you're upset about this.
Besides, it's been a dismal year. It's time for a splash of color.
Christmas is coming, wave or no wave. A good 30 little temporary apartments look a little brighter now. A bit more lifelike.
There are challenges ahead. Houses can be built but nobody will insure them. And can you imagine what the new town government is facing?
But for now, for today, life has won here at a feisty restaurant and in a few hearts bold enough to decorate.
We're behind you, Ohtsuchi.
Saturday, December 10, 2011
Smell that?
I am only reluctantly walking among destroyed buildings in what was downtown Ofunato. And the much-diluted smell of March 11 lingers still, nine months later. Stagnant seawater is pooled here and there.
"Yes, it's the smell of the ocean, along with other things," I hear myself say in answer to a gentle newcomer. I can't bring myself to say anything more specific in this place.
Moments later, I suddenly noticed I didn't smell it anymore. And I had a choice. Do I allow my nose to shut off and shut out the grim reality all around me? No, I need to smell life later. Amazing how the body responds to a choice. It stank.
In Rikuzen-Takata, the blank city, smoke is rising this noon-time from a gigantic pile of tsunami-shredded wood that had overheated. The "shovel-cars" are perched precariously, trying to take down the pile, while firemen blast the pile with their fire hoses.
The sight forces me to notice the towering piles of logs nearby. I see the problem. Thank you, firemen and heavy equipment drivers.
And let me just say that I don't like those flocks of crows circling over the disaster zone. It doesn't say "Life" to me.
I'm glad we're heading to a kids' Christmas party next, at a temporary housing unit that tajes up a grade-school playground. About 15 kids showed up.
An old-sounding Christmas song, too antique for four-year-old ears to understand, sends her into a fit of giggles. "Hee hee, she said 'fart'!"
"Hey, I wanna put this cotton fluff on the Christmas tree. Somebody pick me up so I can reach."
Here ya go.
"Nope, I'm not playing that game. Don't wanna tear my tights."
OK. Here, I'll sit with you while the others play, then.
"Auntie, you smell good."
"What's in the Christmas presents? C'mon, tell me!"
The earth jolts. A mama comes running to check on her kids. A pudgy first-grade boy looks up at me, the nearest adult. "What was that earthquake?"
It's a small one, little man, you're OK.
"We're gonna light these candles with real fire?"
Yes, be careful.
"Hey, I sang Silent Night with you. I sang. My cousin did too!"
Yes you did! *hug*
"I blew out my candle. Ewwwwww, that stinks! Ewwwwww!!"
The four-year-old grosses out. A fourth-grade boy objects.
"Whaddya mean it stinks? I like this smell. It smells like cake!"
I dunno kids, it sure smells like Life to me. Thanks. I needed that.
"Yes, it's the smell of the ocean, along with other things," I hear myself say in answer to a gentle newcomer. I can't bring myself to say anything more specific in this place.
Moments later, I suddenly noticed I didn't smell it anymore. And I had a choice. Do I allow my nose to shut off and shut out the grim reality all around me? No, I need to smell life later. Amazing how the body responds to a choice. It stank.
In Rikuzen-Takata, the blank city, smoke is rising this noon-time from a gigantic pile of tsunami-shredded wood that had overheated. The "shovel-cars" are perched precariously, trying to take down the pile, while firemen blast the pile with their fire hoses.
The sight forces me to notice the towering piles of logs nearby. I see the problem. Thank you, firemen and heavy equipment drivers.
And let me just say that I don't like those flocks of crows circling over the disaster zone. It doesn't say "Life" to me.
I'm glad we're heading to a kids' Christmas party next, at a temporary housing unit that tajes up a grade-school playground. About 15 kids showed up.
An old-sounding Christmas song, too antique for four-year-old ears to understand, sends her into a fit of giggles. "Hee hee, she said 'fart'!"
"Hey, I wanna put this cotton fluff on the Christmas tree. Somebody pick me up so I can reach."
Here ya go.
"Nope, I'm not playing that game. Don't wanna tear my tights."
OK. Here, I'll sit with you while the others play, then.
"Auntie, you smell good."
"What's in the Christmas presents? C'mon, tell me!"
The earth jolts. A mama comes running to check on her kids. A pudgy first-grade boy looks up at me, the nearest adult. "What was that earthquake?"
It's a small one, little man, you're OK.
"We're gonna light these candles with real fire?"
Yes, be careful.
"Hey, I sang Silent Night with you. I sang. My cousin did too!"
Yes you did! *hug*
"I blew out my candle. Ewwwwww, that stinks! Ewwwwww!!"
The four-year-old grosses out. A fourth-grade boy objects.
"Whaddya mean it stinks? I like this smell. It smells like cake!"
I dunno kids, it sure smells like Life to me. Thanks. I needed that.
Whaddya call it
Relief work, they call it.
Sorting out the already-opened kid's puzzles that arrived in relief goods and putting them together to make sure all the pieces are there. Going to Toys R Us to buy stuff for kid's Christmas gift bags.
Listening to a lonely woman's don't-forget-me story. Her dad is very ill and heading into senility, and she and Dad would have stayed home after the quake if her older brother hadn't convinced her to load Dad in the car and head for higher ground just in case. Their house and store are just plain gone. The government prioritized families of the ill, persons with disabilities, the elderly, and small children for available housing. But now that they're in apartments and houses, they get very little aid anymore.
Preparing ornaments. Delivering Christmas trees, tiny and large. Hearing of plans to decorate, oh, four or five different places. Asking a little girl to choose a teeny bouncy ball. Hearing of a temporary housing unit that needs knitted hats. Taking knitting patterns to another temporary housing unit.
Hearing again that the smaller units don't get nearly as much of the aid or the fun as the big units do. Hmm. What can we do about that?
Accepting a couple of mandarin oranges. (Those peelable Christmas ones that come in wooden boxes in the States, only fresher.) They come from hands that just received relief goods. Hands that don't hold much right now but want to give something. Accepting oranges may be the most important thing we did all day.
Relief work, they call it. Silly name, if you ask me. I'd just call it "being here."
Sorting out the already-opened kid's puzzles that arrived in relief goods and putting them together to make sure all the pieces are there. Going to Toys R Us to buy stuff for kid's Christmas gift bags.
Listening to a lonely woman's don't-forget-me story. Her dad is very ill and heading into senility, and she and Dad would have stayed home after the quake if her older brother hadn't convinced her to load Dad in the car and head for higher ground just in case. Their house and store are just plain gone. The government prioritized families of the ill, persons with disabilities, the elderly, and small children for available housing. But now that they're in apartments and houses, they get very little aid anymore.
Preparing ornaments. Delivering Christmas trees, tiny and large. Hearing of plans to decorate, oh, four or five different places. Asking a little girl to choose a teeny bouncy ball. Hearing of a temporary housing unit that needs knitted hats. Taking knitting patterns to another temporary housing unit.
Hearing again that the smaller units don't get nearly as much of the aid or the fun as the big units do. Hmm. What can we do about that?
Accepting a couple of mandarin oranges. (Those peelable Christmas ones that come in wooden boxes in the States, only fresher.) They come from hands that just received relief goods. Hands that don't hold much right now but want to give something. Accepting oranges may be the most important thing we did all day.
Relief work, they call it. Silly name, if you ask me. I'd just call it "being here."
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
The New Japan: The new buzzword
The New Japan: The new buzzword
This time, a blog from my friend Amya Miller. The video she shares is a must-see. Click on the blue link above.
I admit to covering my eyes or my iPhone screen during the tsunami footage. I can't watch it anymore. I've been to these kinds of places and met the people, and it's just too much to watch it happen all over again. So if it's too much for you too, I apologize.
But I will look at the aftermath and watch their recovery with both eyes wide open. That's the part I want you to watch with me.
This time, a blog from my friend Amya Miller. The video she shares is a must-see. Click on the blue link above.
I admit to covering my eyes or my iPhone screen during the tsunami footage. I can't watch it anymore. I've been to these kinds of places and met the people, and it's just too much to watch it happen all over again. So if it's too much for you too, I apologize.
But I will look at the aftermath and watch their recovery with both eyes wide open. That's the part I want you to watch with me.
Friday, December 2, 2011
Lifebeats
Coffee, tea, green tea. (Or, as the Japanese say, coffee, red tea, tea.) Cakes by a real patisserie (or, as bumpkins like me say, by a baker guy), homemade cookies, rice crackers, sweet rice, and a hearty vegetable soup with dumplings (known in some parts as pinch-and-throw). Distribution of veggies, Christmas treelets, winter clothes, and what was left of the soup and dumplings.
Singing a moldie oldie Japanese country song. Getting everyone to sing Angels We Have Heard On High and Silent Night. Distributing yarn, and finding out I need to bring more crochet needles next time along with some knitting and crochet patterns.
All that makes a good day.
