Things become more and more inexplicable as you get older. Not necessarily because you understand less the more you know, but also because you can explain less sometimes, the more you understand. Things become...seemingly inexplicable for their--from the singularly unique perspective of any one individual on this strange earth--accrued profundity.
Every year on May 15th I celebrate coming to Japan. That's when I first arrived--May 15, 2010--and started my new life and adventure here.
The first time I did one of these "Japanniversaries" was something else. I was a Christian at the time, and had asked a fellow expat friend (who has since returned to California) here to come to church with me on a fine, sunny Sunday.
At that point I couldn't really read the train schedules so we missed the train. We decided to take a ride on the Shinanogawa river boat we had seen going back and forth now and then here in Niigata, since we'd been here, and opt out of religion for the day.
The rest of the day for me was magical. Two brand new gaijin (foreigners) taking the riverboat to Kurosaki, getting off at the last stop, walking for miles around part of the city we'd never been to, finding a piece of meteor on display in a case outside in some obscure neighborhood buried in the city, seeing a giant bullfrog, buying candy from the convenience store, visiting my then girlfriend at her work and watching her drop the change because she was nervous, then lazily making our way back to the boat to arrive two minutes before the last boat of the day left, all without ever taking so much as a peek at the departure schedule. You can read all about that day and see lots of photos at my other blog here.
Well, the next year came around, 2012, and I decided to go out to a bar by myself to celebrate two years in Japan. Who should I meet while walking down the river path on the way? Cliff, the friend from the boat ride the year before. He was jogging. I told him what I was up to, and we happily merged paths and went to Club Hallelujah, the hippest bar to ever have graced Niigata with its presence. You can read about (and see pictures from) that day on my old blog as well, here.
Waiting for the boat.
A pre-boat "cheers!"
Today is the greatest.
Today is Mother's Day. I awoke after finally getting a good night's rest for the first time in a long time, forgetting what day it was, and ended up playing Mega Man 3 with Z-bee (my son) for about an hour, then heading down the street to the small park nearby to kick the soccer ball around.
I was stressed. I really wanted to be alone at home, working on this blog and basically making my game plan to deal with financial pressures that have been presenting themselves in what seems to be machine-gun-fire-style frequency over the last few years. I decided to fight it, and try to be fully emotionally present for my son. I looked at the sky. It was blue. Such a nice day.
"Ne, Z-bee," I called. "Wanna ride on a boat today?"
"Yeah!" he answered.
On the Shinanogawa, just down from Niigata's landmark Bandai Bridge.
Another Japanniversary.
We ended up heading downtown where my wife dropped us off at the dock on the Shinano River. She had wanted to go, too, but had a seminar to attend. I didn't even think about the fact that it was May 15th.
As we walked down the riverside to hit the conbini (convenience store) and get some rice balls for lunch, I noticed a woman turning around to look at me, and then talking to her daughter. I knew immediately who it was. It was the mother of a young girl I had taught when I first came to Japan, at the first English school I had worked for. I had just been thinking about this girl a few days ago out of nowhere. Aya. I had loved this student and was just reminiscing about how they were and now here they were, on the same river path and in the almost exact same spot, on the same day when I had serendipitously met Cliff 5 years prior.
"Hi!" I said, smiling.
"Do you remember...."
"Aya!" I said.
The little four-year old I had taught years ago was now ten, and much taller, with the same exact demeanor, just a bit more reserved. I explained to the mother how funny it was to meet them because I had just been thinking about them the other day.
We talked briefly and then said goodbye, walking down the concrete steps to the conbini to get our food.
As soon as I walk into the store another smiling face greets me. "Graham!"
It is Cliff and I's mutual friend from back in the day, who I haven't seen in years. In fact, I can't remember his name. Cliff and I used to call him "manager" because we had forgotten his name so many times we were embarrassed to keep asking. That notwithstanding, we had become pretty good friends and would drink beer together sometimes, or go see him at work, where he would give us free food and beer and meet with us by the riverside after he finished for a small chat and hangout.
I asked for his phone number and quickly looked at his name tag. We smiled and said goodbye, me and Z-bee heading back up the river to the boat stop.
Z-bee, riding the "Beat Rice."
Enjoy the ride.
As Isaiah and I rode on the water shuttle, laughing and truly enjoying each other's presence, I thought how inexplicably wonderful all this was, and how lucky I am. How wonderful to now be on this magic boat with my son. Cliff and I had been on the same boat (there are two), called Beatrice and had jokingly called it "Beat Rice," and now here I was on "Beat Rice" with my firstborn son. A child who was nothing but "a twinkle in my eye," as they say, at that time.
Isaiah really loved the bubbly froth the engines furiously kicked up behind the boat, and we waved at the people enjoying the sunshine on the shore. They all smiled and waved back. "Look at those cute girls," I said to Z-bee, "they are all waving at you!" He smiled and we enjoyed to sense of the whole world, at least for that moment, seeming to be united and happy and kind, with nothing better to do than to stop all their busy hurrying, and enjoy the day.