But seeing one lady's sad look turn a bit bemused when I gave her a jigsaw puzzle, then start to soften while we talked about music, and turn into a smile while playing Chinese Checkers? Seeing how carefully one little girl chose some cute hair ties? Entertaining two babies with the Mr. Ticklebug puppet? Watching similar things happening all over the room? Seeing the baker guy standing in the kitchen doorway watching all of this and smiling before ducking back in to slice another cake? Hearing the little girl say "Mommy, let's go to the City Christmas on the 22nd"? Seeing grandmas get all excited about plans to make them some fresh mochi (pounded sticky rice) just before New Years?
That's the kind of stuff that makes a great day.
Sure, the grandmas say they'll use part of it for New Year's decorations, but come on. Betcha the decorations will be pretty small. Fresh warm mochi is just too yummy.
Yesterday afternoon I saw the downtown clock, stopped forever at tsunami time.
Here's to marking time and celebrating anyway.
Singing a moldie oldie Japanese country song. Getting everyone to sing Angels We Have Heard On High and Silent Night. Distributing yarn, and finding out I need to bring more crochet needles next time along with some knitting and crochet patterns.
All that makes a good day.
But seeing one lady's sad look turn a bit bemused when I gave her a jigsaw puzzle, then start to soften while we talked about music, and turn into a smile while playing Chinese Checkers? Seeing how carefully one little girl chose some cute hair ties? Entertaining two babies with the Mr. Ticklebug puppet? Watching similar things happening all over the room? Seeing the baker guy standing in the kitchen doorway watching all of this and smiling before ducking back in to slice another cake? Hearing the little girl say "Mommy, let's go to the City Christmas on the 22nd"? Seeing grandmas get all excited about plans to make them some fresh mochi (pounded sticky rice) just before New Years?
That's the kind of stuff that makes a great day.
Sure, the grandmas say they'll use part of it for New Year's decorations, but come on. Betcha the decorations will be pretty small. Fresh warm mochi is just too yummy.
Yesterday afternoon I saw the downtown clock, stopped forever at tsunami time.
Here's to marking time and celebrating anyway.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Re-joy us
I scared myself angry a couple of days ago. And that was just from finding out that the turn signals in Japanese cars are not only on the opposite side of the steering wheel, but are also upside down. And finding out by signaling the wrong direction in a busy intersection, in a van that feels like I'm driving a hippo. Fear of hurting my passengers morphed straight into anger, and it took me a while to simmer down.
So don't be too surprised when an evacuee snarls when she meets a government worker, eight and a half months after the disaster. She fears she's been forgotten, and everything she can see points in that direction. Not even the official information bulletins are getting to her new apartment. She has to seek out the information herself, and she misses chances to get help.
Another evacuee from the missing city can't bring herself to drive the shoreline road. It's not so much the sight of the devastation. It's the fear of not knowing when another wave will come.
Stonewalling from some residents of temporary housing. Sure, there was miscommunication involved. But there was fatigue there too, and perhaps a tinge of volunteer overload. There's some trust to rebuild, it seems.
Fatigue shows up in various forms among long-term volunteers. Some catch colds too easily. Others forget to care for themselves and push themselves into sheer exhaustion. Others fall silent or get cranky (yours truly, guilty as charged).
Then comes a breath of fresh air.
"I walked with Jesus by Matsubara Lake. We sang together under the pines."
The staff from the camp in that song are here to volunteer. At first, even I didn't quite understand why we were having them put up Christmas lights at a local church. But as I worked with them, I understood.
Joy. They brought Jesus with them from Matsubara Lake, and splashed a good solid dose of joy on the front lawn of the church.
Thanks. We all needed that. One church member died in the wave, along with her twin daughters. Several others are hurting from lost lives, homes, and jobs.
Christmas is still coming this year.
Meanwhile, indoors, the tiniest potted Christmas trees, barely a foot tall if that, are being gift-wrapped for 50 households in a temporary housing unit.
Come on, guys. We have some more joying to do tomorrow when we give out those treelets. I hear rumors of cakes coming too, and I brought cookies. Here goes.
So don't be too surprised when an evacuee snarls when she meets a government worker, eight and a half months after the disaster. She fears she's been forgotten, and everything she can see points in that direction. Not even the official information bulletins are getting to her new apartment. She has to seek out the information herself, and she misses chances to get help.
Another evacuee from the missing city can't bring herself to drive the shoreline road. It's not so much the sight of the devastation. It's the fear of not knowing when another wave will come.
Stonewalling from some residents of temporary housing. Sure, there was miscommunication involved. But there was fatigue there too, and perhaps a tinge of volunteer overload. There's some trust to rebuild, it seems.
Fatigue shows up in various forms among long-term volunteers. Some catch colds too easily. Others forget to care for themselves and push themselves into sheer exhaustion. Others fall silent or get cranky (yours truly, guilty as charged).
Then comes a breath of fresh air.
"I walked with Jesus by Matsubara Lake. We sang together under the pines."
The staff from the camp in that song are here to volunteer. At first, even I didn't quite understand why we were having them put up Christmas lights at a local church. But as I worked with them, I understood.
Joy. They brought Jesus with them from Matsubara Lake, and splashed a good solid dose of joy on the front lawn of the church.
Thanks. We all needed that. One church member died in the wave, along with her twin daughters. Several others are hurting from lost lives, homes, and jobs.
Christmas is still coming this year.
Meanwhile, indoors, the tiniest potted Christmas trees, barely a foot tall if that, are being gift-wrapped for 50 households in a temporary housing unit.
Come on, guys. We have some more joying to do tomorrow when we give out those treelets. I hear rumors of cakes coming too, and I brought cookies. Here goes.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Tender hearts
Two men who never met, both of them long since dead, worked together to soften injured hearts last night.
One was a World War II serviceman in the Air Force, named Leo. He smuggled a harpsichord into Japan on an Air Force plane just after the war. It is Japan's first. Nothing fancy, and the keys stick a little. It's a treasure, to be sure. Hardly ever in the public eye. But it got brought to Ofunato last night for a special mini-concert, organized by Child Fund Japan.
Kenji Miyazawa, the famous author. Seems everyone along this coast claims him as "one of us." They don't claim to be his hometown, but he's theirs. He's been gone since the 1930s.
Mr. Miyazawa's "Night on the Galactic Railroad" is ordinarily a two-and-a-half hour read. A professional reader performed a one-hour abridged version, with harpsichord accompaniment. Stunningly beautiful.
This story about two boys traveling the Milky Way railroad heading to the afterlife brought many of the audience to tears. Death, the unfathomable grief of parting, the challenge of continuing afterward, and all of this in a story not their own. But I could hear grief for neighbors and family in the tears around me.
Serviceman Leo and Mr. Miyazawa had both seen the aftermath of tragedy in their day. Their help was needed in the current disaster as well.
May the Healer come into the opened hearts.
One was a World War II serviceman in the Air Force, named Leo. He smuggled a harpsichord into Japan on an Air Force plane just after the war. It is Japan's first. Nothing fancy, and the keys stick a little. It's a treasure, to be sure. Hardly ever in the public eye. But it got brought to Ofunato last night for a special mini-concert, organized by Child Fund Japan.
Kenji Miyazawa, the famous author. Seems everyone along this coast claims him as "one of us." They don't claim to be his hometown, but he's theirs. He's been gone since the 1930s.
Mr. Miyazawa's "Night on the Galactic Railroad" is ordinarily a two-and-a-half hour read. A professional reader performed a one-hour abridged version, with harpsichord accompaniment. Stunningly beautiful.
This story about two boys traveling the Milky Way railroad heading to the afterlife brought many of the audience to tears. Death, the unfathomable grief of parting, the challenge of continuing afterward, and all of this in a story not their own. But I could hear grief for neighbors and family in the tears around me.
Serviceman Leo and Mr. Miyazawa had both seen the aftermath of tragedy in their day. Their help was needed in the current disaster as well.
May the Healer come into the opened hearts.
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Edge of the blank
How do you describe a city that just isn't there anymore? Where the only thing left is the very outskirts, where anyone driving through would think the city is just around the bend?
Rikuzen-Takata is gone. Blank. For now, anyway. A young mom and her baby rushed to Grandma's up on the hill after the quake, and survived. Dad and Grandpa made it too.
Grandma wanted us to know how unfair it is that people taking refuge with relatives don't get the same kind of assistance as those in temporary housing. Why doesn't anyone understand that maybe the families that still have a house might still need help?
But once she got that off of her chest, she went back to being the chronic helping grandma who loves to bake mini poundcakes and wants to make sure all her neighbors are fed and cared for. She'll keep an eye out for any needs in her neighborhood and let us know who needs what.
You can take her city. You can give every member of her family close calls. You can scare her with the sight of a surge coming up the river. You can tire her out after eight months and even discourage her with the flaws in the system.
But you can't keep her from feeding and clothing anyone she can reach. You can't erase the delight on her face when she describes how to make pumpkin bread. (Hers has roasted pumpkin seeds in it.) And her ever-so-slight nosiness may result in someone else getting help.
Yeah, we brought things that she needed. But really, we brought ears and pure enjoyment of her grandbaby, who will be a year old next week.
If something like that can help grandma keep going, and help find other needs here in the outskirts, I'm game. Life is hard to beat, even here.
Mom looks sad until she talks about her baby. It took me, an outsider, an extra day after our visit before I could cry for her city. She lived it, and knows what used to be there. She still works for city hall, which has moved to a prefab building almost next door. She has a tough road ahead.
Remember her when you pray, would you? A city worker for the remaining outskirts of a flattened city. More than that, a mom grieving for more than I can fathom.
I know Life comes next. I have no idea what that will look like.
Rikuzen-Takata is gone. Blank. For now, anyway. A young mom and her baby rushed to Grandma's up on the hill after the quake, and survived. Dad and Grandpa made it too.
Grandma wanted us to know how unfair it is that people taking refuge with relatives don't get the same kind of assistance as those in temporary housing. Why doesn't anyone understand that maybe the families that still have a house might still need help?
But once she got that off of her chest, she went back to being the chronic helping grandma who loves to bake mini poundcakes and wants to make sure all her neighbors are fed and cared for. She'll keep an eye out for any needs in her neighborhood and let us know who needs what.
You can take her city. You can give every member of her family close calls. You can scare her with the sight of a surge coming up the river. You can tire her out after eight months and even discourage her with the flaws in the system.
But you can't keep her from feeding and clothing anyone she can reach. You can't erase the delight on her face when she describes how to make pumpkin bread. (Hers has roasted pumpkin seeds in it.) And her ever-so-slight nosiness may result in someone else getting help.
Yeah, we brought things that she needed. But really, we brought ears and pure enjoyment of her grandbaby, who will be a year old next week.
If something like that can help grandma keep going, and help find other needs here in the outskirts, I'm game. Life is hard to beat, even here.
Mom looks sad until she talks about her baby. It took me, an outsider, an extra day after our visit before I could cry for her city. She lived it, and knows what used to be there. She still works for city hall, which has moved to a prefab building almost next door. She has a tough road ahead.
Remember her when you pray, would you? A city worker for the remaining outskirts of a flattened city. More than that, a mom grieving for more than I can fathom.
I know Life comes next. I have no idea what that will look like.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Mercies
"Morning by morning new mercies I see"
Do we really know what that looks like?
It's the smile of a granny who says all her extra blankets and guest bedding went to relatives on the shoreline who were hit by the tsunami, and she's told her daughters not to visit until spring. There's just no guest bedding left in the house.
It's the peace in a newlywed couple looking forward to their second strawberry harvest next spring. Last year's harvest came in just after the earthquake. The couple was fine, and the berries were good, but the agricultural co-op that was supposed to buy their berries was shut down in those early weeks after the disaster. So they just distributed their very first harvest to their neighbors instead, and accepted smiles as payment.
It's a bit harder to see at first in the jeweler's rented house. His two-generation jewelry/watch/eyeglasses store and home got wiped off of the cityscape. Everything is gone. The wave was big enough to deposit a car on the roof of the bank. Smaller buildings had no chance.
With his wife and son, he took shelter in a third floor apartment after the quake. The water indoors came up to their knees. Water was swirling outside the window, all the way to the top.
Mrs. jeweler said it was like being in a fishbowl. She heard debris crashing together outside the window, and knew that if the window broke, they would all be dead.
It held. Mercy on March 11.
Snow season just started. Can you imagine your local jeweler asking for a little kerosene stove to warm his house this winter?
Yes, everyone knows the dangers, but warmth takes priority. It's the easiest and cheapest option that still works during a power outage.
Maybe bringing it by will be another morning's mercy he can see.
Do we really know what that looks like?
It's the smile of a granny who says all her extra blankets and guest bedding went to relatives on the shoreline who were hit by the tsunami, and she's told her daughters not to visit until spring. There's just no guest bedding left in the house.
It's the peace in a newlywed couple looking forward to their second strawberry harvest next spring. Last year's harvest came in just after the earthquake. The couple was fine, and the berries were good, but the agricultural co-op that was supposed to buy their berries was shut down in those early weeks after the disaster. So they just distributed their very first harvest to their neighbors instead, and accepted smiles as payment.
It's a bit harder to see at first in the jeweler's rented house. His two-generation jewelry/watch/eyeglasses store and home got wiped off of the cityscape. Everything is gone. The wave was big enough to deposit a car on the roof of the bank. Smaller buildings had no chance.
With his wife and son, he took shelter in a third floor apartment after the quake. The water indoors came up to their knees. Water was swirling outside the window, all the way to the top.
Mrs. jeweler said it was like being in a fishbowl. She heard debris crashing together outside the window, and knew that if the window broke, they would all be dead.
It held. Mercy on March 11.
Snow season just started. Can you imagine your local jeweler asking for a little kerosene stove to warm his house this winter?
Yes, everyone knows the dangers, but warmth takes priority. It's the easiest and cheapest option that still works during a power outage.
Maybe bringing it by will be another morning's mercy he can see.
Friday, November 18, 2011
Needs
"Go down the hill and turn right. Go three blocks, turn right again, go to the three-story apartment building, and our new volunteer building and office are right behind that."
With instructions from the Catholic priest, I was ready to count blocks and watch for landmarks. I wasn't ready for how utterly wrong it would look. The landmarks were the only buildings standing in those three blocks.
But amidst that sadness, the office is in a newly repaired Japanese house, with delightfully slippery brand-new wood flooring and Japanese furniture. And a healthy autumn vegetable garden is growing outside. Laundry drying on the balcony never looked better.
Papa God had already comforted me once, a little while earlier today, when I had seen a house in the ocean. The roof and a window were sticking up above the water line. Right about the time that I realized what I had seen and the tears crept into my eyes, I saw a boat-building place, back in business. The brand-new wooden framework around a half-built boat was exactly what I needed to see. Something new. A fisherman's new vessel on its way.
Councilman Miura spent the day with us again today. We took some groceries to a temporary housing unit, introduced ourselves to the Catholic charity workers, went to a daycare center (which we promised to decorate for Christmas), and gathered information from a long-term volunteer to find out what the remaining needs are.
Neighborhoods are jumbled up. Only some of the temporary housing managed to keep neighbors together. Other housing units are quite a mixture. This makes coffee and tea time, parties, and community events more than just a fun time. In the midst of unspeakable tragedy, not knowing your neighbors and having no friends is downright dangerous for the lonely.
Efforts to help the evacuees tend to concentrate on the larger housing units. The "dark spots" with very little aid are the smaller places with less than 20 households.
And where are the people who are living with relatives? Or the people in rented apartments? Where are the unemployed 50-somethings, who are still the breadwinners, may or may not have their house and their family, and whose workplace got swept away by the tsunami?
Where are they? Nobody seems to know.
Some relief organizations are working on the big picture, and doing a great job of it. There's plenty of room for relief work that targets helping with the smaller picture, and filling in for what the bigger organizations can't cover.
And there's always a need for loving individual people around you. No disaster required for that.
How do we take these needs and turn them into action? I don't really know.
But we're heading back to Morioka now to make some preparations for what we do know about next week. Including baking cookies to munch on during conversations. Life stuff.
With instructions from the Catholic priest, I was ready to count blocks and watch for landmarks. I wasn't ready for how utterly wrong it would look. The landmarks were the only buildings standing in those three blocks.
But amidst that sadness, the office is in a newly repaired Japanese house, with delightfully slippery brand-new wood flooring and Japanese furniture. And a healthy autumn vegetable garden is growing outside. Laundry drying on the balcony never looked better.
Papa God had already comforted me once, a little while earlier today, when I had seen a house in the ocean. The roof and a window were sticking up above the water line. Right about the time that I realized what I had seen and the tears crept into my eyes, I saw a boat-building place, back in business. The brand-new wooden framework around a half-built boat was exactly what I needed to see. Something new. A fisherman's new vessel on its way.
Councilman Miura spent the day with us again today. We took some groceries to a temporary housing unit, introduced ourselves to the Catholic charity workers, went to a daycare center (which we promised to decorate for Christmas), and gathered information from a long-term volunteer to find out what the remaining needs are.
Neighborhoods are jumbled up. Only some of the temporary housing managed to keep neighbors together. Other housing units are quite a mixture. This makes coffee and tea time, parties, and community events more than just a fun time. In the midst of unspeakable tragedy, not knowing your neighbors and having no friends is downright dangerous for the lonely.
Efforts to help the evacuees tend to concentrate on the larger housing units. The "dark spots" with very little aid are the smaller places with less than 20 households.
And where are the people who are living with relatives? Or the people in rented apartments? Where are the unemployed 50-somethings, who are still the breadwinners, may or may not have their house and their family, and whose workplace got swept away by the tsunami?
Where are they? Nobody seems to know.