Z-bee, examining the different tops.
Koma.
We reached our destination, and disembarked. The final stop is at a place called Furusatomura, which is a big Niigata visitors' center and market, consisting of gardens, restaurants, fresh seafood, and other things especially "Niigata."
Z-bee found his way to the play place and began to climb around and have fun. I sat down on a bench to take a breather while he played, keeping a general eye on him now and then just to be sure he was alright. After about ten minutes, I couldn't see him anymore. I casually strolled to the other side of the play area, Mother's Day flowers we had picked up at the market in hand, and scanned the area again. Nowhere.
The play area at Furusatomura.
When I finally spotted him he was across the large complex, engaged in conversation with a man working the koma (Japanese spinning top) workshop in the corner and holding a top. I laughed inside at what an adult he appeared to be, being only four and conversing seriously with an assistant 10 times his age.
After the assistant helped him wind the small shoestring like rope around the top and throw it, I noticed Z-bee went away, holding the top without the string and just pretending it was bouncing all over, making whooshing noises and attack noises like those in Mega Man.
I walked over and said hi to the assistant and commented on how cool all the different tops were to my son. He continued playing, but was becoming progressively more erratic in telling the other kids they were playing by the "wrong rules," and constantly demanding the attention of the assistant to look at his special top and its "attack moves." He was telling the assistant that his top could jump to the goal in one hop. I could tell the workers--though extremely good with kids and kind to him--were becoming slightly frazzled with the incessant and adamant demand for a captive audience as they tried to assist all the other children.
My son has a great imagination, I thought to myself, but why is he so uninterested in actually trying this for himself? Why does he seem almost disturbed, like he must make everyone stop what they are doing and look at him? Why doesn't he want to try it, not as if it is a video game, where he can imagine the top's amazing moves sans impediment, but for himself, with the rope?
I had already pulled him aside when he had told the other kids they had gotten "zero points" according to his rules, and explained that everyone can play by their own rules. I had returned to my bench feeling a bit dejected. He told me he was uninterested in the rope, and doing it like the other kids were, but I could tell that this was not entirely true. I am super happy he loves to imagine and pretend, and his active and vivid imagination is an honest point of "dad pride" for me. But that didn't seem to be the whole story.
He just seemed to be afraid of not being able to do it as well as them, and so was opting for his imaginary realm where everything went perfectly (sounds a lot like a certain incessantly blogging adult I know).
It was at this moment that I had an epiphany. Get in there, dad. Maybe you are afraid to get in there and socialize. Maybe you are afraid to try it, too. The voice pierced me like an arrow, so I stood up and returned to the area.
"Let's try together, bud," I said imploringly. He refused. "Daddy wants to try it, too. Can you show me how to do it?" This catalyzed something and he told me to start winding the rope from the bottom of the top. The assistant jumped in and informed me that I should start from the other side. He showed me how to wind it, and then he and Isaiah let it fly together. Isaiah was beaming after successfully launching it. I gave him a high five which smacked hard and cheerfully with the joys and thrill of success. The assistant said "cool!"
My wife showed up as Z and I were winding our last top. By now I had tried it a couple times, and after throwing it backwards two times and hitting a stranger with it once, had successfully got it spinning on the target as well.
Miyuki took a picture as Isaiah and I threw a koma together for the first time. We both held the top, counted three, and let it fly. It whizzed and whirred across the painted plywood board with the happy sound of "we did it!" Z-bee smiled. I felt wonderful.
My wife took this video (she had no idea I'd be writing this, by the way!) Enjoy!
The boat ride home.
Miyuki was able to take the boat back with my son, and I took the car, picking them up in the city when they arrived. I was happy that magically, like the last time I was here with Cliff, things worked out in a way that we wouldn't have really thought to plan, but which was as perfect as could be, really. Miyuki got to take her Mother's Day boat ride after all, and I got to take a breather in the car.
So, what did I learn?
Well, after having a small argument (small for us) about riding the boat and who would use the bathroom first and boat schedule times before Miyuki and Z boarded on the way back, I realized something.
Love demands understanding.
And understanding is compassion. Is kindness. Is care. I also learned that if I want my son to get in there, try new things, and take some risks, I have to do the same.
I learned that the wonder of meeting people you care about as if your just thinking of them warmly brought them back to you, back into your life, for a brief moment of sunshine and happy rendezvous, is really something too magic for words. And that, as you get older, these memories, this wonder, just grow and grow, deeper, wider, more ethereal and more forceful in their moment, until there really is little more to do than sit back, watch the waves trailing off in gentle, yet decidedly resolute rocking undulations behind the boat, and gaze up at the vaulted blue sky in the distance in wonder.
~KafkA
Graham Smith is a Voluntaryist activist, creator, and peaceful parent residing in Niigata City, Japan. Graham runs the "Voluntary Japan" online initiative with a presence here on Steem, as well as Facebook and Twitter. (Hit me up so I can stop talking about myself in the third person!)