Some relief organizations are working on the big picture, and doing a great job of it. There's plenty of room for relief work that targets helping with the smaller picture, and filling in for what the bigger organizations can't cover.
And there's always a need for loving individual people around you. No disaster required for that.
How do we take these needs and turn them into action? I don't really know.
But we're heading back to Morioka now to make some preparations for what we do know about next week. Including baking cookies to munch on during conversations. Life stuff.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Impossible We
Who is this team in Ofunato?
We're connected to the United Project, the relief work branch of International Bible Fellowship, made up of some churches in the Tokyo and Chiba area.
We're working under the 3.11 Iwate Church Network, a relief work network of local Protestant churches in Iwate Prefecture, predominantly Baptist.
I'm sent in by Pearl Vineyard, a church in Yokohama, with the backing of the Vineyard church in Seattle, Washington, plus the prayer backup of the Vineyard church in Portland, Maine. And amazing blog readers who mean business.
Which sounds impressive and all. But right now, we are three incredibly different women sleeping on the floor of a retreat center library in sleeping bags. We have a whole lot of backing and volunteer teams waiting in the wings. But this week, we're a teeny hodgepodge.
The 3.11 Iwate Church Network has a couple of bases already in Miyako City and Taro. Our task, which we have accepted, is to set up a base here in Ofunato. The leader of our team tried setting up a location first. A house where the three of us would live, where volunteer teams could come to work. But there are no houses available that we can find. (Hence the delay that kept me in Yokohama.) So we decided to just plain start doing relief work instead.
Paula. We call her Po. She's a tiny little powerhouse from Taiwan, very much the leader. She teaches whenever she gets a chance, organizes, peeks over the dashboard to drive, and prays up a storm. She's committed one to two years to this effort at this point. She's been in Japan for eight years, and a missionary for three years. A big person in a very small package.
Fang Lin. Also from Taiwan, and Po-san's best friend. Medium-sized. She's on staff at a Covenant church in Taiwan, and is on a sabbatical year. She's spending the last three months of it here on this project. She encourages, takes lots and lots of pictures, and sleeps in the back seat of the car on long drives. But don't let appearances fool you. About half of what looks like sleeping back there is actually prayer. And when we're praying together, she goes for it.
Me, Rachel, the largest, approximately two and a half Po-sans. I pray the quietest of the three, and so far, my role has apparently been to laugh at the things that should freak us out. Like the GPS deciding it would be faster to take a one-lane road straight (OK, winding in hairpin curves) over a mountain to Kesen-numa instead of the two-lane highway around it. (And by one lane, I mean about a third of an American driveway, with occasional wider spots to let opposing traffic by.) And the real estate office telling us there won't be any rentals available in town through the end of the year. And three of us taking on a whole city.
None of us particularly mind being on tatami mats on the library floor in the retreat center, with access to a kitchen, laundry, bath, and restrooms. Free housing for volunteer relief workers. There are two other women staying in the library too. What could be better? This way we get to start, instead of waiting for the silly ducks to line up in a row.
Do I know how a team works? Nope. I don't have a bloomin' clue. Guess I'll find out, huh?
And language. Po-san and Fang Lin share Taiwanese and Mandarin. Fang Lin and I share advanced intermediate English. Po-san and I share advanced Japanese and middle intermediate English. Yeah. Talking is an interesting adventure in itself. Fang Lin and I are still fine-tuning how to say each other's names. She's called me everything from Leecher to Richard, and I have no idea what variety of names I've accidentally invented for her. We'll get it right one of these days.
Ofunato has at least 1800 families in temporary housing in more than 30 places that used to be sports parks, neighborhood parks, school playgrounds, anywhere non-tsunami zone with any room at all. Some locations have over 300 families. Some have four. We've found out that the tiny places get much less help than the large ones.
Our phone number will be in the newspaper in a few days for people to call when they need help. Oh, and Councilman Miura wants a city Christmas event. Ha! This will be verrrry interesting.
We're connected to the United Project, the relief work branch of International Bible Fellowship, made up of some churches in the Tokyo and Chiba area.
We're working under the 3.11 Iwate Church Network, a relief work network of local Protestant churches in Iwate Prefecture, predominantly Baptist.
I'm sent in by Pearl Vineyard, a church in Yokohama, with the backing of the Vineyard church in Seattle, Washington, plus the prayer backup of the Vineyard church in Portland, Maine. And amazing blog readers who mean business.
Which sounds impressive and all. But right now, we are three incredibly different women sleeping on the floor of a retreat center library in sleeping bags. We have a whole lot of backing and volunteer teams waiting in the wings. But this week, we're a teeny hodgepodge.
The 3.11 Iwate Church Network has a couple of bases already in Miyako City and Taro. Our task, which we have accepted, is to set up a base here in Ofunato. The leader of our team tried setting up a location first. A house where the three of us would live, where volunteer teams could come to work. But there are no houses available that we can find. (Hence the delay that kept me in Yokohama.) So we decided to just plain start doing relief work instead.
Paula. We call her Po. She's a tiny little powerhouse from Taiwan, very much the leader. She teaches whenever she gets a chance, organizes, peeks over the dashboard to drive, and prays up a storm. She's committed one to two years to this effort at this point. She's been in Japan for eight years, and a missionary for three years. A big person in a very small package.
Fang Lin. Also from Taiwan, and Po-san's best friend. Medium-sized. She's on staff at a Covenant church in Taiwan, and is on a sabbatical year. She's spending the last three months of it here on this project. She encourages, takes lots and lots of pictures, and sleeps in the back seat of the car on long drives. But don't let appearances fool you. About half of what looks like sleeping back there is actually prayer. And when we're praying together, she goes for it.
Me, Rachel, the largest, approximately two and a half Po-sans. I pray the quietest of the three, and so far, my role has apparently been to laugh at the things that should freak us out. Like the GPS deciding it would be faster to take a one-lane road straight (OK, winding in hairpin curves) over a mountain to Kesen-numa instead of the two-lane highway around it. (And by one lane, I mean about a third of an American driveway, with occasional wider spots to let opposing traffic by.) And the real estate office telling us there won't be any rentals available in town through the end of the year. And three of us taking on a whole city.
None of us particularly mind being on tatami mats on the library floor in the retreat center, with access to a kitchen, laundry, bath, and restrooms. Free housing for volunteer relief workers. There are two other women staying in the library too. What could be better? This way we get to start, instead of waiting for the silly ducks to line up in a row.
Do I know how a team works? Nope. I don't have a bloomin' clue. Guess I'll find out, huh?
And language. Po-san and Fang Lin share Taiwanese and Mandarin. Fang Lin and I share advanced intermediate English. Po-san and I share advanced Japanese and middle intermediate English. Yeah. Talking is an interesting adventure in itself. Fang Lin and I are still fine-tuning how to say each other's names. She's called me everything from Leecher to Richard, and I have no idea what variety of names I've accidentally invented for her. We'll get it right one of these days.
Ofunato has at least 1800 families in temporary housing in more than 30 places that used to be sports parks, neighborhood parks, school playgrounds, anywhere non-tsunami zone with any room at all. Some locations have over 300 families. Some have four. We've found out that the tiny places get much less help than the large ones.
Our phone number will be in the newspaper in a few days for people to call when they need help. Oh, and Councilman Miura wants a city Christmas event. Ha! This will be verrrry interesting.
Connections
If there's anything I've learned about Northerners, it's that they're connected. And being brand-new in Ofunato, connection is what we want.
We checked with City Hall about volunteer work, and found that it's defined as physical assistance, like cleanup, food, clothing, and shelter. The government does seem to think their task is ending soon. And they're partially right. What has been done thus far has been an incredible amount of hard work.
There's an organization called All Hands that put a lot of work into this city, and they pulled out this week. True to their name, they put their hands to any task that was needed. There are thank-you posters all over town to recognize the contribution of these volunteers. They were here for about seven months. Yes, thank you, All Hands.
The manual cleanup is winding down. But this disaster is far from over. Rebuilding will take time. And rebuilding hearts is a long-term task.
For that, we need connections.
Shortcut. Paula, our team leader, knows a city councilman who is a Christian. He is concerned about his community, and has considerable influence. He understands that his city needs heart care, and he showed us around for the afternoon.
We went to the central office that coordinates all of the local temporary housing locations, without an appointment, and got connected to the office manager. He in turn connected us to several temporary housing locations, and we delivered rice to nine families. Then we rushed off to an appointment to be interviewed at the newspaper office for an article, because the city councilman wanted to make sure that evacuees living with relatives found out about us and could contact us with whatever needs they might have.
But the best connection of the day is with one of the families we met. The lady of the house wants us to come visit and have some tea.
Thank you, Councilman Miura. We'll go have tea and make a new friend as soon as we can.
We checked with City Hall about volunteer work, and found that it's defined as physical assistance, like cleanup, food, clothing, and shelter. The government does seem to think their task is ending soon. And they're partially right. What has been done thus far has been an incredible amount of hard work.
There's an organization called All Hands that put a lot of work into this city, and they pulled out this week. True to their name, they put their hands to any task that was needed. There are thank-you posters all over town to recognize the contribution of these volunteers. They were here for about seven months. Yes, thank you, All Hands.
The manual cleanup is winding down. But this disaster is far from over. Rebuilding will take time. And rebuilding hearts is a long-term task.
For that, we need connections.
Shortcut. Paula, our team leader, knows a city councilman who is a Christian. He is concerned about his community, and has considerable influence. He understands that his city needs heart care, and he showed us around for the afternoon.
We went to the central office that coordinates all of the local temporary housing locations, without an appointment, and got connected to the office manager. He in turn connected us to several temporary housing locations, and we delivered rice to nine families. Then we rushed off to an appointment to be interviewed at the newspaper office for an article, because the city councilman wanted to make sure that evacuees living with relatives found out about us and could contact us with whatever needs they might have.
But the best connection of the day is with one of the families we met. The lady of the house wants us to come visit and have some tea.
Thank you, Councilman Miura. We'll go have tea and make a new friend as soon as we can.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Carpenters?
Any carpenters out there? There's plenty to do with Samaritan's Purse in Kesen-numa, one of the devastated cities. The areas by the shoreline and along the river are stark reminders of what happened here. A large ship, fully intact, has settled onto the ground. It looks perfectly serviceable, but the price to move it is exorbitantly high. So there it sits among the bare foundations.
The destruction takes forever to end. We turned a corner and the buildings resumed. We headed into the business district, and store after store was just a shell. Only several blocks later did we see intact businesses.
This city is one of the places where Samaritan's Purse is helping with the rebuilding process. We stopped by to help for the afternoon, and helped remove drywall from the first floor of a house. Once the floor, drywall, and ceiling are removed, the carpenters install a basic floor and new drywall for free.
All finishing work is done by local Japanese carpenters at the going rate. Samaritan's Purse wants to help, not hinder the local economy.
One of the staff told me that within an hour of here, there is a community where houses sitting ON TOP OF a 20-meter cliff (60 feet high) got damaged by the tsunami. Houses at the base of the cliff are simply gone.
The city next to Kesen-numa, Rikuzen-Takata, is blank. Just nothing left. A few shells of buildings here and there. It was already dark when we drove through. I caught myself being thankful for the limited visibility. But I'll eventually have to see it in the daytime.
We met a lady today who lost her childhood home that was in Rikuzen-Takata. She's far from alone in that experience.
We've settled in at a volunteer center in Ofunato, where we'll stay for the next few days. Tomorrow, we start learning what we can about this city.
The destruction takes forever to end. We turned a corner and the buildings resumed. We headed into the business district, and store after store was just a shell. Only several blocks later did we see intact businesses.
This city is one of the places where Samaritan's Purse is helping with the rebuilding process. We stopped by to help for the afternoon, and helped remove drywall from the first floor of a house. Once the floor, drywall, and ceiling are removed, the carpenters install a basic floor and new drywall for free.
All finishing work is done by local Japanese carpenters at the going rate. Samaritan's Purse wants to help, not hinder the local economy.
One of the staff told me that within an hour of here, there is a community where houses sitting ON TOP OF a 20-meter cliff (60 feet high) got damaged by the tsunami. Houses at the base of the cliff are simply gone.
The city next to Kesen-numa, Rikuzen-Takata, is blank. Just nothing left. A few shells of buildings here and there. It was already dark when we drove through. I caught myself being thankful for the limited visibility. But I'll eventually have to see it in the daytime.
We met a lady today who lost her childhood home that was in Rikuzen-Takata. She's far from alone in that experience.
We've settled in at a volunteer center in Ofunato, where we'll stay for the next few days. Tomorrow, we start learning what we can about this city.
Saturday, November 12, 2011
Ofunato
Turn us loose in downtown Morioka for half an hour. One of us buys diaries and a pen. Another buys a delicate pink rose. Another traipses all over the Morioka castle ruins memorial park, delights in a stairway that was surely used by archers and other warriors, and chats with a photo-journalist for awhile, then runs out of time and returns to our meeting place at a dead run. (Yeah, guess who.)
The photo-journalist has friends and family on the coast, and is amazed that man-made structures and man-planted pine groves are gone, but fragile-looking rock formations, naturally growing trees, and land formations are intact.
He's right. It may not apply everywhere, but by comparison, nature looks unscathed.
He also told me about the town of Taro. I had already heard that it's nearly wiped out, and had a very tall sea wall. He told me it was a double wall, and the tsunami broke them both. And that chunks of that sea wall had made the nearby sea impassable for ships and boats. Work is underway to remove the pieces.
Diary, Rose, and Park-Traipser. We three headed to Ofunato City today. Part of the city looks fine. A burger joint has a sign apologizing for their limited menu. Ingredients are harder to secure these days. Tunnels have only a third of the lights on, to conserve electricity. That's all you see.
The coastline brought fresh tears. Blank expanses. Destroyed industrial parks. The city government, thank God, was on higher ground. Residences, businesses, and industry took a severe hit. A major road is flooded out. We pulled into a lot beside a towering pile of debris to turn around. Eight months after the disaster and there's still a stench.
We went up to the Catholic church on the hill to look out over the city and pray. Behind the church is a Catholic kindergarten, blissfully untouched. One of the teachers told us that all of the children and their parents made it. How I needed that piece of good news.
We asked about the history of the city, and she suggested a church member in her 80s who is "a living encyclopedia." Her house was destroyed by the tsunami, and she donated the destroyed property to use for building a volunteer center. It opens in December.
A history knower *and* history maker. I like this lady already and I haven't even met her.
There's temporary housing here and there in the undamaged part of town, if you know where to look. There are also people living in their own houses but without jobs and with extra relatives taking refuge. They need some help too.
We asked a city councilman what people need. He said rice and fresh groceries. We'll be back next week with that, plus conversation and friendship.
Back to Morioka for now.
The photo-journalist has friends and family on the coast, and is amazed that man-made structures and man-planted pine groves are gone, but fragile-looking rock formations, naturally growing trees, and land formations are intact.
He's right. It may not apply everywhere, but by comparison, nature looks unscathed.
He also told me about the town of Taro. I had already heard that it's nearly wiped out, and had a very tall sea wall. He told me it was a double wall, and the tsunami broke them both. And that chunks of that sea wall had made the nearby sea impassable for ships and boats. Work is underway to remove the pieces.
Diary, Rose, and Park-Traipser. We three headed to Ofunato City today. Part of the city looks fine. A burger joint has a sign apologizing for their limited menu. Ingredients are harder to secure these days. Tunnels have only a third of the lights on, to conserve electricity. That's all you see.
The coastline brought fresh tears. Blank expanses. Destroyed industrial parks. The city government, thank God, was on higher ground. Residences, businesses, and industry took a severe hit. A major road is flooded out. We pulled into a lot beside a towering pile of debris to turn around. Eight months after the disaster and there's still a stench.
We went up to the Catholic church on the hill to look out over the city and pray. Behind the church is a Catholic kindergarten, blissfully untouched. One of the teachers told us that all of the children and their parents made it. How I needed that piece of good news.
We asked about the history of the city, and she suggested a church member in her 80s who is "a living encyclopedia." Her house was destroyed by the tsunami, and she donated the destroyed property to use for building a volunteer center. It opens in December.
A history knower *and* history maker. I like this lady already and I haven't even met her.
There's temporary housing here and there in the undamaged part of town, if you know where to look. There are also people living in their own houses but without jobs and with extra relatives taking refuge. They need some help too.
We asked a city councilman what people need. He said rice and fresh groceries. We'll be back next week with that, plus conversation and friendship.
Back to Morioka for now.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Eight months
It's eight months tomorrow since the quake and tsunami struck. And bodies are still being found. Unfortunately, sometimes by family members instead of by government workers. The grief must be unimaginable, yet the closure of finding their loved one is important for their healing.
Iwaki, where I spent the summer, has seen its population increase by 20,000 people. Another 10,000 are expected. In the aftermath of the disaster, they're facing an unlikely problem: gambling and the unrest that comes with it. While the local tsunami victims already got their one-time payment from the government, the nuclear evacuees are receiving continual monthly payments for each member of the household. They have shopping money and gambling money, and a mentality that they're in a holding pattern (translation: spending pattern) until their towns are reopened. There's tension between the local tsunami victims and who they see as rich and lazy imports. Fights break out.
It's not all bad news. Scotch-tape granny will have her eyelid operation soon. A gentle friend is settled into her new apartment with her whole family living together again, and is studying the Bible with quite an appetite. Pastor Mori remains busy but his passion remains strong for long-term work in his changing city. Several of the most gung-ho volunteers I've ever met have outright moved to Iwaki. It's far from peachy, but hearts are mending and even thriving.
I'm on the bullet train heading to Morioka City. It's inland, and quite a drive from the coast. But that hasn't stopped Pastor Kondo from getting involved and staying involved with relief work in the area. I'm heading to his church to join other volunteers.
That's all I know for sure. Well, and that the need is huge along the coast. My task is simple: love the person in front of me. And watch for signs that Life is still winning, despite the fatigue and the length of time that has passed.
Glad you're along.
Iwaki, where I spent the summer, has seen its population increase by 20,000 people. Another 10,000 are expected. In the aftermath of the disaster, they're facing an unlikely problem: gambling and the unrest that comes with it. While the local tsunami victims already got their one-time payment from the government, the nuclear evacuees are receiving continual monthly payments for each member of the household. They have shopping money and gambling money, and a mentality that they're in a holding pattern (translation: spending pattern) until their towns are reopened. There's tension between the local tsunami victims and who they see as rich and lazy imports. Fights break out.
It's not all bad news. Scotch-tape granny will have her eyelid operation soon. A gentle friend is settled into her new apartment with her whole family living together again, and is studying the Bible with quite an appetite. Pastor Mori remains busy but his passion remains strong for long-term work in his changing city. Several of the most gung-ho volunteers I've ever met have outright moved to Iwaki. It's far from peachy, but hearts are mending and even thriving.
I'm on the bullet train heading to Morioka City. It's inland, and quite a drive from the coast. But that hasn't stopped Pastor Kondo from getting involved and staying involved with relief work in the area. I'm heading to his church to join other volunteers.
That's all I know for sure. Well, and that the need is huge along the coast. My task is simple: love the person in front of me. And watch for signs that Life is still winning, despite the fatigue and the length of time that has passed.
Glad you're along.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Half-stories
What, may I ask, am I being prepared for? It’s been a whirlwind month, with a recurring theme: Change Of Plans. Maybes. Almosts. Not this but that. The destination changed several times. The timing changed every few days, it seems.
I’m bad at relaying maybes. I want definites. Half-stories are really hard for me to tell.
“I’m going here on this date. Woops, no I’m not. How about here? Oh. Well then.”
Come to think of it, this entire disaster is riddled with half-stories. There might be a nuclear meltdown in the disabled nuclear plant. Sort of. It might be fine, or it might get worse. Maybe the people in the temporary housing will find local jobs, set up farms again, or start fishing again. Maybe they’ll move away. Maybe the crops near the plant are fine. Maybe not. Maybe the tsunami really did permanently cripple cities like Rikuzen-Takata, never to be rebuilt. Maybe it will make a comeback. Oh please come back. Don’t stop now.
My giggles gave way to impatient tears after a while, and I got a severe case of are-we-there-yet, complete with the accompanying drama. Or maybe it was just that I so wanted to be North and doing something, and felt stuck in Yokohama. Probably both. (Silly girl, doing isn’t everything.) There have been several maybe-here, maybe-now, maybe-theres that I almost mentioned. I thought I knew the city and the timeframe, at least. I didn’t. And the calendar has got to be kidding me. All of that in only two weeks? How did the time creep by so slowly?
Finally, though, one of the maybes has become a definite. I’m heading North tomorrow, to Morioka City. The four suitcases and one sleeping bag were shipped there today, and I’ll catch up with the luggage tomorrow evening by bullet train.
How many half-stories will I encounter there, and how do I tell them?
What am I walking into?
No clue. Maybe it’s better that way.
Besides. Papa’s a much better driver than me. So what if He has a few surprises along the way?
(Remind me I said that the next time I freak out.)
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Hurry up and wait
Pastor Ito and his wife looked at me funny, which made me giggle even harder. Sorry, guys. I suppose it doesn't make much sense to respond this way...
They had just given me the news that the housing plans fell through. All available housing needs to go to the evacuees first. There is no house to go to in Ofunato right now. And I found it extremely funny.
On Saturday, they initially blamed my mirth on jetlag. But it was still funny on Sunday. I thought I knew my next few steps at least. But now I don't know any.
I've been know to get giggly when led and twirled. Ya just can't take me anywhere.
Sunday afternoon, we met with Pastor Kondo, who was instrumental in getting me here. He is a very Life-filled, determined man who has worked with compassion in the disaster zone from the very beginning. He says this is just a delay, and asked that I stay in Yokohama while they work on finding a place for us to live. Maybe a town or two away from Ofunato. He'll let me know when there's a place to go.
Maybe I had other things to think about just after the last two trans-Pacific flights and didn't notice the jetlag much. I'm having more trouble with it this time. Hungry and sleepy at all the wrong times.
So the extra time is coming in handy for being a bump on a log for a while. Guess I'll be rested and ready.
What's next?
Oh dear, I'm giggling again.
They had just given me the news that the housing plans fell through. All available housing needs to go to the evacuees first. There is no house to go to in Ofunato right now. And I found it extremely funny.
On Saturday, they initially blamed my mirth on jetlag. But it was still funny on Sunday. I thought I knew my next few steps at least. But now I don't know any.
I've been know to get giggly when led and twirled. Ya just can't take me anywhere.
Sunday afternoon, we met with Pastor Kondo, who was instrumental in getting me here. He is a very Life-filled, determined man who has worked with compassion in the disaster zone from the very beginning. He says this is just a delay, and asked that I stay in Yokohama while they work on finding a place for us to live. Maybe a town or two away from Ofunato. He'll let me know when there's a place to go.
Maybe I had other things to think about just after the last two trans-Pacific flights and didn't notice the jetlag much. I'm having more trouble with it this time. Hungry and sleepy at all the wrong times.
So the extra time is coming in handy for being a bump on a log for a while. Guess I'll be rested and ready.
What's next?
Oh dear, I'm giggling again.
Friday, October 28, 2011
Do you know?
Do you know you're loved, Iwaki? Do you know, Ofunato?
If only you could have seen their faces listening to stories from Iwaki. And the yarn they brought for Ofunato. So much yarn. Enough knitting needles and crochet hooks to make an afghan for the Pacific ocean. Balloons that will strengthen my lungs. Puzzles to chat over. Hats from a knitter who knits for the homeless. A knitting book. Small toys. Sewing kits. Whatever else I find when I unpack.
And the prayers, often decorated with tears. No better jewels for decoration.
Many Japanese and Japanese-at-heart want to come see you, but can't. Some of this is from them.
I gave up on the small suitcase, and left Maine with two big suitcases. Stopped by Illinois and added two more. Initially a large and a small, but no way was I going to stop people from adding their share. A neighbor gave me her large suitcase to replace the small one.
I'm on my way.
We all know that stuff isn't love. And I brought a lot of it. But maybe enough love from Maine and Illinois rubbed off, and will stick to you for when you need it.
You're not forgotten. I'll say it as often as I can. I hope you'll be able to hear.
And if you can listen past us to catch the echoes of God's love... well, that's the best part.
If only you could have seen their faces listening to stories from Iwaki. And the yarn they brought for Ofunato. So much yarn. Enough knitting needles and crochet hooks to make an afghan for the Pacific ocean. Balloons that will strengthen my lungs. Puzzles to chat over. Hats from a knitter who knits for the homeless. A knitting book. Small toys. Sewing kits. Whatever else I find when I unpack.
And the prayers, often decorated with tears. No better jewels for decoration.
Many Japanese and Japanese-at-heart want to come see you, but can't. Some of this is from them.
I gave up on the small suitcase, and left Maine with two big suitcases. Stopped by Illinois and added two more. Initially a large and a small, but no way was I going to stop people from adding their share. A neighbor gave me her large suitcase to replace the small one.
I'm on my way.
We all know that stuff isn't love. And I brought a lot of it. But maybe enough love from Maine and Illinois rubbed off, and will stick to you for when you need it.
You're not forgotten. I'll say it as often as I can. I hope you'll be able to hear.
And if you can listen past us to catch the echoes of God's love... well, that's the best part.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Midstream
But I just got back. I'm not even finished seeing people yet. There are several more I was so sure I'd see. I was just getting used to the idea that I couldn't go back to Japan. Now, not only can I go, I'm going.
I'm leaving Maine midstream. There are big stories that I'm bailing on. Dramatic ones like a friend with a broken back, another whose son broke his leg, and a precious grandma starting to wrap up her journey here. Quieter ones like a friend masked in sadness, another looking around her new place and starting to nest, and several wrestling with the complexities of marriage. New boldness and new frontiers for others.
I want to stay and finish the stories. To find out how it turns out. But as before, I hand each story to Papa for safekeeping.
I left Iwaki mid-stream too. Miss the people and their unfolding stories there. I was there ever so briefly, barely stepping into the stream before it was time to go.
Someday, I'd like to nestle into one spot. Maybe. Sorta.
But not just yet. I'm heading back to Japan, this time to Ishinomaki City in Iwate Prefecture. Two "states" north of where I spent the summer. Well out of the nuclear danger zone.
I don't know how this is going to work. It's been over seven months since two miles of the city was overtaken by the tsunami. Can I step in midstream? The need is huge, and I won't be superfluous. What will I do? What will this look like? Who will I meet?
A few days in Illinois, and then I'll fly to Japan on the 28th. Guess I'll find out the answers when I get there.
*Sigh* Why Maine is on one side of the world and Japan is on the other, I'll never know.
I'm leaving Maine midstream. There are big stories that I'm bailing on. Dramatic ones like a friend with a broken back, another whose son broke his leg, and a precious grandma starting to wrap up her journey here. Quieter ones like a friend masked in sadness, another looking around her new place and starting to nest, and several wrestling with the complexities of marriage. New boldness and new frontiers for others.
I want to stay and finish the stories. To find out how it turns out. But as before, I hand each story to Papa for safekeeping.
I left Iwaki mid-stream too. Miss the people and their unfolding stories there. I was there ever so briefly, barely stepping into the stream before it was time to go.
Someday, I'd like to nestle into one spot. Maybe. Sorta.
But not just yet. I'm heading back to Japan, this time to Ishinomaki City in Iwate Prefecture. Two "states" north of where I spent the summer. Well out of the nuclear danger zone.
I don't know how this is going to work. It's been over seven months since two miles of the city was overtaken by the tsunami. Can I step in midstream? The need is huge, and I won't be superfluous. What will I do? What will this look like? Who will I meet?
A few days in Illinois, and then I'll fly to Japan on the 28th. Guess I'll find out the answers when I get there.
*Sigh* Why Maine is on one side of the world and Japan is on the other, I'll never know.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Glitch
The countdown to Japan, Round Two, has been paused. There's a glitch. Found out around noon.
It'll be midnight in less than an hour. I've realized, among other things, that I'm holding onto this Round Two too tightly. Time to let loose, and watch what happens.
What? Dreamy-eyed pious response, you say?
Not so fast. I'm being intensely practical: I intend to sleep well tonight. :-)
It'll be midnight in less than an hour. I've realized, among other things, that I'm holding onto this Round Two too tightly. Time to let loose, and watch what happens.
What? Dreamy-eyed pious response, you say?
Not so fast. I'm being intensely practical: I intend to sleep well tonight. :-)
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Pampered
Maine. Meeting so many friends, and just doing life stuff. Luxuriating in usable, undestroyed, everyday places. Seeing some friends who have changed drastically in the last four months, nearly as much as I have changed.
Hearing some of my changes described to me. Some, I agree with. I do walk taller now. And "I don't think you're spooked anymore" was wonderful to hear, from someone who walked with me through some pretty jumpy times.
Some, I'm remaining neutral. Like my writing. There are votes at both ends of the spectrum. Might as well stay in the middle.
Some, not so much. Like brave. Nuh-uh. I just trust Papa God a whole lot more than I did before, so I scream later than I used to.
All in all, I'm exceedingly pampered. Some dear friends fixed my car while I was gone, so I can casually browse around from town to town. Another is housing me. I'm in the land of Dunkin Donuts, which means way too much coffee. I even visited a friend who served me a bowl of lamb stew. And people listen to my stories. And the prayers have been over the top and wonderful. Just call me Princess.
Yet it doesn't feel like home. Maybe it's because my heart is still divided. Part of it has always been in Japan, but right now, most of it lives there.
I'll find out the final details soon, but it's semi-official now. I'll be heading back to Japan in a few weeks, this time to Miyako City in Iwate Prefecture. November to January.
Love you all. Don't take this personally: I can't wait to jump back in. A couple more weeks of treasuring white folk, then off to a new place.
Ah, luxury.
Hearing some of my changes described to me. Some, I agree with. I do walk taller now. And "I don't think you're spooked anymore" was wonderful to hear, from someone who walked with me through some pretty jumpy times.
Some, I'm remaining neutral. Like my writing. There are votes at both ends of the spectrum. Might as well stay in the middle.
Some, not so much. Like brave. Nuh-uh. I just trust Papa God a whole lot more than I did before, so I scream later than I used to.
All in all, I'm exceedingly pampered. Some dear friends fixed my car while I was gone, so I can casually browse around from town to town. Another is housing me. I'm in the land of Dunkin Donuts, which means way too much coffee. I even visited a friend who served me a bowl of lamb stew. And people listen to my stories. And the prayers have been over the top and wonderful. Just call me Princess.
Yet it doesn't feel like home. Maybe it's because my heart is still divided. Part of it has always been in Japan, but right now, most of it lives there.
I'll find out the final details soon, but it's semi-official now. I'll be heading back to Japan in a few weeks, this time to Miyako City in Iwate Prefecture. November to January.
Love you all. Don't take this personally: I can't wait to jump back in. A couple more weeks of treasuring white folk, then off to a new place.
Ah, luxury.
Monday, October 3, 2011
Peacetime
Nature, functioning as it should. The hills of Virginia are more peaceful than the residents know. Nature battles are over leaves and mowers and weeds. Short weeds. Beauty is on overdrive here.
It's a glorious place to visit. I find my heart having trouble staying where I am and fully enjoying what is around me. I snuggle into my jacket and dart off to chilly rooms in temporary housing in tsunami-stricken towns. Or hear about weedwhacking battles and remember sad housewives from the nuclear evacuation zone describing visiting their abandoned house to retrieve one bag of belongings, and commenting that the weeds were as high as their head and as thick as their thumb. The government-enforced two-hour timeframe gave them no time to tidy up their yard. I went to a very normal small-town fall festival with all sorts of craft booths, and wished I had an apartment to decorate. And flitted off into wondering what can be done for the ladies along the ravaged coastline who need to make a cozy nest for their families this winter. What would they like? Could we make something together?
Even though I'm not staying put very well, it's so good to see what I'm seeing. Driving North from North Carolina to Virginia and watching the trees transition from late summer to early fall. Walking through the festival, smelling kettle corn and funnel cakes and barbecue pork. Seeing vast quiet pastures. Greeting neighborhood dogs. Enjoying the first fire of the season. Pulling my flannel pajamas out of my suitcase.
It's possible. Some of those towns in Northeast Japan are big enough to extend inland, and have sections that were spared. They managed to continue their festivals this year. Strictly coastal villages have other things on their mind right now. But it's possible. The government has released the 20 to 30 kilometer evacuation zone around the nuclear plant for repopulation. Some will return to restart their towns. It'll take time, but it's possible.
So as you do your seasonal things, please take time to notice them and enjoy them. Your decorations are different from theirs. Your meat choice and barbecue sauce choice doesn't match theirs. Their background music ain't Virginia bluegrass. I can't describe your treats to them any better than theirs to you. But pray for their small-town normal seasonal stuff. City stuff too. Whatever you see and wonder about.
Enjoy your season. Happy Autumn.
It's a glorious place to visit. I find my heart having trouble staying where I am and fully enjoying what is around me. I snuggle into my jacket and dart off to chilly rooms in temporary housing in tsunami-stricken towns. Or hear about weedwhacking battles and remember sad housewives from the nuclear evacuation zone describing visiting their abandoned house to retrieve one bag of belongings, and commenting that the weeds were as high as their head and as thick as their thumb. The government-enforced two-hour timeframe gave them no time to tidy up their yard. I went to a very normal small-town fall festival with all sorts of craft booths, and wished I had an apartment to decorate. And flitted off into wondering what can be done for the ladies along the ravaged coastline who need to make a cozy nest for their families this winter. What would they like? Could we make something together?
Even though I'm not staying put very well, it's so good to see what I'm seeing. Driving North from North Carolina to Virginia and watching the trees transition from late summer to early fall. Walking through the festival, smelling kettle corn and funnel cakes and barbecue pork. Seeing vast quiet pastures. Greeting neighborhood dogs. Enjoying the first fire of the season. Pulling my flannel pajamas out of my suitcase.
It's possible. Some of those towns in Northeast Japan are big enough to extend inland, and have sections that were spared. They managed to continue their festivals this year. Strictly coastal villages have other things on their mind right now. But it's possible. The government has released the 20 to 30 kilometer evacuation zone around the nuclear plant for repopulation. Some will return to restart their towns. It'll take time, but it's possible.
So as you do your seasonal things, please take time to notice them and enjoy them. Your decorations are different from theirs. Your meat choice and barbecue sauce choice doesn't match theirs. Their background music ain't Virginia bluegrass. I can't describe your treats to them any better than theirs to you. But pray for their small-town normal seasonal stuff. City stuff too. Whatever you see and wonder about.
Enjoy your season. Happy Autumn.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Life still wins
Kinda went silent there, didn’t I?
Let me explain.
The day we took a trip up to Iwate, up North in the devastation zone, I fell in love with the place. It was right. There’s something more there for me. It was a marvelous day.
And simultaneously, I came face to face with the terror of the disaster. The images of all those buildings with Os crossed out with Xs, indicating that bodies had been located and recovered. The weeds overtaking the expanses of bare foundations. Crumpled cars and boats where they should never be. Destruction too far inland to even fathom how the water got there. The fatigue and uncertainty among the evacuees stood out and echoed my own, and I lost perspective.
In love and terror at the same time. Problem, to say the least.
I could have written it off as post-traumatic stress, and resigned myself to jolting awake in the middle of the night for a while. But over the summer I had seen too much of the good, of the hope, of newness peeking out through the debris. That had to count for something. I needed my balance back.
Did you know that a building totally stripped inside and out for remodeling looks very much like a tsunami-ravaged building, except that the pillars are a little bit too straight and solid? Yeah, I saw one Stateside and spooked, and momentarily expected to see miles of mangled buildings. Not the best of all responses.
So I took the time both to rest and to face up to what my heart had seen, both the love and the terror. And found myself on the receiving end of heart-care. Coming to terms with what I saw. Going much further back before the disaster to take care of some preexisting fears. Hearing God’s gentle voice assure me that safety is being with Him, not where I am or what is happening. Gratitude is back, deeper than ever.
The storm has finally settled. Once again, I can’t stay away. I’m ready to head to Japan again for another three months of whatever may come.
I came to the disaster zone from the outside. I had the freedom to outright leave after three months. And needed some TLC afterward. And I didn’t even do or see all that much.
Does my weakness mean I should stay away? I don’t see it that way. It means I have something small in common with the many who live and work there. Children who know no other world. Moms who are trying to make a home out of a little two-room apartment in rickety temporary housing, with winter on its way. Over a thousand kids who lost a parent. Adults fatigued and unprepared to face the silences of winter, who desperately need to be heard. I didn’t experience all of what they did, but I have tasted enough to know a little bit of it.
No illusions here. Rachel showing up won’t POOF heal everybody. But I’ve got a decent set of arms, hands, and ears to add to the mix. Can’t hurt to pray up close.
No specific dates yet for Round Two. But soon. Talks are underway for heading North to Iwate.
There’s good news of restarts coming from the disaster zone. Seaweed farms restarted. Baby scallops (active little things, did you know that?) collected for raising. Town officials elected. Kids saying they love the ocean. They wish their new school could be built to float, but they love the ocean.
I saw a news story of a dad and his young son. They had gone to see the crumbled foundation where their house had been.
“See that? That’s where our front door was. And you’d go down the hall there to the bathroom. See the weeds over at the back corner there? That’s where you studied…”
“Let’s build a house somewhere again. Soon. Son, where do you want to build it?”
“Right here, Dad.”
I like that kid.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
See you later
It's Japan, after all. Where maple-flavored coffee is too cloying, and the cutting board salesman apologizes that the board is made of mere American wood instead of high-class Japanese wood. How am I supposed to respond to that? I never know which direction to point my patriotisms. Having two of them gets really confusing sometimes.
It's Japan, where even the great mountains give way to rain from Typhoon 12 that stayed and stayed and stayed. More than a year's worth of rain in a few days. Over 100 dead, a few thousand stranded. Several rivers are dammed with landslides. The scenes are so similar to the tsunami destruction that my heart doesn't know how to process it all. Worst damage in about a quarter century. The horror of it largely bypassed the Northeast (thank You Papa!!) and then hit Hokkaido with floods and crop damage. It's a rough year when both the quakes and the storms act up.
It's Japan, where I find myself still trying to keep my hair flat. Its tamest look is curlier than most.
Ever since the quake, the Tokyo area went into power conservation mode. It's Japan, where the public easily follows mass directives, and Tokyo manages to keep power usage at about 75% of the max capacity to prevent rolling blackouts.
It's Japan, where the Shiba-Ken dog goes nuts begging for a bite of my breakfast of natto (fermented soybeans in the stringy stage) and raw egg mixed with hot rice. He whined so much this morning that he got two bites instead of one.
Where my heart feels treasured when people see me off Japanese style, standing outside and waving until I disappear from view. Thanks hometown friends, Iwaki friends, Hayashi-san and Abe-san, and Andrea and Melody.
I've said goodbye to this country before. But there's more for me here. This time, I said what the Japanese say as they head out the door: "I will go and come."
I'm on the way to Narita Airport. Time to switch gears to American mode for a while.
One question puzzles me.
How am I going to get used to neighborhood roads that are actually wider than an American driveway?
I'm gonna miss this place.
It's Japan, where even the great mountains give way to rain from Typhoon 12 that stayed and stayed and stayed. More than a year's worth of rain in a few days. Over 100 dead, a few thousand stranded. Several rivers are dammed with landslides. The scenes are so similar to the tsunami destruction that my heart doesn't know how to process it all. Worst damage in about a quarter century. The horror of it largely bypassed the Northeast (thank You Papa!!) and then hit Hokkaido with floods and crop damage. It's a rough year when both the quakes and the storms act up.
It's Japan, where I find myself still trying to keep my hair flat. Its tamest look is curlier than most.
Ever since the quake, the Tokyo area went into power conservation mode. It's Japan, where the public easily follows mass directives, and Tokyo manages to keep power usage at about 75% of the max capacity to prevent rolling blackouts.
It's Japan, where the Shiba-Ken dog goes nuts begging for a bite of my breakfast of natto (fermented soybeans in the stringy stage) and raw egg mixed with hot rice. He whined so much this morning that he got two bites instead of one.
Where my heart feels treasured when people see me off Japanese style, standing outside and waving until I disappear from view. Thanks hometown friends, Iwaki friends, Hayashi-san and Abe-san, and Andrea and Melody.
I've said goodbye to this country before. But there's more for me here. This time, I said what the Japanese say as they head out the door: "I will go and come."
I'm on the way to Narita Airport. Time to switch gears to American mode for a while.
One question puzzles me.
How am I going to get used to neighborhood roads that are actually wider than an American driveway?
I'm gonna miss this place.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
Same old?
Japan has a new Prime Minister now. When a reporter pointed out that the comments released to the American press were the same as the last time a Japanese Prime Minister was assigned, the American government official issuing the comments laughed. What other response could there be, when Japan is on its sixth prime minister in five years?
Another typhoon is pounding southern and western Japan. Just stay away from rivers and mountainsides (impossible in some communities), and evacuate as instructed, and it should be OK. No big deal. It's that time of year anyway.
I'm looking around for another place to go in the disaster area, somewhere with an emphasis on the children. And I need to get translation work done and get packing done to go back to the States. I'm so tired that it's not going smoothly, and I'm bogging down more than I'd like. Eh. Pretend it's OK and it'll go away.
Is it really just more of the same?
Can we really afford to shrug off the first change in government after the disaster, just because Japanese politicians historically play musical chairs a bit more often than other nations?
Do we fail to recognize that the size of this typhoon would be devastating to the Northeast, and forget to be thankful for every moment that the monster storm stays in the Southwest? Do we write off the stories of the deceased, the missing, and the injured, just because the numbers are so small?
Do I ignore my grinding gears as just another transition, and assume I'll settle in eventually? Consider it just part of the cost of spending a summer in a disaster zone, and casually play the "oh well" martyr?
No, it's worth paying attention to what's going on, whether in politics or weather or my own heart.
My fatigue level is much higher than I expected, and I'm not quite sure why. I'm changing travel plans to insert some resting time before fully jumping back into the old routine.
Yeah, so I feel like a soggy kitten after a storm. Still shaking my paws as I walk. But oh what a summer it was! I so want to do it again... Nothing quite like watching Life win.
Just let me refluff and get my purr back first. Soggy won't do.
Another typhoon is pounding southern and western Japan. Just stay away from rivers and mountainsides (impossible in some communities), and evacuate as instructed, and it should be OK. No big deal. It's that time of year anyway.
I'm looking around for another place to go in the disaster area, somewhere with an emphasis on the children. And I need to get translation work done and get packing done to go back to the States. I'm so tired that it's not going smoothly, and I'm bogging down more than I'd like. Eh. Pretend it's OK and it'll go away.
Is it really just more of the same?
Can we really afford to shrug off the first change in government after the disaster, just because Japanese politicians historically play musical chairs a bit more often than other nations?
Do we fail to recognize that the size of this typhoon would be devastating to the Northeast, and forget to be thankful for every moment that the monster storm stays in the Southwest? Do we write off the stories of the deceased, the missing, and the injured, just because the numbers are so small?
Do I ignore my grinding gears as just another transition, and assume I'll settle in eventually? Consider it just part of the cost of spending a summer in a disaster zone, and casually play the "oh well" martyr?
No, it's worth paying attention to what's going on, whether in politics or weather or my own heart.
My fatigue level is much higher than I expected, and I'm not quite sure why. I'm changing travel plans to insert some resting time before fully jumping back into the old routine.
Yeah, so I feel like a soggy kitten after a storm. Still shaking my paws as I walk. But oh what a summer it was! I so want to do it again... Nothing quite like watching Life win.
Just let me refluff and get my purr back first. Soggy won't do.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
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